(no subject)
This is a zygote of an entry I will work on later.
He threw his pack into the bottom compartment of a Greyhound bus departing from Buffalo, New York. He planned to arrive in Memphis two days later at 11:45 a.m. He never spoke on the long bus ride and in turn, he was not spoken to. His silence drew attention to the noises of the other passengers, the bus's engine and even the rattle of the emergency exit windows. He slept, read, and ate very little.
Two days later he sat on the corner of Bealle Street, home of the memphis Blues scene, now commercialized beyond belief. Expensive restaurants cashing in on the popularity of Blues music stand in buildings that were once inhabited by the poorest of society. 60 years ago, you would have only seen a white person on a Tuesday evening as they got a glimpse into "Negro Culture." He gets tired of the tourists and walks to the Civil Rights Museum in the old Lorraine Motel. He pays the woman at the front desk and begins his own private tour of prejudice in America. He comes to a final room with two large plexiglass windows that allow him to look into a hotel room and the world outside. Every thing had been left the same. There is a girl about his age crying by the edge of the window. He tries not to notice her and then reality sets in when he takes a look out the window to his left. He stares out into the parking lot of the hotel and notices the white sedan, then he looks up at the building across the way. He begins to cry as everything fits perfectly in his mind. He can see the Musician Ben Branch by the car with a horrified look on his face. He can see Reverend Abernathy charging out of the hotel room. He can see James Earl Ray's open window. He can see Martin Luther King Jr. lying in a puddle of blood. He slumps down next to the girl and the two cry together.
"Does this happen to every one?" He asks. "No, just the lucky few." She responds. She was right, he was very fortunate to have some slight grasp of where he was and what had happened 40 years ago.
He threw his pack into the bottom compartment of a Greyhound bus departing from Buffalo, New York. He planned to arrive in Memphis two days later at 11:45 a.m. He never spoke on the long bus ride and in turn, he was not spoken to. His silence drew attention to the noises of the other passengers, the bus's engine and even the rattle of the emergency exit windows. He slept, read, and ate very little.
Two days later he sat on the corner of Bealle Street, home of the memphis Blues scene, now commercialized beyond belief. Expensive restaurants cashing in on the popularity of Blues music stand in buildings that were once inhabited by the poorest of society. 60 years ago, you would have only seen a white person on a Tuesday evening as they got a glimpse into "Negro Culture." He gets tired of the tourists and walks to the Civil Rights Museum in the old Lorraine Motel. He pays the woman at the front desk and begins his own private tour of prejudice in America. He comes to a final room with two large plexiglass windows that allow him to look into a hotel room and the world outside. Every thing had been left the same. There is a girl about his age crying by the edge of the window. He tries not to notice her and then reality sets in when he takes a look out the window to his left. He stares out into the parking lot of the hotel and notices the white sedan, then he looks up at the building across the way. He begins to cry as everything fits perfectly in his mind. He can see the Musician Ben Branch by the car with a horrified look on his face. He can see Reverend Abernathy charging out of the hotel room. He can see James Earl Ray's open window. He can see Martin Luther King Jr. lying in a puddle of blood. He slumps down next to the girl and the two cry together.
"Does this happen to every one?" He asks. "No, just the lucky few." She responds. She was right, he was very fortunate to have some slight grasp of where he was and what had happened 40 years ago.