TITO SOLIVAN took a pint bottle of whiskey out of the hip<br >pocket of his baggy brown pants， swigged it and then spoke<br >while his lips still glistened with drink.<br > "In Texas， most men become rich，" he said.<br > He took another drink from the bottle， which was pitorro，<br >a moonshine. Solivan was a man of local olive drab skin， but<br >with the blue eyes， snub nose and perpetual thirst of his<br >grandfather， Michael Sullivan， a United States army soldier<br >stationed in Ponce in 1916. Sullivan married a local black<br >Indian and his name was refined over the years to conform to<br >community standards: at death， he was listed as Colon Soli-<br >van.<br > "In Mississippi， you get jobs and money，" Sullivan s<br >grandson， Tito Solivan， now said. ~~<br > "Maybe I ll go to America，" Teenager said to him.<br > "In Seattle， Washington， it should be a sin for people<br >to live，" Solivan said. "The life is so easy it makes God<br >mad."<br > Solivan stood in front of his shack， which was built high off<br >the ground in an attempt to make dampness keep its distance.<br >Chickens kept appearing at the top of the high wooden stoop<br >and then turning to go back inside the shack. A couple of<br >hundred yards away， the orderly spacing of streetlights and<br >phone lines came to an end， with sneakers and tin cans hang-<br >ing from the wires. Solivan was the town lecturer on the<br >riches of America， and people came to him for advice even<br >though Solivan had been born i~ this shack and had spent<br >9<br ><br >