I'll Never Get Out of This World Alive by Steve Earle Read Free Book Online Page A

policy, she was slow to trust anyone whose complexion was darker than her own, and Negroes were still not allowed past the porch. Doc knew that it was only a matter of time before Graciela's room and board became a bone of contention between the landlady and himself.

    Then one morning Doc looked in on Graciela to find that she was not only out of bed but dressed and cooking huevos con chorizo on the hot plate over in the corner.
    She wore a simple cotton shift that Dallas had scared up somewhere, and the room had been swept and dusted, the bed made, and the windows propped open on sawed-off broomsticks to let in a little fresh air. Doc protested, in English and in vain, while he racked his brain for the Spanish for
bed.
"
¡La cama!
" he finally blurted out. "
¡Postrado en cama!
" but to no avail. Graciela continued fussing over the eggs and shrugged in the direction of the little table by the window, which she had set for two as best she could with what she had to work with. In the end, defeated, Doc plopped down in the chair, and Graciela served up the eggs and sausage, a large helping for Doc, only a spoonful or two for herself, and they were delicious. When they were finished eating, Graciela bussed the table, and the morning paper almost magically appeared with Doc's second cup of coffee. It was as if he had dropped into a dream. Some sort of vision of what could have been if only he'd never taken that first shot of dope. A part of him wanted to bolt, but he was in no hurry. He'd had a little lick of dope to hold him over and he had to admit that this wasn't bad, this little anomalous episode of normalcy or whatever it was.
    Doc finished his coffee and thanked Graciela, and in spite of the nagging ache in his legs and the rumble in his guts, he made his way to Manny's spot with an uncustomary spring in his step. After getting straight in the beer joint men's room, Doc took his seat in the back and finished his paper.
    Manny's morning package usually ran out about the middle of the day, and sometimes he'd stop by for a beer and a game of dominoes before he drove over to the west side to replenish his supply. On this particular day, more than once Doc glanced up from his hand and caught his friend regarding him quizzically, but he let it slide. By happy hour, Doc had dispensed a couple of courses of antibiotics and lined up another pregnancy termination for later on that evening, so he was flush, and he stopped by Manny's spot to spend his advance. The big man gave him yet another sideways glance when he allowed that he couldn't hang around as was his custom.
    "What's your hurry, Doc?" Manny wondered. "It ain't like you got nothin' to go home to." He got a big laugh from his boys out of that one. Doc just kept on walking.
    That night Graciela insisted on repatriating Doc to his own bed, and she slept on the cot across the room. There were freshly laundered sheets on Doc's bed when he turned in, and he was conscious of the rasp of his own breathing and worried that he was keeping Graciela awake. Graciela was listening but she was reminded of home, her family, all of them together in a single room. They were both soon asleep.
    Graciela made breakfast again the next morning, and the morning after that, and the morning after that.

    On one of those mornings, weeks later, Doc unfolded his paper and half-mumbled, "I'll be damned," as he skimmed the story beneath an unusually bold headline. "‘President Coming to San Antonio,'" he read. Realizing that Graciela didn't understand, Doc folded back the front page and held it up so that Graciela could see the picture of the young president. "
¡El presidente!
" he translated. "
¡Aquí, en
San Antonio!" Graciela peered over Doc's shoulder at the confusing jumble of characters. She could barely read a Spanish newspaper, but she recognized the picture well enough.
    Everyone back in Dolores Hidalgo knew the face of the first Catholic president of the Estados Unidos, as