Austin wasn’t Gay Paree, or Hollywood, or even Dallas, but she could live cheap and easy, and if, on her one half-day off a week, she wanted to sit with a Lone Star and a 99 cent Hobo Plate at Hector’s Taco Flats and flirt with college boys, or get sweaty grooving to redneck rock at the ’Dillo with cowboys and hippies alike (different costumes, same joint passed between them), in Austin that wasn’t called nonsense. It was called Tuesday.
