TITO SOLIVAN took a pint bottle of whiskey out of the hip
pocket of his baggy brown pants， swigged it and then spoke
while his lips still glistened with drink.
\"In Texas， most men become rich，\" he said.
He took another drink from the bottle， which was pitorro，
a moonshine. Solivan was a man of local olive drab skin， but
with the blue eyes， snub nose and perpetual thirst of his
grandfather， Michael Sullivan， a United States army soldier
stationed in Ponce in 1916. Sullivan married a local black
Indian and his name was refined over the years to conform to
community standards: at death， he was listed as Colon Soli-
van.
\"In Mississippi， you get jobs and money，\" Sullivan s
grandson， Tito Solivan， now said. ~~
\"Maybe I ll go to America，\" Teenager said to him.
\"In Seattle， Washington， it should be a sin for people
to live，\" Solivan said. \"The life is so easy it makes God
mad.\"
Solivan stood in front of his shack， which was built high off
the ground in an attempt to make dampness keep its distance.
Chickens kept appearing at the top of the high wooden stoop
and then turning to go back inside the shack. A couple of
hundred yards away， the orderly spacing of streetlights and
phone lines came to an end， with sneakers and tin cans hang-
ing from the wires. Solivan was the town lecturer on the
riches of America， and people came to him for advice even
though Solivan had been born i~ this shack and had spent
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