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Show Acting Alone Page 76 to that of a bronze surf god, unafraid of ultra-violet rays and the increased sunspot activity that was supposed to be going on up there this year. Disguised as a big redheaded surfer, he'd get two-thirds naked, with these enormous muscles everywhere, overdeveloped surfer's shoulders, and so many freckles smooshed so close together that they almost looked like a tan. Under all those freckles and muscles, he thought Shannon wouldn't recognize him, or, if she did recognize him, she'd be all impressed with his sunbaked, seawashed healthiness. Sam wanted Shannon to see him in this physically attractive anthropoid state because he wanted to know if she loved the regular soft slug him, or was just teasing, or what. In his powerful drunken surf god state Sam engaged in many true Oaxacan adventures. And he discovered a world of violence that made Ronald Reagan's crypto-fascist America look like Mr. Roger's neighborhood after curfew. One night, for instance, he found himself kneeling over a corpse, or near-corpse, whose head was partly exploded all over the middle of a busy road. He lifted the flap of corpse-scalp, black as fried liver in the flashlight. He pressed it back in place. More or less. He tried to staunch what he imagined were jets of blood. They were actually throbs of Sam's own shrillness reddened, liquefied by Oaxacan mushrooms in a jungle omelette three days eaten. Sam pressed, felt gravel underneath, sneered the edges of his front |
