A Feast of Snakes by Harry Crews Page A

“Ain’t nothing like iron in the morning.”
    “You’re more than welcome to sit in here for a few sets,” said Duffy. He enjoyed them looking at the girl. He liked them to want her. They wanted her, but by God Duffy Deeter had her.
    “It’s white of you to say so,” Willard said.
    “That’s Susan Gender up there in the door. My name’s Deeter. Duffy Deeter. We came up from Gainesville, Florida.”
    Both their heads swung slowly to see him grinning at them. They grinned back.
    “I’m a graduate student at the University of Florida,” said Susan Gender.
    Joe Lon thought: Is everbody in college but me? How the hell did I get left out here taking care of chemical shitters and dealing nigger whiskey?
    Joe Lon and Willard slipped out of their shirts. Willard flipped over and walked around in the dirt on his hands. Joe Lon took the bottle of whiskey out of his back pocket, set it carefully on the step of the Winnebago, checking out Susan Gender’s red pants again as he did. Then he went into a steady handstand and did six dips, his nose just short of the dirt each time he went down. They both came off their hands and looked at Duffy.
    “I’m impressed,” said Duffy, shortly. “What the hell are you, gymnasts?”
    “Drunks,” said Joe Lon picking up the bottle.
    “I’ve been known to take a drink myself,” said Duffy.
    Joe Lon held out the bottle toward him.
    “I don’t usually drink when I’m working out,” said Duffy.
    “Why not?” said Willard, taking the bottle out of Joe Lon’s hand. “How come you don’t drink when you working out?”
    “I didn’t say I didn’t. I said I didn’t usually.”
    A man came running by with a two-foot black snake, trying to stuff it down the blouse of a screaming woman.
    “Nothing much usual about today,” said Willard, offering him the bottle again.
    “Not a goddam thing that I can see,” said Duffy, taking it. He took a long pull at’ it while he watched Joe Lon do the first set of warm-up presses on the bench. They talked and warmed up, casually adding weight between sets.
    A little man came around the corner just as Duffy was getting off the bench. His hair was gray and he was color-coordinated in brown plaid slacks, a beige Banlon shirt with crossed golf clubs over the heart, and a ventilated golfing cap. A paunch, round and mobile as a ball, rode under his belt. He stopped and said almost shyly: “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
    “You’ve been looking for me?” said Duffy Deeter.
    The little man smiled and looked just over their heads at the distant horizon. “Well, you’re the only one I know here and …”
    Joe Lon came over and laid his big square hand on the back of the little man’s neck and offered him the whiskey bottle. “Why don’t you have a drink and git out of the way? You fucking up the workout.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t know …”
    “It’s all right,” said Willard. “Now you know.” He turned a short hard glance toward Joe Lon and then back to the little man. “Say, you ain’t a salesman are you? A traveling salesman? You look like you might be one to me.” 
    Joe Lon closed his hand on the neck he was holding. Closed in hard. “What?” he said. “You cain’t be a fucking salesman. It ain’t allowed.”
    They were both leaning in on him now, one on each side. The workout, the sweat, the whiskey, and the sight of Susan Gender’s red underwear had made them feel good. They were playing. But the little man didn’t know that. They looked as though they were set to go crazy mean.
    “What you saying?” the little man cried, sucking desperately at the spit spinning between his lips. He stared wildly at Duffy Deeter. “Tell’m who I am. Tell’m I’m Enrique Gomez.” He glanced up at Willard, who regarded him with a kind of objective, passionless malevolency. “My friends call me Poncy. Poncy!”
    Willard Miller looked at Joe Lon. “What kind of name is Eniquer Gomez?”
    Joe Lon said: “It