This piece was reprinted by OpEd News with permission or license. It may not be reproduced in any form without permission or license from the source.
If the man was Del Vecchio, where was the camera? It appeared he was orchestrating the scene. A curious light, like a secret Mason signal, seemed to emanate out of his curled palm, as if he was directing a Wi-fi signal. Of course, there was no Wi-fi back then. His other hand was hidden in ominous Godfather fashion. True, JFK was dead. Years later, little John John would also die a tragic death.
"What about the black guy?" I wondered.
"If he keeps dancing like that," said Butch, "he will be the first to go. He is trying to dance like my people."
"A turkey strut," I said. "Obviously."
"Yes," said Butch. "The courtship ritual of the sacred turkey. For a white man, you are not half bad. You seem to be learning our ways. But of course, it was a Smoky Mountain white man with a fiddle who stole our dance for Turkey in the Straw."
I absorbed Butch's square dance words and studied the photo. It could be a turkey strut, or just as well, a jackboot strut. If Del Vecchio could force Jack, with his bad back, to perform a Hessian jig, there was no telling what might happen. Del Vecchio could be the wizard behind the curtain. It was possible, after our profligate turkey piracy, and chosen life as TurkeyMan fugitives, that nowhere was safe.
A peek of light emanated from behind a board. I bolted from the shack, and fled into the woods, wrapped in my Boy Scout flag. An antler fell off the door and shattered. Butch was already fifty-yards ahead. I could see the fog on his breath, smell the muskeg on his boots. He was one fast Indian. Maybe he had Road Runner blood.
(Article changed on February 6, 2017 at 04:58)
(Article changed on February 6, 2017 at 05:01)
(Article changed on February 6, 2017 at 05:04)
(Article changed on February 6, 2017 at 05:09)
(Note: You can view every article as one long page if you sign up as an Advocate Member, or higher).
1
1
1
