... Javier laughed. “It's working, whatever you’re doing. He walks around like the world's his oyster. Nothing can bring him down.”
“That's the plan,” I said, squeezing him on the shoulder. “More schnapps?”
“This one’s on me,” he said, pulling out his wallet.
“Then make it tequila, my hombre,” I said, and we both laughed.
As dawn closed in on us, fiver after fiver got chucked into the jukebox. The bartender cranked the volume up. Buck did the white boy bop, punk style. Raphael and his buzz-cut crew punk-pogo-ed, copboy style. Billie gorgeously serpentined her zaftig limbs, channeling 1970’s Soul Train. And me? I twirled and twirled and twirled. We laughed like howling wolves, tossing back beers and shots, more beers and shots, dancing til the sweat ran off us like rain. Watching everyone dance and holler, cops and hooch slingers alike, I had a boozy-beautiful flash of clarity. We weren’t that different from any other tribe, dancing and singing in grateful supplication for the survival and fruits of a day’s good hunt. We were prayer in motion, for more, for Yes, for sex to make manifest the sacred union of heaven and earth. Our hands in the air, hips in ecstatic grooves, Life was dancing evolution itself through us. And it was dang good...