like I’m standing ten feet from the plate and lobbing volleyballs at King Kong.”
She took the bottle from her lips and laughed, and her almond eyes were suddenly full of light. She touched away the foam from the corner of her mouth with two fingers.
“I should have put on my Groucho Marx clothes this evening,” I said. “You know, an hour or so of Zeppo and the gang throwing pies while your people go up to the pen.”
I finished my drink, and the minerals and iron rust in the water tasted like a gladiator’s final toast in the back of my throat.
“You’re out of sight,” she said.
I poured a thin shot over the orange flecks in the bottom of the glass and drank it down. The smoky, charcoal-filtered taste of undiluted Jack Daniel’s, born out of Tennessee limestone springs and rickyards of hickory, rolled down inside me with the lightness of heated air, then I began to feel the amber caution signal flashing somewhere behind my forehead.
“Yeah, I’m a walking freak show. The next time I’ll appear with my whole act. Seals blowing horns, monkeys riding unicycles, jugglers, clowns with exploding bombs in their pants.”
“Wow, you really let it hang out,” she said. Her wet eyes were bright with refractions of light.
“It comes free with the ride home.” I poured the rest of the whiskey into my glass. “Come on, let’s drink.”
“What do you do when you’re not defending ex — Korean War buddies?” she said.
“I work for the money boys. Oil corporation suits, swindles against the government, the Billy Sol account. I also run for Congress part-time.”
“You’re putting me on.”
“Buy a copy of
“If you’re not jiving, you must be an unbelievable guy.”
“You want to talk about my geek act some more?” I said.
“I mean, what do you expect? You drop in here from outer space and come on like H. L. Hunt and W. C. Fields at the same time.”
“I was put together from discarded parts.” I finished my glass, and the amber light flashed red and began to beat violently.
“Tell me, really, why did you come here tonight?”
“I already told you. Television ruptures the blood vessels in my eyes.”
The Negro, the two girls, and the college boy walked out from the kitchen.
“There’s a man who likes to drink,” I said.
“You been reading my mail,” the Negro said.
“How about a case of Jax and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s?” I took a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet.
“We got a few more people coming over tonight,” he said.
“Get two cases. Take my car.”
“It’s just down the road. I’d get busted for grand auto in that Cadillac, anyway.”
He took the twenty-dollar bill and stuck it in the pocket of his denim shirt.
“You ain’t going to tip me later, are you?” he said.
“I left my planter’s hat in the car.”
He laughed and his round black face and brown eyes glistened with good humor. “You’re all right,” he said, and went out the screen door with the college boy.
“You always do this on a case?” the girl said.
“No. I usually don’t drink with the people I know. Most of them belong to the ethic of R. C. Richardson and the Dallas Petroleum Club. They like to throw glasses and urinate off hotel balconies. They also like to feel waitresses under the table. R. C. Richardson is a very unique guy. In the last fifteen years he’s taken the state and the federal government for a little less than one million dollars. He wears yellow cowboy boots, striped western pants, and a string tie, and he has a one-hundred-pound stomach that completely covers his hand-tooled belt. Three days a week he sits in the Kiwanis and Rotary and Chamber of Commerce luncheons and belches on his boiled weenies and sauerkraut, and then rises like a soldier and says the pledge of allegiance with his hand over his heart. But actually, the guy has class. The others around him are clandestine in their midnight dealings and worm’s-eye view of the world. They don’t have his sincere feeling for vulgarity.”
“He must be an interesting man to work for,” she said.
“Do you have another beer in the icebox?”
“This is the last one. Take it.”
“I never take a girl’s last drink. It shows a lack of gentility.”
“You are from outer space.”
I could feel the blood tingling in my hands and face. My scalp started to sweat from the whiskey.
“What’s your name, anyway?” I bit the end off a cigar.
“Rie Velasquez.”
“You’re not Mexican.”
“No.”
“So what are you?” I reached over and took the beer bottle out of her hand.
“My father was Spanish. He came from Spain during the Civil War.”
I let the beer and foam roll down my throat over the dry taste of the whiskey and cigar smoke.
“Hence, you joined the Third World Liberation Front. The gasoline and dynamite gang.”
“You ought to change your brand of whiskey.”
“Right or wrong? Didn’t they incinerate a few college buildings in the last year?”
“Don’t you think that sounds a bit dumb?”
“Bullshit. Ten of those people could have a whole city in flames within twenty-four hours.”
She took a cigarette from the pack in her blue jeans and lit it. She pinched the end between her lips as she drew in on the smoke.
“What type of bag do you think we operate out of, man?” she said. “Did you see any kerosene rags and coal oil hidden under the porch? You believe we all came down here because of your tourist brochures about the scenic loveliness of the Texas desert?”
“I just don’t buy that revolution shit.”
“Why don’t you read something about the United Farm Workers? They don’t have anything to do with revolution. They’re tired of being niggers in somebody’s watermelon patch.”
“Yow!” the Negro yelled, as he kicked open the screen door with a case of beer on one shoulder and a block of ice wrapped in newspaper on the other. “Man, we got it. Spodiodi and brew. We’re in tall cotton tonight, brothers.”
The college boy carried the second case of beer, and the boy with the guitar had already cut the seal on the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. They put the two cases on the old grocery counter, and the Negro chopped up the ice with a butcher knife and spread it over the bottles. He opened the first bottle by putting the cap against the edge of the counter and striking downward quickly with the flat of his hand. The white foam showered up over his head and splattered on the floor. He covered the lip of the bottle with his mouth and drank until it was almost empty. The beer streamed down his chin into the matted black hair on his chest.
“Lord, you can’t beat that,” he said.
I took the whiskey and poured three inches into my glass.
“You’ll drive nails through your stomach like that. Put a little brew on top of it,” the Negro said. He slapped another cap off on the edge of the counter and handed the bottle to me.
“Use this and avoid the slashed hand shot,” Rie said, and threw an opener to the college boy.
Eight Mexican field hands, all dressed in faded denim clothes, overalls, straw hats, and work shoes, came through the screen door in single file as though they had been lined up at a bus stop. They were potbellied and short, thin and stooped, tattooed with pachuco crosses and hung with religious medals, scarred and stitched, some of them missing fingers, sunburned almost black, with trousers bagging in the rear and their Indian hair wet and combed straight back over the head.
They had a pint of Old Stag and a gallon milk bottle filled with blackberry wine. The Negro began passing out
