“Sullivan,” Francisco said after a long minute, as if it were the first time he had pronounced that name and, indeed, it was the first time he had. “How’d you get to be called Sullivan? After some explorer?” Francisco started to help himself to one of Sullivan’s Camels but to his satisfaction triumphed over the temptation and drew back his hand.

“Nope,” Sullivan grinned. He wasn’t bashful about grinning, a thing he liked to do a lot, despite the fact that he had only a few teeth left and those that he showed were a definite yellow.

“Wasn’t there a musical composer, Gilbert y Sullivan? Or was that two guys? Did your mother like music, man?”

“Nope. She liked television,” Sullivan said, with a bigger grin. “We were the first family in the pueblo to get a T.V. And it was my grandma. She named me after the ‘Ed Sullivan Show.’ Ain’t that a hoot?”

He felt he had gotten Francisco’s attention by then, so he decided to get down to business, “You need to get yourself a woman, Frank.” Sullivan was not a man to mince words. The more he knew he was agitating Francisco el Penitente, Cross-Bearer, Fandango Flagellant, the more witch hopper Sullivan the Weedchopper became.

Francisco shook his head and resumed his work more diligently, peeling wood shavings with his knife as if he were skinning a pig. “I’m waiting for a sign,” he confessed without looking up.

“Hey, man, the only sign you’re gonna get is that bulto in your pants!” Sullivan laughed.

“Don’t be blasphemous!” Francisco’s ears were red. The veins on his neck bulged and Sullivan wondered if this was about to be one of those days when the best you could say about it was that at least you got in one good punch.

“Hey, man! You ain’t no saint and I ain’t your temastiano bell-ringer! So cut the crap! I knew you back when you were in high school, man. You used to have every girl around here crazy about you! What happened to you came from ’Nam and from smoking too much weed, that’s all! So cut the shit! I was just trying to give you some manly advice this morning, that’s all.” Sullivan almost stopped grinning—about as mad as Sullivan ever got—as he stood, kicking up a little dust while walking back to Francisco’s uncle.

Francisco, in the meantime, responded to Sullivan’s cockiness by singing an alabada. He had the best voice of all the brothers in the morada, reverberant but slightly flat, which nevertheless lent itself to the lament of the alabada and reached Sullivan’s ears as he approached Pedro.

Él que nace desgraciado

desde la cuna comienza

desde la cuna comienza

a vivir martirizado.