I drop the tarp, wave, and point to the bungalow with a big smile on my face. One of the Federales in the Bronco waves back. I walk to the bungalow, grab Bud and the pack, step inside, lock the front door, go out the back, and dash across the sand into the jungle that is my backyard. All I have to do is get to Pedro’s and I’ll be OK. Unless the cops are there too.

THIS IS how things get fucked up again.

Once every three months you walk to the grocery next to the highway and use the pay phone to call a guy in New York. And this one time you call, and he tells you about a story everyone back there is telling.

– Say you’re a guy and you’re out taking a walk and you get thirsty and it’s hot, so what you really want is a beer. Thing is, it’s really hot, August hot in the City, with the garbage piled up and stinking, and the people with dogs that they don’t pick up the shit after, so you don’t want a beer from a deli, not even one of those sixteen ouncers from the bottom of the ice barrel the places put right out on the sidewalk. It’s so hot and the street stinks so much from garbage and dog shit and piss, what you want is a cold beer in a cool dark room. So fuck the can from the ice barrel, you’re going in this bar right here that you know it’s a bar ’cause out front is a neon sign that says BAR.

You tell the guy you get the point and wonder if maybe he can get to the payoff. You hear the gurgling sound of a bong over the long-distance line. Then he starts talking again, in the unmistakable voice of someone trying to hold in a gargantuan lungful of smoke.

– So you go in and it’s just what you hoped for, cool from the AC, dark ’cause the window is tinted. There’s maybe something good on the juke like Coltrane, “My Favorite Things,” but not too loud. And not crowded ’cause it’s the middle of the day in the middle of the week; just the bartender and a couple regulars.