To be what we were

By John Matthew Walker


From behind the lump boiling in my throat, I forced a chuckle. I hadn’t actually heard a joke; I ‘d only guessed one had been made by the way the sentence curved upward at its end, soliciting laughter. This, and the expectant hang of his mouth and brow . His words were hitting my eardrums, muted, like someone yelling from outside and across the street. The river of panicked blood swirled around my head and I nearly fainted. My eyes, swollen and wet. Jaw frozen, like iron.
“Well, Do ya’?” the man spoke in a gentle rasp. I was pulled slightly out of my trance by the dull copper glare of his badge. I almost answered, but was distracted by the clanking flagpole just outside the window behind him. Two flags whipped together, tangling and releasing, caressing then letting go, repeatedly.
“ Sir, heh heh… do y’all got anythang y’all want to declare?” This time spoken with an assertive-though still entirely polite-tone.
I felt a tug at my sleeve and looked down at its source. Terra, pretty eyes bulging, looked up at me, stretching her lips across her face as if to say “Well…do we?”
We certainly did, Though the items in question were dangerously close to declaring themselves. In the tattered leg of my thrift store jeans, atop my knee and poised temporarily against the fabric, was a whole lot of regret.

m m m m


That morning I had forgotten completely my commitment to go. Hung over and bloodshot, I hovered over my coffee and inhaled the steam until it was cool enough to touch to my lips. I drew in a small amount and my eyes closed a little. Memory’s footsteps began a saunter at the edge of my mind‘s ill-attended front lawn. Slowly they grew louder until they’d made their way up the walk…then…up the steps , stopping on the porch.
Last night at the bar Terra hit me with a proposition. And I, Half drunk and quite in the mood for trouble, was an easy sell. She was taking one of her bi-monthly jaunts to Nueva Laredo, a Mexican border town four hours due south. She never traveled there alone on these runs, and her scheduled companion had backed out at the last minute, leaving need for an eager replacement. Had I been invited under no duress from liquor, I’d have feigned willingness, then, minutes later, cowardice would back me out with invention of a prior commitment of some sort.
The border town was , to a pill enthusiast of my distinction, Mt. Olympus itself. I used to accompany my mother on her runs when I was in high school. My presence made her less conspicuous to the authorities. In addition, my person was that much more real estate on which to carry the goods. I’d shove one orange bottle in the crotch of my briefs, One in each sock, and occasionally another under my cap. She would kick me down a handful of assorted goodies for my troubles, which I would eat and share with friends. It had been years, however, since I’d been. Once I found my own domestic connections, The need for such expedition had waned. Now, having cultivated a proper habit, the necessity returned. Paying finder’s fee to some college kid or hospice worker on the take had become costly, I needed to go to the source.
I had barely begun to creep toward the hall closet where I kept my ugly lime green suitcase, when the phone rang. I broke not my slouching, dragging mosey. My right arm extended itself, as though it were not under my jurisdiction, and snagged the receiver. The voice started before I could get it up to my ear:
“ Wakey, wakey…eggs and bakey ! She said with the grating vocal chords of someone who’d been awake only minutes, after having slept only minutes. Her choice in cutesy rhyme momentarily made me think of an stern ex-girlfriend I had, who never failed to point out her disgust for such unnecessary verbal hopscotch.
“Hey…morning’” I coughed. “ You outside?”
“ No, just leavin’…be there in fifteen. You still cool for it?” she said.
“ Yeah…yeah, I’m in.” I said, “Throwing my shit in a suitcase, right now!”
“ Suitcase? We ain’t goin’ on vacation, Hun! Just a quick one, there and back, maybe a taco in-between.” she giggled.
“ Naw, I just…You know, Like…gotta keep up appearances and all, ya’ know?” I did my best to skirt the issue on the phone. I was always trying to throw the cops off my trail, as if the paltry hustles of a small-time plankton such as myself would garner enough interest to elicit a wiretap. “ Wanna look average,” I explained. Wedging the phone under my chin and reaching for the closet door.
“ What?…Cops?” she yelled, blowing my cover. “ Fuckin’ cops?…come on!” She continued, laughing, “ I ever tell you bout the time fucked a cop?…almost there baby, be ready!”
“ Alright, cool. Almost ready.” I assured her.
“ Don’t forget to pack your toothbrush, Honey.” she snickered.
“ Ha ha!..funny!” I grunted, but she’d already hung up.
