16.
As Grod and I walked across the parking lot of Good Buy, droplets of rain began to sprinkle down from above. Grod, whose bathrobe didn't look very waterproof to me, looked up at the sky with a vaguely annoyed face, and began to put up the top on the convertible. The wind was picking up as we slid inside the car, and I relished the silence that followed my door's heavy closing thunk. Grod started the engine.
"So God controls the weather, right?" I asked. Grod seemed lost in thought, and I wasn't sure at first if he had heard me.
"Huh," said Grod. "Oh, no. He used to control the weather, but that task has been delegated to old Chuck Hatfield. That's what's happened to most everything God used to do around here. Hell, I don't even know what God does nowadays." He changed his tone of voice as if to return to his orignal thoughts. "Hey, you like tequila?" I thought about it for a moment. I didn't really not like Tequila, and told Grod so. "Ok, then. I'm thinking about making a trip here pretty soon. I haven't had good teuquila in forever." He drove silently for a minute, then commented, "Maybe it will give you something to write about."
I realized that so far, I hadn't really had much to write. We had covered a lot of ground, but mostly Grod had spent all his time driving, or smoking pot with Jeff. I started to feel cautiously excited about a real adventure.
Over the next few days I picked up some clothes and a few toiletries and actually helped myself to Jeff's shower although it seemed to be overcome with mildew, apparently unused for quite some time.
On Friday we were to set out for a town Grod called "Lengüeta Del Diablo." It had been a while since high school Spanish, but I felt pretty certain that it meant "Tongue of the Devil." I asked Grod about the curious name.
"In that town one finds many a tequila, kid. There is one tequila, though, for which it's named. Grandma de Bordeaux, some crazy old French woman, moved here in the early eighteen hundreds and started making it. Nobody knows exactly where she came from or why she came here, but she made the best damn tequila on this blasted continent. And she still makes it," he said, lowering his voice and leaning in conspiratorially. "You see, she made a deal with the Devil: she sells his tequila, which steals the souls of the people who drink it, and he lets her remain alive as long as she wants." I couldn't respond for a minute, not sure whether or not he was lying. The line between believable and unbelievable was beginning to slide the more I hung out with Grod.
"It's a pretty good deal," he concluded.
"So we're going to be drinking this tequila?" I hazarded.
"Hell yeah."
It took me some time to decide to ask the next question. "So he gets our souls?" I asked.
Grod laughed for a moment and said, "Listen, that's just townspeople bullshit. 99 percent of stories those people come up with are bullshit." But then he leaned even closer and whispered very seriously, "But you can't take this tequila out of the town. If it leaves city limits it turns to water."
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"So God controls the weather, right?" I asked. Grod seemed lost in thought, and I wasn't sure at first if he had heard me.
"Huh," said Grod. "Oh, no. He used to control the weather, but that task has been delegated to old Chuck Hatfield. That's what's happened to most everything God used to do around here. Hell, I don't even know what God does nowadays." He changed his tone of voice as if to return to his orignal thoughts. "Hey, you like tequila?" I thought about it for a moment. I didn't really not like Tequila, and told Grod so. "Ok, then. I'm thinking about making a trip here pretty soon. I haven't had good teuquila in forever." He drove silently for a minute, then commented, "Maybe it will give you something to write about."
I realized that so far, I hadn't really had much to write. We had covered a lot of ground, but mostly Grod had spent all his time driving, or smoking pot with Jeff. I started to feel cautiously excited about a real adventure.
Over the next few days I picked up some clothes and a few toiletries and actually helped myself to Jeff's shower although it seemed to be overcome with mildew, apparently unused for quite some time.
On Friday we were to set out for a town Grod called "Lengüeta Del Diablo." It had been a while since high school Spanish, but I felt pretty certain that it meant "Tongue of the Devil." I asked Grod about the curious name.
"In that town one finds many a tequila, kid. There is one tequila, though, for which it's named. Grandma de Bordeaux, some crazy old French woman, moved here in the early eighteen hundreds and started making it. Nobody knows exactly where she came from or why she came here, but she made the best damn tequila on this blasted continent. And she still makes it," he said, lowering his voice and leaning in conspiratorially. "You see, she made a deal with the Devil: she sells his tequila, which steals the souls of the people who drink it, and he lets her remain alive as long as she wants." I couldn't respond for a minute, not sure whether or not he was lying. The line between believable and unbelievable was beginning to slide the more I hung out with Grod.
"It's a pretty good deal," he concluded.
"So we're going to be drinking this tequila?" I hazarded.
"Hell yeah."
It took me some time to decide to ask the next question. "So he gets our souls?" I asked.
Grod laughed for a moment and said, "Listen, that's just townspeople bullshit. 99 percent of stories those people come up with are bullshit." But then he leaned even closer and whispered very seriously, "But you can't take this tequila out of the town. If it leaves city limits it turns to water."
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© 2006 Ian Blake & Marshall Scott
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