GOING TO TEXAS
WITH SAM SHEPHERD
'Oh damn, we're already fucked up!' The little sun
was shining flat out, baking the ground and killing
all lesions. The noise behind us wasn't noise, just
sound. The cooking of beetles. The grilling of hides.
Along the horizon, only the ridiculous look of
Mexico sheds, Alamo sides, Amarillo antics.
In a little, squat, suburban town, we pulled into
a grease-stained driveway, broken and slanted.
Somehow (and why?) a '68 Super Sport, some
ghost of an old Chevrolet, sank and rotted. We
turned once to look, and you muttered - 'Jesus
and shit both; there she is'. Her name was Nanta
Maris Escovara, and for two hundred miles I'd
heard nothing but her story - a life-blood of
sex and devilment (hell, wanting even me to
jump in!), the brother who died on Yucatan
Road, the three kids left behind. Did I
mention the sex? I really forget. We
got out of our own limping car, and
she came over, just like that, like
we'd just seen her yesterday and
had more to say.
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