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Show Acting Alone Page 421 down and scrub dead hogs' teeth ten to twelve hours per day in exchange for a simple nunly cell, was dying to know what kind of Faustian pact Sam had entered into, and with whom - not because she wanted in on it, but because, with her social activist's heightened sense of the limitedness of the world's resources, she was sure he'd gotten himself into something shadowy and physically dangerous. She was right. But Sam was far too canny for her. He answered her question as though he'd taken it at face value. "I don't involve myself in social issues because I feel that it is the responsibility of the artist to keep him/herself apolitical and pure and lean to the core. An artist simply must remain an outsider. Just a sec -" Sam pushed the intercom and screamed, "Where's that fucker with my chili con queso?" Sister Polycarpana jumped - not so much at his words (Catholics aren't supposed to be sensitive to naughty but non-blasphemous sexcrement words) as at the suddenness and intensity of his scream. "Sorry," said Sam, hoping he hadn't revealed too much in that scream. "You've got to get tough with those guys downstairs, or else they won't leave off metal-detecting and X-raying and finger-stuffing the caterers until the food gets cold. And chili con queso cold is literally inedible except with a fork and knife, which they don't allow me to have here because, urn -" (No. Hold off, Sam. Shut up. Don't go running like a baby to disburden yourself in Mommy's lap.) "I mean, the caterers don't have knives and forks because they just have fingerfood. Yeah, they are strictly fingerfood specialists, for various |
