Bobby

Okay, I'm back, well actual having some problems from that horrible thing that calls itself story teller. Well, let's go back in '66" - '69" with me and Sidi, the "ramblin'n' gamb'lin man" go to the "east side" where he lives, all black. And I'm there with him in a house along with a Black Panther who hates my guts for being white, and two girls, one of which has the greatest skin I ever seen, smooth and dark, like a black pearl. And she likes me, and I go on like some idiot from Canada, which I guess I am. At least I'm not like the draft     doggers up in Toronto who get laid by girls feeling sorry for them. But things get tense, and I know I should get out of there so I say goodbye to Sidi, see ya in school tomorrow, and drive off in the '65 Pontiac convertible with the new roof. The one I drove down Michigan Avenue in '68 when the Tigers won the World Series and me and Ron took six hours to get home. Dozens of people jump in and out of the car until we took the tunnel back to quiet Windsor. It was a twenty mile parade blaring, everyone's happy, no matter what color.

So there I was, hanging out, remembering me in Indianapolis , in the ghetto , registering black votes for Bobby Kennedy. People are surprised to see a white guy like me there. Older people invite me for coffee and talk about how great it would be good with Bobby. Young guys are suspicious and kids just watch me do what I do, I don't feel scared, I feel good, but maybe I'm wrong. But I had their hospitality and I liked it. Now they're killing each other and I wondered that I dreamt it all. They got nothing but they got hospitality. I shook his hand in Indianapolis. It's all gone when Bobby got killed. I wouldn't do that and cried when he was gone and his brother first. Nothing came nothing.