That morning in Memphis, azaleas in pine beds rose under hot high skies and the Oldsmobile stacked with Wisconsin white girls, hellbent on white beaches, white light, Daytona, driving all night, some slurping sleep in no AC with the blonde behind the wheel careening toward daybreak.

It was then that April air burst with daffodil shoots, amorous and oh so sweet until city streets erupted with more black fists than the girls had ever seen, a mob out of nowhere body-slamming the windshield, pounding quickly locked doors while bottle shards flew.

The spring-break girls spun the radio dial for information.

But only static reeled through stations.

There was no explanation, the UPI wire still asleep in days before 24/7 news, the suck and rattle of the Olds   slowed   to   a   crawl    ticking   Firestones hissing. Even pansies and dogwood disturbed, the bluebirds back home unaware of nonstop slap-whacking on roof and hood, how hundreds of hands jack-hammered the lily-white girls trapped in a fact: the Doctor with a dream was dead.