"I was only a boy when my daddy and Jake went away," he says, between knocking at the desk and making certain that all the nails and hardware holding it in place are steady and tight. "We didn't have any help but...suppose he believed in what he fought for."

A beat.

"Had someone in bar call me Johnny Reb, once, that was interesting, though if I'd been older I know I would've been for the Union rather than the South," he admits. "You know in New York City, like I was sayin' earlier, there's a lot of talk 'bout how the immigrants are gettin' treated, almost like the blacks and the slaves. Workin' in laundries or on the railroad lines, that sort of thing. It's worse out West. People look down on you if you ain't white, no matter if you're black or Chinese or Mexican. Indians get the worst if you ask me."

That desk done, Doc moves on to the next.