I reread a few of Archer’s pieces that night. I cried a little because it hurt to be ending my career there before I was ever sent to Chile to eat the brain of a goat with my bare hands, but right then, maybe for the first time, I also realized I was never going to be sent to Chile to eat the brain of a goat with my bare hands. People could love my stories, they could go far and wife, I could do everything, but I could never be a man. But also, given the chance, I don’t think I would have taken the goat’s head and broken its jaw and done what needed to be done. Who could do that to even a dead goat? Maybe, in that way, the system worked.
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