Walkin The Dog

?How you think I'd do in a grocery store?? Howard asked.

?Better'n me that's for sure.?

?Why you say that??

?You young, Howard. Strong too. Bounty got stores all over the West Coast. You could work all the way up the top ranks if you tried. Add that to the computers you know and you could make it big.?

?You think so?? Howard puffed up with pride.

Socrates looked at Howard. He really couldn't call the man his friend. All Howard did was brag and gloat over others who had less than him. He was jealous of his own children where Corina's affections were concerned. But Socrates felt generous that day on the beach.

?Yeah, Howard. But you got to remember, man.?

?Remember what??

?All that money don't mean a thing if you want to see your momma smile but your momma's dead.?

Howard frowned and almost said something but instead he raised his bulk out of the aluminum strap chair and walked over to his wife.

Socrates set his alarm for five A.M. but he didn't get out of bed until seven fifteen. He made tea with lemon and had wheat toast with eggs. He ate standing at the kitchen sink, looking out of his window at his landlord's backyard. Fuzzy bees hovered around the lemon bush, eyed by the white cat that sometimes came from next door. The ear of the teacup was too small for Socrates' finger to fit through. He pinched the small handle though and that worked all right.

He hadn't yet bought a radio or television. Now he thought that he never would. He liked the idea of a radio, voices that he could spy on and then turn off when he got bored or annoyed. But that morning all he had was sunlight and that lemon bush, bees and a white cat.

Against the front door lay two stiff yellow boards connected by purple straps spaced for a head to fit between them. Each board was filled with red lettering and illustrated by laminated photographs.

But Socrates wasn't looking at the board right then. He was savoring his hot tea and breathing the still air and silence.

At ten thirty he showed up across the street from the rogue cop's police precinct. He stood there in his camouflage army surplus coveralls wearing the sandwich board that detailed the crimes of Matthew G. Cardwell Jr.,

POLICE OFFICER and KILLER,

the homemade poster board read.

A five-by-seven photograph of Cardwell, seen laughing and smoking a cigarette, was at the center of each board. Below that was a copy of the list of allegations of police brutality brought against the cop. This list was an enlarged photocopy of the public record. Above his photo and to each side were the names and photographs of his victims. Reggie Wile was there, his face battered and swollen. A picture of Inger Lowe was accompanied by the question

Where is she now?

The photograph of Torrence Johnson was from the newspaper. Its caption read simply,

Killed by Officer Cardwell.

Socrates stood for a while facing the station. Policemen came in and out without paying him any heed. Now and then a car would slow down but the words on the sign were too small and no one stopped to get out of their cars. A few rare walkers stopped and read the words, avoiding the sandwich man's eyes. But they needn't have worried, Socrates wasn't there to talk.

There was a Pick-an'-Save drugstore on the corner of the block and Brother Joe's Coffee n' Cake across the street from the station. Both of these stores were patronized by black and brown people who did stop to look for a moment before getting on with their day.

Socrates began to pace the block across the street from the station after an hour or so. He walked solemnly and slow as if to the beat of a single military drum. As the day went on, more and more people came to read his sandwich board. Children ran after him laughing, then fleeing gleefully when he turned to walk in their direction. Men passed by seemingly oblivious but reading every word with sideways glances.

By noon the police had noticed him too. Most of the cops went to a small diner next door to the station but one or two black officers got their coffee from Brother Joe. They stopped to read Socrates' sign and then went away to work.

Finally, at a little after twelve, two uniformed cops approached him.