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Show Acting Alone Page 155 wayback" (the bullyboy's words). The bullyboy had since prepschool grown into a nearly regular human being. And he was evidently lonely these days. Sad, incarcerated in his own academic dungeon in some mean little college town east of here, he had jumped at the chance for some sunshine and fresh mountain air, and was about due for another fix of human companionship any day now. And he'd be strangely welcomed here by Axelrad's blipping comrades. Only this one certain person, this literary hustler, ever got by the tarpaper shack without deliberately saying, "Fuck you Grampa." In fact, Grampa was told to hide himself when he approached. Only the bullyboy was ever allowed in under these painless conditions. Allowed in? A downright smooth path of red carpet was prepared for him. With his approach, the strange, never-ceasing beelike business of the encampment took on a tone similar to the panic of the housewife who quickly cleans up her living room as a favored dinner guest mounts the porch, reaches for the doorbell - Speaking of dinner, the hour approached. Axelrad hammered chili powder and horseradish powder into the dead pores of his disarticulated rabbit and tried to ignore the live animal smells that drifted through the canvas walls of the mess tent on a random breeze from nearby Cheyenne Zoo. As he worked, he found that his brain was still imbued, even at this point, with the academic trivialities that would await to devour him and his mind if he ever returned to Chicago. Here is a perfect example of the well-indoctrinated anthropologist's horror of what is known in the trade as ethnocentricity: Axelrad had been |
