Free A Feast of Snakes by Harry Crews

where she stood with her back half turned to him. But before he was halfway there she tossed her long yellow hair and in the gesture caught sight of him. She went into that high-kneed run, her arms out and smiling, that reminded him of the way she used to run toward him after a game, when he was sweating and bruised and full of victory. He walked a little faster, very self-conscious of the fact that many people there would know who both of them were and how it had been with them before he got down with Elf and the babies and she went on to the University of Georgia, where she was still distinguishing herself with cheerleading and the football team and other achievements.
    She threw her arms around his neck and squealed and everything was as it was, the familiar body pressing against him, except that now she seemed fuller, stronger, surer of herself. It was just something he sensed the moment he touched her, something richer and deeper and more complicated. Whatever it was did not make him feel good.
    “Joe Lon Mackey! Are you a sight? My, you’re just as handsome as ever. My strong handsome beau, and the best football player that ever put on a helmet!”
    She kissed his cheek, and he couldn’t help thinking that in the old days she would have said: The best football player that ever put on a jockstrap. But these by God weren’t the good old days and he hadn’t seen her in over a year, because her father, Dr. Sweet, had given her a trip to Paris the previous summer to study French. French! The very notion of somebody studying French threw Joe Lon into a rage.
    “You looking good, Berenice. Real good. I got you letter and …”
    He quit talking because he had gradually become aware of a boy about his own age who had strolled up and was now standing at Berenice’s shoulder. The boy leaned forward to look at Joe Lon. Joe Lon disliked him immediately, disliked the soft look of his face, the way his lower lip seemed to pout, and disliked the eyes that would have been beautiful had they belonged to a girl. But it wasn’t just the boy’s face or the slight, slope-chested way he stood. Joe Lon could have spat on him for the way he was dressed. He’d seen guys dressed like that before and he had never liked one of them: double-knit tangerine trousers, fuzzy bright-yellow sweater, white shoes, and a goddam matching white belt. His hair was neatly cut and looked as though he had slept with his head in a can of Crisco.
    Berenice saw him watching the boy and introduced them. “Joe Lon Mackey, this is Shep Martin, from the University of Georgia.”
    “Shep?” said Joe Lon. Shep was a fucking dog’s name, wasn’t it?
    “Actually, it’s Shepherd,” said the boy, in a voice that sounded like a radio announcer. “Many men in my family are named Shepherd, my father, an uncle, my grandfather— like that.”
    “No kidding?” said Joe Lon.
    “Shep is on the debating team up at Georgia,” said Berenice Sweet.
    “Oh,” said Joe Lon.
    He had never been introduced to anyone on a debating team before and he wasn’t sure what to say because he wasn’t real sure what it was. Probably some fag foreign game like soccer. Anybody that’d play soccer would suck a dick, that’s what Joe Lon thought.
    “I’ve heard a lot about you,” said Shep, “what a great athlete you were.”
    “I played a little football,” said Joe Lon shortly, looking off toward the dark fortress-like wall of trees that surrounded his little campground.
    “I told you he was modest,” said Berenice. “Didn’t I tell you he was modest?”
    “You sure did,” said Shep, “and I just want to shake your hand.” He thrust out his hand.
    Joe Lon reluctantly took it. “I ain’t been on a football field in two years,” he said.
    For some reason he couldn’t meet the boy’s eyes. Or even Berenice’s. It was all too embarrassing, and that infuriated him. He kept wondering why she had sent him that letter. Why had she sent it?
    “How’s Elf?” said