Turbinio

A Sacred Shot of Tequila

You had no idea how long it had been since you had left Mackinaw City; when? Last afternoon? Two days ago? Two weeks? It had been a long time, judging by the sudden change in the weather.

After getting some water you went back to Cadichon, the circumspect mule as always ate some raspberry branches while you hurriedly tried to change clothes before some voracious mosquito attacked you. Always in a daze, the state of your hair hadn't improved after sleeping snugly on a new pillow; its locks wriggled in all directions, resisting any attempt to tame them. Finally you managed to tidy them up the way you preferred, a little flustered and irritated by the effort. Agno looked at you and meowed.

"I am not your mother.'' You told the cat when it began a series of incessant meows. ''If you're hungry, get a bird. You are much better at this than I am.''

A few miles across the lawns, amidst the flower beds and rows of oak trees did much to restore your serenity. Most of the trees were still leafless, but the day was unexpectedly warm for what you were beginning to get used to, and the smell of buds unfurling on the branches was penetrating and fresh. You could almost feel the sap rising from the tall chestnut and poplar trees that lined the paths and sheltered the hundreds of bird nests.

According to the map, you were approaching a small town called Crowtown, and this was evident as small patches of stone and gravel replaced the dirt road. Pigeons were also courting in the grass under flowering forsythia bushes. There were no runners, as the place was relatively far from the main route, but it seemed like a great place to rest and look for information about the race.

And indeed it was a quiet place, you had to admit. Despite your fatigue and the worry about all the unfinished business of the Steel Ball Run, gradually you felt yourself relaxing, the tension in your mind slowly giving way, like the relaxation of a watch spring. Strangely enough, you didn't feel the least bit sleepy, despite the hardships of the past few days.

Some tidy men, fat and satiated with breakfast, immediately went about their work. Many stared at you with insinuating glances as they piled horse and cow feces in the corners of the stalls; glances that followed brazenly from your face to whatever part of your body was a little more exposed. Some men were kind enough to look away afterward, but most were not. You never suffered from extreme coyness, but standing in front of a bunch of perverse stares filled you with pangs of hate and discomfort, but you tried to ignore it.

You needed a drink, but there was no decent tavern in that venerable place full of sweaty ranchers and horse feces. The most you could find after a complete walk around the town, besides a big church and fancy houses, was a small establishment full of tired old men; if you didn't have a shot of tequila in that place, you would give up immediately.

Without much ceremony, you leaned on the counter and put some coins on it, asking the attendant for a shot of tequila, and he immediately poured you one. Looking around, the establishment had a collection of old guns and guitars, faded photographs of gunslingers and tools from the heyday of the mining period. The patrons seemed as old as the artifacts stored there, and all looked more than a little crude at you, the only woman present.

You were too tired to care about that. You just took a few shots of tequila of terrible quality to clear your mind. During those days, setting the geography of the United States in motion, you spent hours and hours on end doing your best to convince yourself that you were "going somewhere''. You never saw roads easier and more receptive than those that radiated out ahead of you across the insane patchwork of forty-seven states. You took another swig of tequila, thinking how imminent the end was.

"Hey, hey, Frank, what the hell is this?'' A voice in the background inquired, irritated and serious, but you ignored it when you saw that they weren't talking to you.