, United States of America cannot be quelled. It is, after all, the dawning of the age of Aquarius.

       His cackling is ridiculous and it is shifting, changing, into, oh no! Henry is sobbing now. Gotta go. Flight, run, but where? Hide? No, not there, as he moves towards his grandfather’s house, beside left field on the baseball diamond, past it, walking behind center field now, away from the officers who are striding across the park toward him, and he speeds up his pace a little and the officers’ strides also become more strident and Henry is wondering if he will start to run and if so, when?

He is significantly closer to that old house, his accelerated walk has bought him mere seconds against the officers’ pace . . . if he can just go back in time, just a little way back, he will be safe and he will be welcomed by his grandmother Antonia and his grandfather EJ, and he will have a little visit with them—it’s Saturday after all—and then after this visit with the dead in this house long gone from his family, he will be safe and he will stop laughing and then he will make his way back to the soul celebration. In 1969.     These generations, these lives rake through Henry’s mind in the moment he takes to glance back across the park to his pursuers who are gaining on him and running unabashedly now and with no pretense of walking innocently toward him.

He dives into the avenue of Mount Morris Park West without looking, like that proverbial jump off the short pier, and a tire screeches and a long blast of horn passes too close beside him, and then another, sounding angrily in his wake, and then he is across, standing in this front yard at the bottom step of his grandfather’s front stoop, a moment in the peace and shade of this quiet,

Black Man Running, 1969 — 6

Text Box: Lawrence Good

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