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Show -42 But it was a powerful machine and I loved to shoot myself half out of control through the streets of Tucson, lurching and bouncing over pot-holes and drainage dips, more or less aimed at the university- Amber and crimson lights twinkled on the dashboard, the tires sang in rich squeals and the radio played whiny wailing Mexican melodies. That other me was all hot to be respectable-more than that, to be rich. He sat in class in his plywood chair next to retired sergeants and old army captains who had come to Arizona to die; in the class with him also were divorced women with dyed hair and mean mouths, pimply boys barely out of high-school, shaky ancients who had to gather up their breath for a minute or two before they could answer one of Professor Madrigal's questions. And in the middle of this wild bunch sat that other Buckdancer, that different me, doing his best to get to the front of the stampede to prosperity. I remember him well, but only from the outside, like a spectacle. Who was this slightly crazy person? A stranger to me now. I slipped out from under the covers and ran to put my ear to the wall so I could hear my brothers better, but they were still silent. I can be manic when the world weighs me down; I want to kick out at sorrow and sadness. Black melancholy makes me want to do a jig sometimes. "Come on back to bed," Morgan said. |
