In my youth, I lived for a time in a place called Langtry. Back when I worked the railroad.
On my days off I’d go down to the river that snaked past the town. You could throw a rock clear across it to Mexico. On the American side, you could see the name José scratched out on one of the boulders lining the bank.
I’d take down a cane and line and fished. I’d boil a handful of coffee grounds in a tin can and fill my mouth with the dirty stuff. Just me on my own down there. Taking in the view.
In summer when the river bed dried up you’d sometimes see children’s shoes half buried in the mud.
One time I found a body down in the brush. Swollen and clouded in fat black flies.
The old timers spent hours debating the jurisdiction. They didn’t seem to be in any kind of rush for a dead Mexican from across the river. They stood around, mouths full of dip, spitting their juice in the direction of the body. Avoiding their boots.
I stayed up late that night. Petting the stray cats that lived beneath my wooden shack.
In the cold air I couldn’t shake the smell of the body from my nostrils.