OCR Text |
Show Flying - 27 "He's got the whole world in His hands," says the radio. You and me, brother. Leaning against the wall in the hot early morning sun of Texas John Henry does his best not to vomit. A patrolman takes apart the glove compartment and looks behind it. Another is taking off the lenses of the tail-lights and looking for little packages taped behind the license plate. The radio is singing Take this hammer Take it to the captain And if he ask you was I runnin1 Tell him I was flyin' Tell him. . . . until a patrolman with a little screwdriver yanks it out of the dashboard to look behind it. John Henry slides gradually down the wall until he is sitting in the dirt with his legs stretched straight out in front of him. Dreaming of other mornings, is John Henry, other and sweeter mornings in the Catskill mountains where he was born. Where rivers tumble through rocks and gorges instead of lying inert in vast lifeless plains. Where there are trees aplenty. Where the sun is warm and generous and the soft grass kind to tired bodies. They're jacking up the car now and taking the wheels off. O'Connell and Arkwright are nowhere in sight; Thompson is disappearing into the customs building followed by a uniformed man. Soon they will come for me and I will tell them all. |