"Dig, now, out of the corner of your eye and as we listen to Wynonie blow about his baby's pudding and as we also smell the soft air as you say – dig the kid, the crippled kid shooting pool at table one, the butt of the joint's jokes, y'see, he's been the butt all his life.
The other fellows are merciless but they love him."
The crippled kid was some kind of malformed midget with a great big beautiful face, much too large, in which enormous brown eyes moistly gleamed.
"Don't you see, Sal, a San Antonio Mex Tom Snark, the same story the world over.
See, they hit him on the ass with a cue?
Ha-ha-ha! hear them laugh.
You see, he wants to win the game, he's bet four bits.
Watch!
Watch!"
We watched as the angelic young midget aimed for a bank shot.
He missed.
The other fellows roared.
"Ah, man," said Dean, "and now watch."
They had the little boy by the scruff of the neck and were mauling him around, playful.
He squealed.
He stalked out in the night but not without a backward bashful, sweet glance.
"Ah, man, I'd love to know that gone little cat and what he thinks and what kind of girls he has – oh, man, I'm high on this air!"
We wandered out and negotiated several dark, mysterious blocks.
Innumerable houses hid behind verdant, almost jungle-like yards; we saw glimpses of girls in front rooms, girls on porches, girls in the bushes with boys.
"I never knew this mad San Antonio!
Think what Mexico'll be like!
Lessgo!
Lessgo!"
We rushed back to the hospital.
Stan was ready and said he felt much better.
We put our arms around him and told him everything we'd done.
And now we were ready for the last hundred and fifty miles to the magic border.
We leaped into the car and off.
I was so exhausted by now I slept all the way through Dilley and Encinal to Laredo and didn't wake up till they were parking the car in front of a lunchroom at two o'clock in the morning.
"Ah," sighed Dean, "the end of Texas, the end of America, we don't know no more."
It was tremendously hot: we were all sweating buckets.
There was no night dew, not a breath of air, nothing except billions of moths smashing at bulbs everywhere and the low, rank smell of a hot river in the night nearby – the Rio Grande, that begins in cool Rocky Mountain dales and ends up fashioning world-valleys to mingle its heats with the Mississippi muds in the great Gulf.
Laredo was a sinister town that morning.
All kinds of cab-drivers and border rats wandered around, looking for opportunities.
There weren't many; it was too late.
It was the bottom and dregs of America where all the heavy villains sink, where disoriented people have to go to be near a specific elsewhere they can slip into unnoticed.
Contraband brooded in the heavy syrup air.
Cops were red-faced and sullen and sweaty, no swagger.
Waitresses were dirty and disgusted.
Just beyond, you could feel the enormous presence of whole great Mexico and almost smell the billion tortillas frying and smoking in the night.
We had no idea what Mexico would really be like.
We were at sea level again, and when we tried to eat a snack we could hardly swallow it.
I wrapped it up in napkins for the trip anyway.
We felt awful and sad.
But everything changed when we crossed the mysterious bridge over the river and our wheels rolled on official Mexican soil, though it wasn't anything but carway for border inspection.
Just across the street Mexico began.
We looked with wonder.
To our amazement, it looked exactly like Mexico.
It was three in the morning, and fellows in straw hats and white pants were lounging by the dozen against battered pocky storefronts.
"Look – at – those – cats!" whispered Dean,