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Show Flying - 25 up and hold him against the wall while the others take turns hitting him. John Henry watches the dim and shadowy scene until one man sees him. Two of them come to the mouth of the alley and stand in front of him. "This is private, soldier," one says. "Move on." John Henry moves on. At four o'clock in the morning in Ciudad Acuna, Mexico, it seems like the only thing to do. He walks to the end of the street, crosses over, and starts back. You turn a sharp corner, boy, a military corner. You could go far in this man's army. Kan could make sergeant in a three-year hitch, said the recruiter. Walk in step and keep your mind on your work. He looks across the street at the alley as he goes by, expecting to see at least a lonesome figure sprawled in the dirt, but the moon is out, the view clear, the alley empty. At the end of every circuit he checks out the Ford parked at the end of the street, but it's still locked and he can only look yearningly through the cold cold glass at the back seat, comfortable and warm and plenty big enough to curl up in and sleep for the rest of the night. Finally, at four-thirty of this fine clear summer morning, John Henry goes to sleep leaning on the back fender of the big blue Ford, |
