Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
pound section, say three feet by five feet, maybe two inches thick, with practiced long strokes
of the razor-sharp blade. Hoisting the meat slab clear of the carcass he lugged it on short steps
huffing and puffing to the car, where he flung it into the back seat.
It clashed. Blood red on chiffon lime? Come on.
“Top sirloin, man. We eat good.”
“What about the rest of it?”
“Fuckin' wolves 'n coyotes. They gotta eat too, don't they? Fuck, boy. I gotta tell you
everything? Hell, they oughta eat good ever once 'n a while just like us. Don't you think?”
He pulled a t-shirt out of my pack to wipe the blood of his arms, adding with a short laugh,
“Snakes too.” He wadded my shirt and pitched it in back on top of the meat. “Don't you worry.
That shit'll wash out.”
I didn't complain.
Then it was back to the springs and just in time, because the local contingent of itinerant
workers had arrived for the show of naked hippie chicks up at the springs. The workers had
gathered round a few tailgates to drink beer and wait for the emergence of fresh-soaked na-
ked women right there free for the ogling and who knew what else. These were hippie chicks
after all, and everyone knew they liked some hot tamale in their taco. The naked females had
remained submerged till help arrived, which was us—or was Snake Who Runs at any rate.
We pulled up and were almost stopped when he sprang from the car much like Jack comes
out of the box, except that Snake Who Runs jammed the brakes and crunched the deuce 'n a
quarter into park before leaping out, flashing his giant, gleaming blade. Was it a warning? Not
really, except for the capacity presented by a rough and tumble, dirty, shirtless man ornamen-
ted like an Indian and splattered with blood as he waved a knife bigger than most forearms.
Leaning over the back seat he stabbed the meat with sincerity, like it wasn't yet dead, then
hoisted it on the knife up and out and onto the trunk.
The itinerants murmured and rustled about, but Snake Who Runs sliced off a few square
feet of top sirloin and offered it up as a most amazing and unexpected steak dinner—“Yeah,
motherfuckers. I'm talking top sirloin! On me, motherfuckers!” So the peace offering was
made. A few stray threads and foam core of Buick Electra 225 upholstery and some chiffon
lime paint flecks looked like meaningful garnish. Make no mistake; the meat offering did not
reflect the love all around us but rather proved the power to the people. That meat was not
meant to signal the green light on our women. The clear and simple message was that every
man among us understood the sweetness and danger of fresh pussy, and we could all eat steak
and enjoy a lovely fucking evening, or you're gonna die, motherfucker.
Comprendez?
The it-
inerants accepted the dripping, congealing, fly-swarming slab on short nods and murmurs of
Gracias, Señor
.
Snake Who Runs could have been in politics too, running against the Volvo boys. His
verbal skills weren't articulate, much less loquacious, but neither are most congresspersons
