53 - on Dumaine Street

New Orleans. Sunday, June 16, 1963. 2:00 PM.

Oswald patrolled the Dumaine Street wharf, near where the U.S.S. Wasp was docked, passing out his Fair Play for Cuba handbills. He was wearing blue chinos, a white shirt and a tie. Most of the sailors just looked at him. A few laughed. But that didn’t seem to bother him. He moved on to the next person.

I stood across the street near an alley under the awning of a two story frame building. It was five minutes before he noticed me. Carrying his handbills, he walked over to where I waited.

“I know you.”

The crooked little smile was still there but his eyes and posture were angry.

I edged toward the alley.

“Yep. Moscow. In front of the U.S. Embassy. I see that you made it back.”

He moved closer. I could feel his heat. He had an odor that I had never noticed before. “Who are you? FBI? CIA? Are you one of those who have been bothering Marina? I told them to stay away.”

I stood at the entrance to the alley. “No I am not any of those people. I’m nobody.”

“Well what do you want? Why are you following me?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just show up where you are. I guess I am a fan.”

His face twisted then he looked at me closer. His expression changed. He believed me.

“Why?”

I stepped into the alley. He followed me. We were no longer visible from the street. “You are important.”

He laughed, a short barking noise. “Well sure, But I’ve never seen you before - before Moscow anyway.”

“Oh, but I have been around. You wouldn’t believe.”

He looked at me. The sweet odor of rotting vegetables filled the alley and nearby there was music and beer.

“Remember when you were little and chased John Pic with a knife and your mother told old man Carlton ‘They have these little scuffles all the time and don't worry about it.’? I was there.”

He stared at me.

“And you remember that time in New York when you threatened Marge Pic with a knife and got you and your mother kicked out of the apartment? I saw that too.”

His breathing was heavy and his lips shook around the crooked smile.

“And you remember in the cafeteria with the Jewish Negro boy named Goldberg when you asked what existentialism means? I saw that.”

He whispered, “Shut up!”

I was silent.

“How do you know all that?”

“I’m special.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything. But some people do. They think you should stop while you are ahead.”

Oswald’s voice trembled, “Ahead of what?”

“Oh, ahead of history I guess. I don’t know. You almost killed Walker. Be content with that.”

Oswald stuck his hand in his pocket, scrambling for something. Not knowing how I knew how to do it, I grabbed his wrist before he could pull his hand out and hit him twice in the stomach and twice in the face. I could feel his cheek bone crumble. He sagged to the dirty pavement. The flyers scattered.

Leaning over, I said to him, “Think about what I said. OK?”