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Show -75 We spent most of a dull Tucson winter turning about each other like two suspicious dogs. Outside, the thin cold greasy rain fell steadily out of dirty clouds on disappointed tourists and sly natives who swore nobody had ever heard of such a spell of bad weather. Inside Thorneberry's metal-roofed echoing warehouse he and I played a game of paranoid hide and seek; we spied on each other through cracks in the partitions and sprang out from behind wooden packing cases full of the fragile beautiful glass letters. "Didn't see you, Wayne." "Keep sweeping it, Skinner." "Right."' In the middle of the endless afternoons he'd slip quietly out of the office he shared with his wife and pop up from behind a stack of paint-cans or a pile of two-by-fours, his little Porky Pig eyes full of the mean hope of catching me doing something wrong. I don't know what he expected to^find me doing-stealing poster-paper, pocketing a paintbrush, secretly pissing in a corner-but he was disappointed every time: I never did him any wrong until the very end. All I did that long winter was push my stiff-bristled broom up and down the cement aisles while I dreamed of the financial success I was going to be with the help of Maybelle's ten thousand acres of badlands. I'd be bigger than Benbow, who after all was only a car salesman with his own lot. I saw |
