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Show RTVER roaring up on screaming Harleys. They were a nasty looking a clutch of cops as they turned and formed up on the Beale Street corner after clearing Main of traffic. Behind them we could see why the cops were clearing the street. An enormous protest march was coming down the road, thousands of black people chanting, "Don't shop, boycott!" The police sat motionless on their rumbling Harleys, machinelike themselves in round black helmets and combat leathers, eyeing the marchers like hungry wolves. They fondled their billy clubs and tossed racist catcalls among themselves. They didn't like this duty and some looked like they were aching to break their clubs on some black heads. The procession marched past us, the marchers very high, all kinds of black people proud and happy, plus a scattering of college radicals and a few high-minded and brave white ladies. The march turned down Beale Street and the cops followed in a hurricane of noise. After they had all gone, a fire truck came screaming down Main Street, sirens blaring and bells clanging. The evening of my second visit was much quieter, though the street was crowded with workers and secretaries catching buses and sailors on leave from the naval station out looking for a good time on a Friday night. Thor was baffled by the noise and the crowd and ran in circles around me. He was upset about something and nothing I could do would make him heel. He actually appeared to be looking for something. I lost sight of him for a moment, and when he returned Thor seemed to have found whatever it was he was looking for. He trotted up to my side, happy and contented. A group of sailors, high and loose, came up with him, howling with laughter. "Hey," said one of them, red faced with beer, his eyes nearly streaming from laughter. "Is that your dog?" -187- |