| OCR Text |
Show 154 go to a city. A town maybe." "Yeah, that's what Tucson is, just a big cowtown. Spread out. A big cowtown, you might say, full of cowboys." "I hate cowboys," I say. "You've never seen a cowboy," he says. "And it'll be a great bus ride down too, through Texas. You've never seen the sun shine til you've seen it shine in North Texas. Of course it'll be a little dusty." "I hate dust," I say. "Yeah, me too, but the thing about dust is that it feels so good when you wash it off. Know what I mean?" "No," I say. "That's too bad, Jenny. That's a damn shame. Everybody ought to know what it feels like to wash the dust off." He gets up then and goes to pay for our Pepsis, and when he's at the cash register I can see the bulge in his hospital pants, in the back, where his last tattoo has been sanded off and there's a big bandage over the raw skin. "Yeah," he says when he gets back, "only five more days now and I'll be on that old Greyhound bi.s to Tucson." "I hate buses," I tell him, "all you can do is sit there, getting all cramped, and look out the window." "Well then," he says with that big smile which shows all his teeth, "how about going for a little walk instead?" I start to tell him how I hate going for walks-everyone stares at me-but before I can say anything he is already reaching out for |
