He’d poured a little white mountain of table salt into his palm, and was brandishing it like it was a new discovery or a prize he’d won.
“Taste it. Go ahead, try it. S’nothing like it.”
I couldn’t help but wonder how long it’d been since he’d last washed that hand, and where it had been in the meantime. Little tracks of dirt had worked their way into the calloused cracks and under the too-long nails. A careful dab, and,
“Yeah. Good stuff. Salty.”
“No, no. Really taste it. It’s potassium salt, it’s different. I’m telling you, man.”
He was something like 1/20th Native American, but he played it up for all it was worth. He made dream catchers in his spare time, for God’s sake. He whittled little creatures out of the stunted trees in his backyard and used the splinters to pick his teeth. He was as passionate about Jesus as he was about alcohol, which in the end would probably buy him a ticket to meet the guy a little faster.