Red-Dirt Marijuana: And Other Tastes Read Online Free PDF Page B

. . . how is we goin’ decide who takes the grandmother? I don’t want no old bitch like that!’ So the other one say: ‘How we decide? Why man, I goin’ take the grandmother! I the one see these chicks first, and I gets to take my choice!’ So the other one say: ‘Well, now you talkin’! You gets the grandmother, and I gets the young one—that’s fine! But tell me this, boy—how come you wants that old lady, instead of that fine young gal?’ So the other one say: Why, boy, don’t you know? Ain’t you with it? She been white . . . LON-GER!’ ”
    Finishing the story, C.K. lowered his head, closed-eyed as though he were going to cry, and stamped his foot, laughing.
    “You ain’t change much, is you boy?” said Big Nail.
    C.K. leaned forward over his glass and seemed to consider it very seriously.
    “Well, I don’t know, they’s some people say I ain’t—then they’s others say I just a little faster than I use to be, that’s all.”
    “Now I wonder jest what do they mean by that, these people tellin’ you you so much faster than you use to be.”
    “Oh they didn’t say ‘so much faster,’ they jest say ‘a little faster’—because I was always pretty fast . . . you may recall.”
    Big Nail finished his drink.
    “I don’t think I follow their meanin’,” he said, “I wonder do they mean fast like that,” and as he said the word, he brought his glass quickly forward against the edge of the bar, then held it, very steady, turning it slowly and regarding it, the base still firm in his hand, the edges all jagged.
    Neither of them looked up at the other, and after a few seconds, Big Nail lowered the glass to the bar.
    “Well, no,” said C.K., “ I would imagine—though, believe me, this is only a guess—that they was thinkin’ more along other lines,” and while he spoke, he gradually turned toward Big Nail, “I would imagine they was thinkin’ more along . . . smooth-cuttin lines,” and he described a wavering circle in front of him, his hand moving from his own glass towards his chest and suddenly sweeping down to his coat-pocket and out with the razor—which he held then, open and poised, near his face, letting it glitter in the light, he who smiled now and looked directly at Big Nail for the first time that day. But Big Nail had moved too—had taken a step back, and he as well was holding his straight-edged razor there, just so, between two fingers and a thumb, like a barber. Smiling.
    People suddenly began leaving the bar. The crap-game broke up. Harold watched them in pure amazement.
    “They ain’t goin’ be none of that in here!” said Old Wesley, standing at the end of the bar near the door, holding a half-taped chisel in his hand. “You got differences, git on outside, settle you differences out there!”
    “You stay out of this, old man,” said Big Nail, backing out into the center of the room, “we jest havin’ a private talk here.”
    Besides Old Wesley, Harold and Blind Tom Ransom, there were only four other people in the bar now, and they were carefully edging their way along the wall to the door. Outside, standing around the door and looking through the glass front of the bar were about twenty-five people.
    “Ain’t that right, C.K.?”
    Sss-sst! Big Nail’s razor made a hissing arc that touched C.K. just along the left breast, and part of his coat fell away.
    “That’s right,” said C.K., “we jest havin’ a friendly conversation.” Sss-sst! “Big Nail tellin’ me how glad he is to be going back.” Sss-sst!
    “Lawd God!” said someone.
    “You stop it now!” said Wesley.
    Outside, a woman screamed and started wailing, and one or two children began to cry.
    “Make ’em stop it, Mister Wesley!”
    “Somebody call the police!”
    Inside, they circled like cats, now in one direction, now in the other, feinting steps forward and to the side, suddenly lashing out with the five-inch blade, and all the time smiling and talking with a hideous