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Lonnie Garamond was disturbed by the face |
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that looked back at him from the bathroom mirror |
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He looked older than he remembered |
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it was as if all forty-two years of his life |
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had suddenly leap frogged over each other |
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and crash landed in his face |
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He was middle-aged and the truth hit him |
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like a man with no parachute |
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the eyes were golfballs |
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the skin hung on his face like a cheap suit |
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and the trapdoor of greasy black frizz |
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that he combed from one side of his head to the other |
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to hide his baldness |
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in reality emphasized it |
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It was 2:30 in the morning Nov. 22nd 1963 |
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and Lonnie couldn't sleep |
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Lonnie took a last look at the face |
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and popped another sleeping tablet |
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under his sandpaper tongue |
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and slipped into a cold, dark sleep |
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The last thing Lonnie saw |
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before his eyes finally closed |
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was his camera watching him |
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from the other side of the Motel room |
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but the camera wasn't loaded yet |
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Lonnie Garamond was a loser |
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Lonnie Garamond was a loser |
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Lonnie Garamond was a loser |
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and he really hated being that |
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Lonnie's body clock woke him at 8:30 sharp |
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He stabbed a button by his bed |
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and the TV crackled into life |
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showing the crowds already gathering |
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in Dealy Plaza |
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He showered, shaved, and slipped into an Ivy League jacket |
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and brown slacks and loaded the camera |
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The Stetson put the icing on the southern cake |
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and he headed for the parking lot |
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leaving the key behind in his room |
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he knew he wouldn't be coming back |
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Lonnie Garamond was a loser |
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Lonnie Garamond was a loser |
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Lonnie Garamond was a loser |
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and he really hated being that |
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Lonnie parked the Buick and ran down Pacific St. |
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It was 12.15 and he wanted to be outside |
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the Texas School Book Depository |
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before the motorcade came down Elm St. |
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12.20 |
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He elbowed his way through a group of good ol' boys |
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and stood next to a kid in a wheelchair |
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waving a Confederate flag |
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12.25 |
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He took off the lens cap |
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and lit his first cigarette for two years |
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He checked the focus one last time |
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and blew a smoke ring |
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into the blue Dallas heat haze |
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12.30 |
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He ground the Lucky Strike under the heel of his boot |
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and calmly squeezed off three shots |
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Lonnie put the camera back into its case |
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and melted into the panic |
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Lonnie Garamond was a loser |
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Lonnie Garamond was a loser |
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Lonnie Garamond was a loser |
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and he really hated being that |
