Every other Sunday throughout 1993, the Mechanicsburg Denny’s, Pennsylvania’s busiest, reserved their largest, cleanest horseshoe booth for a roundtable of deeply concerned suburban mothers meeting over bottomless coffee to compare surveillance notes for any evidence of smoking, dirty magazines, or—Mother Mary, help us!—rap music found among their tween boys.
Within this ad hoc war council of six matriarchs spanning two public schools and two private, faith-based academies were the moms of my best friends Dave, Ben, and Paul. Their moms were prim, proud, and especially protrusive founders of the group; not one of them missed a single Denny’s caucus that year, and boy, did they ever make sure we
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