“I never felt any bigger than five foot three inches tall, 105 pounds. I guess it’s in my genes, because my dad’s small too. But he’s always been stronger than me. And whenever Dad drinks enough whiskey and beer, he acts bigger and meaner. He started drinking a lot more after Mom died in a traffic accident. A sheriff’s deputy blew a stop sign and hit her head-on, chasing some beaner who’d jumped behind the wheel of a stolen car because he didn’t want to get deported back to stinking Mexico. “Jus...t two types who’ll work for less money than beaners—dead folks, and live people with less than a shit’s worth of pride,” Dad always told me. “That’s what keeps salaries here in southwest Texas so low. Those cockroaches will work for next to nothing. And if they ever got exterminated off the face of the earth, folks in these parts would have more, including us.” But after Mom got killed, he wouldn’t even say “beaners.” He’d just spit on the floor anytime somebody mentioned either them or the cops.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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