The instant I set the phone down, it rang again. I scooped it back up and answered:
“ Hey princess, I told you I’d…” I was interrupted by a male voice.
“ Who you callin’ princess, dude?” The voice said.
“ Who’s this…Denver?” I asked “ Sorry man, I’m a broke ass., Basic phone plan. No I.D.” I said . With my left arm I opened the closet and freed the suitcase, causing an avalanche of clothes and sundry belongings.
“Ah, no sweat brother.” he half-coughed. He sounded sick. Denver was always sick from something or another. Flu-sick, dope-sick, sick to his stomach, “ Sick o’ this!” “Sick o’ that!” Even in perfect health, he was sick.
“ Hey whad’ya need man? Goin’ on a trip…ride’s on the way.” I said, impatient. Stuffing a pair of jeans with a tear in the seat, a wad of underwear which I seldom wore, and a shirt that didn’t fit into the suitcase.
“ Yeah, I know!…’as why I called.” he said. I then heard the phone muffle for a moment, as if he’d cupped it with his hand. He yelled for someone, probably his girl Becky, to shut up. He then uncapped the mouth piece. I waited to hear, again, his breath on the speaker.
“ How’d you know?” I barked.
“ Heard it on my police scanner!” he joked. I could hear Becky’s shrill voice in the background, returning his invitation to shut up.
“ You what?” I shrieked
“ Kidding man, kidding. Ran into Terra last night…said y’all were goin’. Wanted to know if you could grab me some treats.” he suddenly sounded very accommodating,” I mean…If it’s not a big deal or nuthin’!” I hated the idea. I was already feeling a little nervous about the trip and wondering why my yellow spine hadn’t done its job and manufactured an excuse for Terra. I could’ve slept a couple more hours and just copped some stuff off her when she returned. I certainly didn’t want the responsibility of coming through for sick Denver and his now screaming mistress. But, there is this broken compassion between addicts. An empathetic thing. Not like the movies where its all filthy junkies robbing each other out of their score. This stuff happened, for sure, but no junky gets off on seeing another junky out of drugs, Jonesing, crying. We all stand one failed score away from that horrible mess of gut wrenching and soul retching and it just hurts too bad to see it happen. Besides, Denver had always been square with me. He was a wreck, but a friend none the less.
“Yeah, I guess…I don’t really have all that much space on me, but…” I was interrupted.
“ You gonna keester ‘em?” he asked. “ Wrap ‘em twice if you do!” he jested.” I know a guy who…well…condom broke, guy almost died! Had to have his stomach pumped out. He was so high from it, he asked the nurse if he could have the ones they pumped out of him back! ”
“ Uh, naw man, not my style. Probably underwear…crotch.” I said.
“ Still, wrap ‘em twice!” he quipped.
“ You’ll get what you get.” I said
“ Percs’ man!…or dilaudid! No bullshit!” he said.
“ You might get lifesavers! Peace!” I said, whilst hanging up.
A horn blew outside my window, the moment I set down the phone. It was an unsettling tone, like something was stuck in the mechanism. I snatched up the half-full luggage and dumped the rest of my coffee in the sink. Horn blew again, this time its low pitch did a slight bend up at the end, like a donkey in reverse, “Haw-hee!”
She parked her aging bronco so that the passenger door was square with my front walk; Almost as if the drab concrete was a red carpet, and our objectionable mission were a gala affair.
“Mornin’ Maw!” I said. Throwing open the door.
“Mornin’ Paw! Coop got left open…chickens got out again!” she answered in a drawl even more pronounced than her real one. She was always good at chiming in on a joke or a moment of improvisation. She wore vintage dresses from the sixties almost religiously. Paisley and loud, her frock was a television, turned on its side and tuned to static. Standing up, this one would’ve covered only half of her thigh. Sitting down ,however, her legs were presented to me without commercial interruption. Using the sandal-clad foot at the end of the right one, she let a little gas into the engine, and off we went.
The drive was calm and easy. Took no time getting out of Austin. We snaked along interstate thirty-five unobstructed , , as though it were constructed solely for us and this undertaking . Every small town ticket writer we saw along the way was occupied with a Houston frat boy or a lead-foot heiress. San Antonio’s morning rush parted like a holy sea, and we never even had to break. There was never a silent moment on the radio, when one signal ended, it segued into the next.
