Some time passes, and the windows get all snowed up. Then there's a loud knock on the driver's window. Juan rolls down his window and it's a cop, peering in with his flashlight shining. He and Juan exchange words that none of the rest of us heard, and the cop steps back and Juan rolls up the window. Then Juan curls up like he's going back to sleep, but the Indian starts pounding him on the back demanding to know what the cop said. "Oh he just asked what we're doing here," Juan said. "So I tol him: We live here. Who are you? The MAILman?"
The snowing had stopped hours before, the next morning when we got to Grants Pass, and the Chicanos told the Indian and me to get out. Which we did, in good spirits. And the last thing we saw of the Pontiac with the crazy Mexicans, it was making a U-turn and heading back to San Jose.
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