He always said,
"That's right, man, there you go – dah you go, dah you go!"
And he went.
He drove seventy miles an hour in the old heap, and we went to Madera beyond Fresno to see some farmers about manure.
Rickey had a bottle.
"Today we drink, tomorrow we work.
Dah you go, man – take a shot!"
Terry sat in back with her baby; I looked back at her and saw the flush of homecoming joy on her face.
The beautiful green countryside of October in California reeled by madly.
I was guts and juice again and ready to go.
"Where do we go now, man?"
"We go find a farmer with some manure laying around.
Tomorrow we drive back in the truck and pick it up.
Man, we'll make a lot of money.
Don't worry about nothing."
"We're all in this together!" yelled Ponzo.
I saw that was so – everywhere I went, everybody was in it together.
We raced through the crazy streets of Fresno and on up the valley to some farmers in back roads.
Ponzo got out of the car and conducted confused conversations with old Mexican farmers; nothing, of course, came of it.
"What we need is a drink!" yelled Rickey, and off we went to a crossroads saloon.
Americans are always drinking in crossroads saloons on Sunday afternoon; they bring their kids; they gabble and brawl over brews; everything's fine.
Come nightfall the kids start crying and the parents are drunk.
They go weaving back to the house.
Everywhere in America I've been in crossroads saloons drinking with dull; whole families.
The kids eat popcorn and chips and play in back.
This we did.
Rickey and I and Ponzo and Terry sat drinking and shouting with the music; little baby Johnny goofed with other children around the jukebox.
The sun began to get red.
Nothing had been accomplished.
What was there to accomplish?
"Mariana" said Rickey. "Manana, man, we make it; have another beer, man, dah you go, dab you go!"
We staggered out and got in the car; off we went to a highway bar.
Ponzo was a big, loud, vociferous type who knew everybody in San Joaquin Valley.
From the highway bar I went with him alone in the car to find a farmer; instead we wound up in Madera Mextown, digging the girls and trying to pick up a few for him and Rickey.
And then, as purple dusk descended over the grape country, I found myself sitting dumbly in the car as he argued with some old Mexican at the kitchen door about the price of a watermelon the old man grew in the back yard.
We got the watermelon; we ate it on the spot and threw the rinds on the old man's dirt sidewalk.
All kinds of pretty little girls were cutting down the darkening street.
I said,
"Where in the hell are we?"
"Don't worry, man," said big Ponzo.
"Tomorrow we make a lot of money; tonight we don't worry."
We went back and picked up Terry and her brother and the kid and drove to Fresno in the highway lights of night.
We were all raving hungry.
We bounced over the railroad tracks in Fresno and hit the wild streets of Fresno Mextown.
Strange Chinese hung out of windows, digging the Sunday night streets; groups of Mex chicks swaggered around in slacks; mambo blasted from jukeboxes; the lights were festooned around like Halloween.
We went into a Mexican restaurant and had tacos and mashed pinto beans rolled in tortillas; it was delicious.
I whipped out my last shining five-dollar bill which stood between me and the New Jersey shore and paid for Terry and me.
Now I had four bucks.
Terry and I looked at each other.
"Where we going to sleep tonight, baby?"