We arrived in stateside Laredo around noon. The sun held its flaming palm over the city. So hot were the streets that they appeared soft-baked , almost molten. Dogs curled , embryonic, in small patches of shade. Those who were outside moved quickly and efficiently, as not to anger the sun god with their humanity. We rolled over the bubbling cobbles on the main strip, through town. All the shops looked as though they’d been smacked around by a pimp. Through their storefront glass I spied their wares. None of them seemed to specialize in any particular area of need. Paper towels occupied shelf space next to stereo speakers. Stuffed animals next to auto parts. Whatever fell off the truck.
We parked in a large lot, at a shopping mall just before the checkpoint. Anyone who takes his vehicle over is asking for trouble; If, on your return trip, your vehicle still belongs to you, you will most assuredly have time during its hour-long inspection to notice all of the items missing from it.
We crossed over on foot. The bridge at Convent Ave. reaches over the Rio Grande in a functional display, offering zero pomp. The river beneath us was slow and viscous, with no ripples. The only evidence of movement, in its disparaged blackness, was the occasional tire or limb. We stopped about halfway across, for a moment, and I stood with one foot extended into each nation. I couldn’t decide if I felt free from, or trapped by, both.
At the end of the bridge there was a small brick booth which read: TRENTE-CINCO CENTAVOS, in red, white and green. I pried open my pocket and fished out a quarter.
“ This one’s on me, you get it on the way back!” Terra said, knowing full well that it costs twice as much to come back over.
“Oh, you’re far too kind!” I said.
I slid the quarter back into my pocket and noticed its modest dimensions. As I felt around to the backside of my jeans, a storm of self loathing swept over me. In edition to tiny front pockets, I had chosen a pair with none in the back. Moreover, In my morning stupor, I hadn’t bothered putting my legs through underwear of any kind. I ‘d thrown a couple pairs in my suitcase, but they were in another country now. Terra was a few feet ahead of me now and I gave it a little gallop to catch up with her.
The moment we stepped out from the Departamento de Inmigración, and onto the cobbled street, We were surrounded on all sides by smiling men in powder blue short sleeve button-ups and immense smiles. They all had the same haircut. Short and slicked back, with the deep ridges you only get from a wide-tooth comb.
“ Prescription! Prescription! Come here, best prices!” They worked, on commission, for the doctors. They corralled neglected American housewives and enterprising college kids and convinced them that their doctor had the best prices. More than likely, they all worked for the same guy. It didn’t matter who you went with, you very easily acquired the same pills so heavily regulated not one mile to the north.
Terra said “ You!” to the least imposing of the pack. He held up his pomade encrusted hand, turned, and began to canter. We followed. We kept up loyally, through the streets of warn stone and crumbling yellow stucco. Past a few blocks of marketplace. Through gangs of wild children feasting on melon and sun burnt mothers, singing prayers downward into the sidewalks. Salesman barked their bargains into the air, dispassionate and dry, like a mercenaries howl. After awhile, our tour guide stopped abruptly.
“ Just you!” he said to Terra.
“ Wait a …” I said, only to be cut off by Terra’s hand on my chest.
“It’s cool, don’t worry, I got it. Gimme yer money.” she said. I slithered my fingers into my left pocket this time, and produced ten twenty-dollar bills I’d folded up neat.
“Be right back.” She said, And the two disappeared into the screen door, and up the stairs inside.
I put my back to the wall, nervous. There was a television across the street, behind a shear curtain, atop a counter. The curtain blew open for a moment, and young brown hands were washing a dish. A stray dog, with little fur and a frightened face trotted up the walk. It crossed the street before it got to me. Its gaze met mine as it passed. Across its eyes ran the closing credits of a sad film. I began to ponder my options, of which there were few. After about fifteen minutes, I heard Terra’s sandals clacking down the steps again.
At a taqueria near the market, we divvied our goodies up over a taco. I told her of my failure to plan properly and she had a good laugh. She’d told me in the past that she liked to “ Bring ‘em back the old fashioned way,” This meant the utmost protection from the authorities. She would fill a condom with a comfortable amount, form it into an appropriate shape she lovingly referred to as her “Pill-do,” gently lure it into her womb, and simply give birth to them back home. Any time you bought from her, She made sure you were aware that she was the “Mother of all habits.” This became a joke, amongst her customers. We regularly called her “Maw,” and every year she would receive a flurry of Mother’s day cards from sarcastic pill-heads.
