She took a sip and set her glass aside and slid the salt and pepper shakers into the middle of the table. She held up the salt. “So this is you, because you’re white.” Then the pepper. “And along comes this Shepherd guy.” “He was white too.” “Was?” I shrugged. “Back then. Who knows what he is now.” She pursed her lips and considered the dilemma. “Well, we have just the one salt, so too bad.” She rocked the pepper back and forth toward the salt. “He comes along and says, ‘Hello, Woody, I’m Shepherd. Want to fight MMA?’” “You want me to tell it? Or do you just want to make up whatever sounds good to you?” Marcela knocked the saltshaker over. “Go ahead.” “Nice man voice by the way. That really sounded like him. Okay, first, I didn’t have the Woodshed nickname then—I was just Aaron.” “See, I like that name. You should keep it.” “I still have it,” I said. “Yes, but who knows it? Tell the story.” If she was half as tricky on the mat as she was at conversation, she could submit an octopus. I said, “Since we’re on the whole name thing, his real name wasn’t Shepherd.
