I was a wet seed catapulted, lying on top the hot August ground. A bead of sweat on the forehead of Texas, I tumbled down the Holy American Mountain and landed here. The city moved like fleas on a wild boar, suckin’ its own blood till it ran so dry the damn skeeters didn’t come round for the summer no more. I pressed my hand to my lips to warm my fingers like sitting into a hot bath, like hot concrete by the pool, like engine air, and birch swallowed by a fire, drunk, sweet cloves and cardamom in whisky makes it sweet only because it's in a bitter drink. 

The man in front of me was drinkin’ some awful drink– looked like some kinda whiskey and coffee. He had a dark and heavy furrowed brow, face buried in the paper like an armadillo. His shoulders stretched out like wings– real manly you know, and out of the bottom of his bootcut jeans poked out a pair of auburn leather shoes, run thin by the grindin’ on dirt all day. 

I didn’t sleep last night. Beau was lappin' at his bowl so loud I couldn’t hear nothin’ but it. I got outta bed and set the water on my nightstand, but that dog was so thirsty he damn near took out the lamp tryna get that bowl down. I set it back on the ground. I felt kinda bad. Beau was a good boy, and Lord knew he’d spent all day running ‘round followin’ me on all my stupid adventures droppin’ off Ma’s dresses at the cleaner’s downtown and stealin’ mangoes from good people at the market on my way home, feet burnin’ on the ground. 

There was a picture of a bearded man on the paper, with a Ridgeway Cap and strong Spanish nose bowing forward. I didn’t recognize him. “Who’s that” I said. The man didn’t hear me at first. I held my coffee in both hands and bent forward over my table and said it louder. “Hey you, who’s that on the paper?” He looked up slowly from the booth in front of me. 

“You don’t go to school little miss?” He said, snide and beautiful, like a Humphrey Bogart.

“It’s Saturday.”

“Touché.”

He kept reading. 

“So you’re not gonna tell me?”

I ordered chilaquiles. Sometimes I can’t be so sure a man’s smart or stupid. Sometimes I think ain’t nobody just straight smart or stupid, but this man sure looked smart with ‘is newspaper and ‘is cool face. I know if I shut up more, I’d look a helluva lot more smarter, that’s what my brother says, but I think all that’s a waste. I think livin’ is just gettin’ ready to be dead for a long long time, and I don’t much like starin’ at clouds in my coffee for too long. My food came, and I took my plate over and sat in the man’s booth. He pretended to ignore me. I leaned forward and made out the name on the caption. “Fidel Castro.” 

“Little miss can read!” He said.

“Oh please. You’re drinking whiskey and this place just damned opened.”

“That’s an awfully crass way to speak to a stranger.”

“Where you from with that silly accent? New York?” No answer. “Hey man, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, I mean you got the looks like you’re from round here with those boots, but c’mon. Whats your name?” 

“Pancho.”

“I like that name.” I waited a little for him to say something. “So what’s the deal with that Fidel Castro? Anything interesting?”

“He’s a commie.”

“You know I quite like the commies. I think it’s a nice idea– all that talk about sharing and equality. I know I’m not supposed to say that kinda thing.”

“I think you’re quite right little miss.” He smiled a prudent smile. I sat with him a while. Finished my breakfast, and tried to read the backside of the paper.