“You’re gonna have to, baby! Look, Davis does it every time he comes with me. Easy as pie. Don’t get us busted.” she said under her breath.” Just do like me.”
“ I don’t exactly have the same convenient anatomy, Terra!” I said.
“ Oh, ain’t that big a’ deal, Besides, it’s nice not to have to worry. They can pat you down all they want, Ain’t gonna find shit!” she said.
“What if they get lost up there?” I said, to which she only giggled. She reached into her purse and pulled a square foil pouch from its depths. Tossing it at me, she said
“ Every mother dreams of this moment!” With her face all scrunched up, she sniffled and pretended to wipe a tear from the corner of her right eye. “ G’ luck!” she said, getting up and strutting off to the bathroom.
Sometime later I limped, slow and deliberate, from that filthy cinder block restroom. Its walls were vile and my feet stuck to the floor. My skin felt loose with shame, as though it were an ill-fitting costume. I was sore, it had not been an easy undertaking. Rawness, both in spirit and in flesh. Naked awareness of just how far I’d gone. I searched my core and found a place from which to gather light, and from there I harvested an uneasy grin. I propped myself upright and staggered out to meet Terra. She looked impatient, having had to wait so long for me.
“ Sorry, I really didn’t know what to do. I’m not even sure I…” I was interrupted.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it. Its cool.” she said.” Let’s get back, I don’t wanna hit rush hour in S.A.”
It was a rough walk back to the bridge. The choppiness of the old stone road ensured the least amount of comfort. I hadn’t had the guts to tell Terra that I’d chickened out and only gotten it half way into place, leaving the rest hanging like a tail.
There was a short line to pass through customs. Two or three old ladies were in the front, arguing with the official over why they weren’t allowed to bring fruit back over. There was a middle aged gentleman with a bag full of mini sombreros, walking with a cane. Directly in front of us was a college-aged hippy, tie-dye and all, carrying a hammock under one arm. He was obviously stoned. He looked back at us and smiled, I looked away without returning the gesture. The old ladies, in their flower-print dresses, gave up and moved on. The line shortened, bringing us closer to the actual moment of criminality. Where the uniformed man would ask a question, we in turn would answer dishonestly, he then would scrutinize us and our answers, and hopefully wave us on.
As the hippy moved to the front of the line, Terra pointed at his obnoxious shirt and, with the index finger on her other hand, pretended to make herself vomit. Tie-die had always been an inside joke with us. Living in a college town, there was simply a surplus of the loathsome fabric. I regularly claimed that I was “Allergic” to it. As she retched and pointed I let out a forceful, counterfeit Sneeze “ Aaaaa-Choo!” I immediately regretted this, as it launched my precariously placed parcel out of its hiding spot and sent it tumbling down my pant leg. Two hundred or so assorted pills, each of which would land me in a fine heap, in a prophylactic. Wedged between pant leg and thigh.
“Next!’ the official said, and the moment had become ours. I moved, stiff-kneed, to the front of the line. I prayed that gravity would be distracted by something more important needing to fall, and pass me over. My eyes started to swell. Sweat poured from my palms. My tongue disengaged, I went blank.
After repeated attempts to extract an answer from me, the silver haired man turned to Terra.
“Your friend alright?” he said, tapping his pen on his clipboard.
“ Yeah, too much Tequila, sorry!” She turned to me “ Fuckin’ lightweight!”
“ Well, Do y’all got anything to declare?” He asked, fresh out of tolerance.
“ No sir.” She said. He grunted, and then waved us on. She grabbed my paralyzed arm, and led me out of the booth, onto the bridge.
“ What is wrong with you?” She said, Talking out of the side of her mouth.
“Fell out…fell out, fuck!” I said, looking over the bridge at the border guard poised at its end, machine gun in hand.” Stuck in my pant leg, its gonna fall out!”
“ Oh shit! Uh…uh…o.k., just don’t panic…be cool.” She said.
As we drew closer to the rather imposing militia man, I could feel the bundle slither further down my leg and closer to the light of day. Over my kneecap. Slowly down my calf. Top of my ankle. I was making promises to every God I could think of. Finally the bridge landed, and we touched American soil. we came face to face with the large man, and his deep, granite stare.
“ Have a nice day!” said Terra, sweetly. He nodded. Just then, the contraband finished its descent and hit the top of my shoe. Without thinking, I fell to my other knee and screamed “ Ahhhhh! Fuck! My…my…” Writhing on the ground and gripping my ankle.
