Stan talked and talked; Dean had wound him up the night before and now he was never going to stop.
He was in England by now, relating adventures hitchhiking on the English road, London to Liverpool, with his hair long and his pants ragged, and strange British truck-drivers giving him lifts in glooms of the Europe void.
We were all red-eyed from the continual mistral-winds of old Tex-ass.
There was a rock in each of our bellies and we knew we were getting there, if slowly.
The car pushed forty with shuddering effort.
From Fredericksburg we descended the great western high plains.
Moths began smashing our windshield.
"Getting down into the hot country now, boys, the desert rats and the tequila.
And this is my first time this far south in Texas," added Dean with wonder.
"Gawd-damn! this is where my old man comes in the wintertime, sly old bum."
Suddenly we were in absolutely tropical heat at the bottom of a five-mile-long hill, and up ahead we saw the lights of old San Antonio.
You had the feeling all this used to be Mexican territory indeed.
Houses by the side of the road were different, gas stations beater, fewer lamps.
Dean delightedly took the wheel to roll us into San Antonio.
We entered town in a wilderness of Mexican rickety southern shacks without cellars and with old rocking chairs on the porch.
We stopped at a mad gas station to get a grease job.
Mexicans were standing around in the hot light of the overhead bulbs that were blackened by valley summerbugs, reaching down into a soft-drink box and pulling out beer bottles and throwing the money to the attendant.
Whole families lingered around doing this.
All around there were shacks and drooping trees and a wild cinnamon smell in the air.
Frantic teenage Mexican girls came by with boys.
"Hoo!" yelled Dean.
"Si!
Maniana!"
Music was coming from all sides, and all kinds of music.
Stan and I drank several bottles of beer and got high.
We were already almost out of America and yet definitely in it and in the middle of where it's maddest.
Hotrods blew by.
San Antonio, ah-haa!
"Now, men, listen to me – we might as well goof a coupla hours in San Antone and so we will go and find a hospital clinic for Stan's arm and you and I, Sal, will cut around and get these streets dug – look at those houses across the street, you can see right into the front room and all the purty daughters layin around with True Love magazines, wheel Come, let's go!"
We drove around aimlessly awhile and asked people for the nearest hospital clinic.
It was near downtown, where things looked more sleek and American, several semi-skyscrapers and many neons and chain drugstores, yet with cars crashing through from the dark around town as if there were no traffic laws.
We parked the car in the hospital driveway and I went with Stan to see an intern while Dean stayed in the car and changed.
The hall of the hospital was full of poor Mexican women, some of them pregnant, some of them sick or bringing their little sick kiddies.
It was sad.
I thought of poor Terry and wondered what she was doing now.
Stan had to wait an /entire hour till an intern came along and looked at his swollen arm.
There was a name for the infection he had, but none of us bothered to pronounce it.
They gave him a shot of penicillin.
Meanwhile Dean and I went out to dig the streets of Mexican San Antonio.
It was fragrant and soft – the softest air I'd ever known – and dark, and mysterious, and buzzing.
Sudden figures of girls in white bandannas appeared in the humming dark.
Dean crept along and said not a word.
"Oh, this is too wonderful to do anything!" he whispered.
"Let's just creep along and see everything.
Look!
Look! A crazy San Antonio f pool shack."
We went in.
A dozen boys were shooting pool at three tables, all Mexicans.
Dean and I bought Cokes and shoved nickels in the jukebox and played Wynonie Blues Harris and Lionel Hampton and Lucky Millinder and jumped.
Meanwhile Dean warned me to watch.