’77 14 Part 2

Robert's Cut Rate had it goin' on. I never knew who Robert was, but I knew he was a visionary. His little store had been in Burleson since forever, and was placed almost exactly at the southern tip of the southernmost finger of Tarrant County, which was wet, and the finger touched the shoulder of Johnson County, which was not. Johnson County had joined the Southern Baptist Revolution in dumb days gone by; and like thousands of other counties across the South couldn't seem to grow out of it. What the whole thing amounted to was generations of pious Baptists in rural counties voting 'dry' to keep a clean day face, then sidling next door in the dark for a sixpack. This silly loss of revenue to the poorest places in America always puzzled me. Plus I had to drive a long way to get a goddam beer.

Robert's vision didn't stop at the county line…he cashed paychecks, sold real Texas Barbeque, kept five or six Porta-Potties on the back lot, and had FREE ICE, like the sign said.

I didn't hear Rodent walk up behind me in the parking lot. I was throwing scoop after scoop of 'ice-holes'-- you know, those clear machine ice critters shaped like little elongated donuts – into the ice chest in the trunk of the '67; the sodium lights from I-30 were causing all kind of sparkly ice tracers and tinkly ice echoes.

"Damn, boy. Leave room for the beer."

It sounded to me like, "Ramjoy, Feevormblear," but I knew Rodent's voice. I quit scooping, looked back at him, and said:

"Hey, man, you comin' onto this shit as hard as I am? This shit's crazy."

"Yeah. That Mexican at the counter thought I wanted a case of Copenhagen. Took me three days to straighten it out, with all the echoin' and lights and shit. Now get the fuck out the way so I can put this beer in there."



The Chevy's headlights made blacklight-type effects bounce off the freeway signs. An 'E' on an exit sign would turn into a bird as we passed, flutter into the nearest window glass, then SQUAWK through our heads. Lane stripes wandered off wherever they wanted to.

"You hear that?" Rodent said.

"Yep. And I'm fixin' to put on some Zep so I don't hear it again."

"That bird?"

"Yep. Where we goin'?"

"Get some gas."

"Man, we're most to Waco. Where you gettin' gas?"



Rodent pulled harder right than he wanted; I guess he was following the stripes. We tinked down at least two reflector posts before he got the Chevy straight on the off-ramp and rolled it down to the stop sign. The lights of the Black Stallion Restaurant and Gas Station flooded everything.

"917 exit?" I said. "We're on the whole other end of 917. You come all the way over here to get gas? Say, man, there's a blue wasp in your hair. I gotta piss."