Terra didn’t miss a beat. She leapt to my aid, crouching down over me.
“ Omigod! Are you alright?” She made eye contact with me, I grinned and she knew exactly what to say “ Is it your…ankle again? By this time the guard had gotten up from his perch and begun to walk over.
“ Is he alright? Does he need help, Ma’am?” he said earnestly.
“ Its just his ankle, old sports thing.” She knew how much I hated sports. She distracted him long enough for me to shove the loot into my sock. She helped me up and I threw my arm over her shoulder.
“He’ll be o.k.! I just gotta get him to the car.” she said.
“You need help?” he said
“ Naw…got it! She said. I pretended to limp, and she pretended to help me. We made it back to the vehicle and released the breath we had held so long. We said nothing.
We drove the speed limit all the way through town, past the awkward storefronts now closed for the day. Past the mangy dogs now rich with shade. Through the bends and straights of interstate thirty-five, and its many miles of nothing. Through the wet cement regatta that was rush hour, San Antonio. Home, to get high and forget this day and our dumb luck. To learn nothing. To be what we were.

Looking for Sugar

By John Matthew Walker

In Abilene, Every color was cut with grey. The sky there held the hue of a vagrants face, strangled and ditched. The soil was crushed charcoal; it was impossible to tell it from the crumbling street at any distance. What little foliage existed on Plum Street was doomed from the moment it sprouted, and it all hung like it knew it.
I was nine years old, dragging my supermarket tennies through it all. It was August and we’d been there since June. Mom married Rocky, who grew up in the area. He was a local high school football hero in his day. He had somehow wound up in Long Beach, California, free-basing and losing jobs. His great-grandmother, senile, needed a caretaker. She got five of them, and we got free rent. Soon after the nuptials we packed our things into the Pontiac, so tight we all had to cram up front. We drove east on 1-10, through lonely desert states, to Texas.
Sugar was ninety-two. A child of freed slaves. Her husband Charles, long dead, built the Methodist church across from the creaking wooden house at number 734 that we shared with her. Her life had been hard, and the language of her tired body spoke sorrow. She spent most of her adult life working at the meatpacking plant, still in operation three blocks east on Cottonwood St.
Though very slow in gait, and prone to dementia, She managed to slide out the back screen door from time to time. We’d usually catch her on the dirt alleyway behind the house, where the shacks on Plum backed up to the shacks on Mesquite. That day however, Mom and Rocky were having a scrap in the bedroom and we were all quite distracted by it. We hadn’t a clue how long she’d been gone. After checking the block, we each took a different direction, and began to comb the neighborhood.
I began trolling north on Plum St, checking porches and driveways. Everyone knew Sugar, as she had been there before any of them. As a young lady, She had rolled in the grass upon which their homes would be built. She had babysat even the greyest old coot. No one seemed to be any help though, any time she absconded. I’d see Miss Emma, futility in her eyes, watering her balding lawn; “You seen Sugar, Miss Emma? She got out again.” “ Naw!” she’d caw, “ I ain't seen’ah!” Or Mr. Lloyd, who once told me to “Get my white ass off his do’ step!”
Being nine years old, it hadn’t occurred to me that their response to my queries had less to do with what they’d seen, and more to do with who was asking, but I can’t take too much offense. Most of the white folk in that town lived on the other side of it. The Klan had been far less than neighborly in drawing these divides. Though by late summer 1983 most cities had begun to move on, in Abilene, it might as well have been the early fifties. And Even though my step-daddy was one of them, I was a white-boy, no escaping it.
North Ninth St. doglegged at Plum, on the right was the high school, and I always made sure I was on the left side of the street when I passed it. High school kids scared me.
I passed the covered bus stop there and saw an old woman I thought for a moment was Sugar, but it was not. She had on her head an old flowered scarf. She was holding a bamboo cane like the one Sugar employed. I knew it well; it always leaned against an old curio cabinet in her room. Once, my sisters and I were left alone with her. She used it to hook a pair of underwear in which she had had an accident. She chased us through the house with it, and drove us out the back door. We hid in the shed that day until Mom came home. And though we laughed about it to the point of tears, we were terrified at the thought of being alone with her from that point on. I would then after crawl home from school at a rate of speed that would shame a snail, if it meant not being the first home. There was no after-school special with enough Scott Baio , or any cartoon too cool. No Michael Jackson video was important enough to hurry me home to her, and her blank madness. Once, gassed-up on “lick-a-maid,” I forgot this doctrine, and too much hustle landed me home a half-our before anyone else. All the doors were locked, and Sugar stood , poised like a palace guard ,between the living room window and its curtain. “ I will shoot ‘choo good if you don’t get off my porch, boy!” aiming at me what she referred to as “ her pistol,” which was in actuality a rusty old Master-lock. I camped on the porch until Mom got home.
