A Little Shade in Dallas

By Clayton Ray Randell

That ice cream was good. I must have licked that ice cream in every possible direction. It was the kind of ice cream that doesn’t seem to melt even on the hottest days; and boy was it hot. Dallas gets pretty hot, even in November.

“They” weren’t here yet, so the crowd kind of just milled around, restless, because of the heat.

I leaned against the fence. At least I was in the shade. I was a ways off from the goings on, but I could see it all through the scope.

There was music coming from somewhere up the road. I’m sure it sounded rather triumphant and joyful over there, but muffled by the still, hot air, from where I was standing, it sounded a little like a death march.

From on top of that knoll I could see most of the plaza. I could see kids playing, wives setting up picnic spots, while the men loaded cameras or stood about giving each other those glances of formality that men do.

Hiding behind this fence, getting ready to do the terrible act I was about to commit, allowed me to stand back from humanity, to look at how they act and react.

I am down to the cone now. Crunchy, sweet, loveliness on this hot November day. I’ll be finished by the time “They” come.

Timing is important. More so because I am not the only one involved. I don’t see why they didn’t do it at the airport. I guess it’s because they wanted a lot of people to see it. Plus the Secret Service guys would also be more spread out running along the road.

My superiors didn’t tell me much back then. I had done odd jobs for them in the past, but they didn’t trust me to any real information. In fact, if the number one choice for this assignment hadn’t been crushed by some bricks falling off the Kremlin and taking her with them, while trying to shoot into an office building across the street, I wouldn’t even be here.

I wouldn’t be here, with this lovely ice cream