On the Terrace of the
Under the April sun K.D. fantasizes. Everyone in Taos is poor. The fishing is good. They don't care about money. I don't experiment with drugs. I found the one I like. Ralph is costumed in vaquero postmodern. He pulls a black leather sheath from the rim of his knee-high boot. He pulls an Andalusian dagger from the sheath and fingers its fine intaglio, its razor-sharp edge. Sipping mocha Ed says it's all Caucasian films, can't find a gig. Slipping off his shades, squinting his brown eyes at the white people asleep in white plastic chairs. Everyone sports a permanent five o'clock shadow. The new world is old, creaking under the seedy, the hangers-on, the almost successful, the fixed, the self-satisfied, the yearning to be free, the half-crazed, the chronically neurotic innocent working out in the local gym. One night, many years ago, K.D. gave away his black sombrero during a blackout. Someone's wife followed him through the woods of the Mountain Man rendezvous. Later, he remembered walking through the fog along the river, alone.