Free Drop City by T. C. Boyle Page B

“Heavy,” that's what he said finally. _Heavy.__
    They bent to their work, the silence broken only by the persistent slice of the shovels, the tumult of the birds running off the edge of the sky until the pedestrian murmur of Drop City began to filter back in: the goats bleating to be milked or fed, the single sharp ringing note of a dog surprised by its own hunger, the regular slap of the screen door at the back of the house--and underneath it all, like the soundtrack to a movie, the dull hum of rock and roll leaking out the kitchen windows. “Listen, I really appreciate your doing this,” Alfredo said, pausing to straighten up and arch his back, the fine grains of dirt clinging to the flesh in a dense fur of sweat. “Taking the initiative, I mean. I know you've only been here like two weeks or whatever, but this is a trip, it really is--it's what we need more of around here.”
    “Sure,” Marco said, “no problem,” and the shovel never stopped working. It felt good to be doing something, making something, putting his back to it till there was nothing left to clutter up his head. Drifting was fine. To a point. Lying up in a treehouse with a book, that was fine too. And dope. And women. And music. But right now, in this ditch, under this sun, it was the tug of the physical that mattered, only that.
    “You know, I was at Thunder Mountain before this--me and Reba, that was before we had the kids. Or no, Che was like one or maybe a year and a half, I don't know. But mainly what happened was everybody just wanted to ball and do dope, which is okay, don't get me wrong, but it got to the point where nobody wanted to tend the garden or make the food. The chicks, I mean. Because they're the key to the whole thing. If the chicks don't have any energy and don't want to, you know, wash the dishes, sweep up, cook the meals, then you're in trouble, big time. There's nothing worse than having all the dishes piled up and the pots and pans all crusted and dirty, and then everybody milling around like what are we going to do about dinner, man, and that's where it all breaks down, believe me.”
    Marco had no chance to respond, even if he'd wanted to, because when he looked up he saw Sky Dog sauntering across the lot with Lester and Franklin in tow. Or no, it wasn't Franklin--it was the other one, what was his name, Dewey, the war hero. They didn't say anything, didn't wave, didn't smile, just kept coming across the weed-strewn lot in a slow, sure amble, miniature explosions of dust riding up the heels of their boots. Alfredo looked up too, just as the three of them reached the far end of the ditch and stood there staring down like executioners. The phrase _Digging your own grave__ popped in and out of Marco's head. This wasn't going to be a happy occasion.
    “Hey, Alfredo,” Sky Dog said, “I wanted to talk to you.”
    Alfredo spread one palm flat at the top of the ditch and came up out of it then, wiping both hands on the bleached-out fabric of his jeans, trying for a grin. “Hey,” he said, as if he were happy to see him, “what's happening, man?” and he snaked out a hand for the soul shake that never came.
    And what was Sky Dog? Five-ten, five-eleven maybe, a hundred seventy pounds, tanned till his skin was a sheath of gold, a single blue vein painted down the biceps of each arm, his eyes lighter than his face. He wore a Fu Manchu mustache that trailed a good three inches below the line of his jawbone. Usually he was in jeans and an embroidered blue jeans jacket with the sleeves removed at the shoulders, the humble hippie farmer adorned in humble hippie chic, but today he was a dude, dressed up in a paisley shirt and a silver scarf fed through a little gold hoop at his throat and a pair of elephant bells that swallowed up his feet. “I want to tell you I'm pissed off,” he said, and his face went the color of liver before it hits the pan, “because if you think you can just vote me out of here or whatever, you're