when I was a boy
six or seven
I met this old Mexican drunk
named Gus
he would come to my mother’s
café in the sunny afternoons on
the Texas side of the Gulf Coast
drink Pearl beer with beads of sweat
glistening through the amber glass and
tell me stories
one Sunday I walked over to his
place
he lived in a travel court of shacks
that followed a circle drive that ended
where it started
it was warm already
maybe hot
he sat at a gray topped formica
kitchen table on worn vinyl chairs
supported by curved corroded metal
tubing
he had a German Sheppard dog
that sat at one end of the table wearing
Gus’ glasses with the Sunday paper
spread out in front of him
Gus called him Red and said the dog
wasn’t worth a shit till he had read the
paper and had a beer
I sat next to Red with my legs dangling
from the too tall chair waiting and watching
Red would make Gus turn the pages
by barking
the old brown man would turn the page
then let the dog slurp lavishly on
a tilted beer bottle
beer suds and dog spit would fly
everywhere
I thought it was hilarious.
J. Masuda