I had never really ventured to far past the high school and was disappointed my search hadn’t ended at the bus stop. I dreaded the unknown streets that lie ahead. All the houses looked the same to me, and landmarks were scant. I decided, first pay phone I saw, I’d call home and check if she’d been wrangled yet. I certainly hoped so. I really didn’t wish to be the one who found her. What then? Was it then my duty to corral her, convince her to follow me back home? Seldom did she even have a clue who I was.
After another little while I came upon a highway overpass I hadn’t ever seen. I didn’t know how far I’d walked, I’d been staring at my feet for quite a while. I could no longer bear the sight of the rotting homes and filthy yards of a town that had peaked a hundred years before I arrived.
Noticing a gas station at the far side of the road, I crossed . Not a single car to wait for. The attendant was kneeling, ass in the air. head underneath a pick-up. “ Do you have a pay phone sir?” I asked. No response, he kept scrutinizing the dripping radiator.” Do you have a pay…” he cut me off, ”Yeah…’round back, old lady’s been on it for an hour though.” I didn’t bother saying thank you. I scampered around the building ,slipping slightly in a grease puddle, painting one side of my left sock black.
Mom always made me keep two quarters in the sneaky pocket of my Tough-skins. Sometimes Rocky would lose it, and it was my job to haul ass to the Quickie-Pickie and call the law on him. Once I tried this from the kitchen phone. He broke it across the back of my head. From then on, she’d hide a couple in each pair of jeans on laundry day. I released George’s silver visage from its denim hideout just as I rounded the back of the ill-painted grey brick station.
Returning my line of sight ahead of me, my quick pace was stolen and replaced by a slow, unsure one. Standing before me in scarf and coat, under the awning of the ancient phone booth, was Sugar. Her fabled cane was on the oily concrete. She had her back to me, and I could see the vintage receiver pushed against her ear with her shaking, leathery right hand.
As I crept close, my ears began to receive the murmur coming from her decaying purple lips. I froze, somewhat terrified and somewhat mystified, a couple of paces behind her hunched frame. I tuned in deeper, I could hear a dial tone mixing with Sugar’s words; “ O.k., we’ll have potatoes then instead, Charles…But jus’ don’t be so late like las’ time…’else they gon’ get all dry. I love you.” She slowly set the phone back on the hook, and turned herself around and reached for her cane. Her dark pebble eyes met mine in the ether. Then, after a long, silent moment, she creaked; “ Oh…I was wonderin’ where you was. We gotta go get dinner together honey.” I squatted down and wrapped my pink fingers around her cane, rubbed a grease spot from it with the clean side of my sock, and handed it to her.
I called home and Rocky answered in a dissatisfied tone that only he knew how to produce. It made my ass sore the second it hit my ears. It was as if he kept every ounce of pain he’d ever felt within arm’s reach. He had an aversion to happiness. “ Yeah.” He sighed, “ Found ‘er, Rock!” I blurted out, expecting some form of verbal reward.” Where?” he grunted, like it was too much for him.” I don’t know, up Plum, I don’t know, a gas station by the highway.” I said, barely finishing before he hung up.
I wasn’t at all pleased that he came instead of mom, but when he pulled up in Sugar’s old Bellaire, I became almost excited. I always loved riding in the back. The huge windows let in such a breeze that it pushed the skin on your face back towards your ears. I stuck my head out the window, closed my eyes, and pretended I was back on the beach in California. I could hear Rocky, caterwauling from behind the wheel. Grossly inconvenienced and not at all cool with it. I felt the tone, but the sound of the wind drag shielded me from his words. I took a huge breath just as we passed the meatpacking plant and almost barfed at the smell of pig’s blood. I popped my head back in and covered my mouth. I turned and looked at Sugar. The dark features of her face drawn together at the stench, her tired old hand cupped over her nose and mouth. I stuck my head back out the window and watched grey streaks of Abilene go by.