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Show Acting Alone Page 7g bother to fuck with him ~ not so much as a jolt in the ribs with an automatic weapon-butt, as they scanned the beach for Russian submarines and dead tortugas among the boatsful of dead tibarones and dead pulpos (actually paying more attention to the pale cracks in the butts of the European girls) . He had followed Sam down from the mountains three days ago, trying to laugh like Peter Lorre each time Sam snapped thorn branches back into his eyes. Sam had wanted to get rid of the guy- He'd given Sam the fucking willies, reminded him of himself. No, his potential self. The old Indian women up there in the jungly mountains can toothlessly size up these neurotic lonely little American hippy-boys. At a glance the hags can know: Yes, his novia just left for Vallarta with a short-legged surf god. So they feed him one too many plates of juevos del muerte and send him back down to Escondido to entertain their sons and cousins, the fishermen. With his idiot stumble, his wide, blank, tragic eyes, his horse-whinny- at-nothing, his inability to remember his own nationality - constantly switching accents and pidgin languages like a TV clown - , with his sudden psilicibin sweats, cold and acid, he serves as a walking advertisement for the mushroom omelette huts up in the jungle. "Panthers," this guy used to mumble sometimes, and he pointed back inland and shuddered. And later that very afternoon you could see parties of youths from four different continents macheteing up the hill, salivating in spite of themselves. Now for the real Mexico, they were saying to themselves . "Is there anybody I can call?" Sam asked him one time outside the Larga Distancia place - mostly to entertain a battallion of young German law |