There was that incident back in 1969 that was foretelling – a brief lockdown on the fourth-floor, west-wing of Beth Israel. It ended without much notice after a high-tail out of town, tucked in the claustrophobic rear-seat confines of a two-door, blue convertible.
That bought a quiet ride for a couple decades, camped out on a piece of city that was gentrified with grievous timing – set on upheaval after the riots: Just past the compound, smoke billowed out of homes with regularity, and it and bullets flying kept prying eyes from trying.
It took ‘til 1987 to get the campaign truly underway, and that start ended worse than the worst scenario conjectured. However, turning back to where it all began met less reception than there was, which resulted in the several years of spinning treads out on the Erie mud-flats.
Those inconsequential undertakings in the quaggy dregs gained the un-regaled and raving mastery of assimilation that allowed movement between communities, undetected. Occasionally, someone wonders about the horses, or, turns a head at the sound of angry hornets, but most of it stays under shadow.