I wake up and notice the lights are out. Everyone else seems to be sleeping. My back is stiff from sleeping sitting up. I move my head and my neck complains. There is a funny taste in my mouth and feel my clothes to see if they’re wet. I check my hair, face, butt—nothing. I must have just slept with my mouth open again. I’m learning that sitting next to the toilet is one thing, sleeping next to it is a completely different experience. This must be one of those things you learn in jail that makes you street-wise. I rub the back of my neck and reflect on how much wiser I feel at this moment.

The lights turn on and the sound of several people walking down the hallway wakes up a few of the others.  As the door to my cell is opened and the new guys come in, even the heavier sleepers wake up to the shuffling and half-hearted greetings of tired and defeated souls.

There’s a juice box by my feet and it doesn’t look opened. I take the straw out of the plastic wrapper, punch it through the box and drink it all in a few seconds. I must have been really thirsty. It’s hard to say what I feel, really. Fear, an unfamiliar environment, and a pretty dismal future; those kinds of things tend to push out the lesser senses, like hunger, thirst, even bowel movements. I haven’t had to go to the bathroom the entire time I’ve been in a jail, and I haven’t seen anybody else go either. I’ll bet guards were constantly ferrying prisoners to the bathroom until they installed one in the cell. Then nobody has had to go ever since.

Trying to see a bright side, I guess it’s encouraging to see our invaders treated like this. Maybe they’ll think twice about sneaking into America again. On the not-so-bright-side, my own country thinks I’m one of these . . . guys.  This is so depressing. I feel that familiar cold satin glove grip my heart, and my attitude drops way below sea level. I really feel like crying right now, but I can’t. I gotta keep it together, or these guys will eat me alive.

Some people just stand around, not having room for much of anything else. I find myself unusually fortunate to have a nice comfy cement wall beside the toilet, where nobody else wants to be. Location, location, location! I feel like the Donald Trump of jailhouse real estate. Thinking about his hair, I pat my head to make sure I don’t have toilet hair.

A guard comes to the door and calls three names. Three guys go over to him, and they disappear around the corner. A little while later the same guard returns and calls three more names. They are escorted out of the cell and around the corner. My old familiar dark blanket swallows me whole, as I wait for the inevitable. I wonder where we go from here. Some place worse? Court?

“Jose Martinez, Julio Rodriguez, Pancho Villa.” The room is filled with a mixture of laughter and louder rumblings. All eyes are on us and I bet everyone in this cell is trying to figure out which one of us is Pancho Villa.

I drag myself up slowly, and try to look as non Pancho Villa as possible but my legs are asleep and my back and neck are stiff. I don’t move very . . . human-like. I shuffle and fall over to the door with about as much composure and grace as a paraplegic mummy.

Me and two other guys, are led into a small room, and the door closes behind us. The front door opens, and we are led out into a hallway and told to stand behind a yellow line painted on the floor. I lean against the wall until my legs wake back up. The other two guys look at me like I’m some kind of circus freak. It doesn’t bother me, I’m used to it by now.

All my life people have reacted strangely to my name. Kids made fun of me in elementary school and in junior high they asked me Mexican trivia questions, like I was supposed to know all things Mexican. Frickin’ idiots never stopped to look at themselves; in school and learning all things American.

My life didn’t really start to get interesting until high school. Last year, the popular kids began teasing me by giving themselves famous names like, “Elvis,” and, “George W. Bush,” and my personal favorite, “Yogi Bear.” Not the cartoon—the baseball guy. Yes, these were mental giants that were making fun of me. That dweeb didn’t even know Yogi Berra was a baseball player; he thought he was an old-time stand-up comedian like Abbott and Costello. The only reason he had even heard of Yogi Berra, was that somewhere he had heard one of his famous one-liners, and he liked to work it into almost every conversation you had with him, “where’s room 403? Just go down that way, and when you get to a fork in the hallway, take it.”  Who knows what ocean of humiliation I’ll be dunked in again this year.

The florescent lights in the ceiling are the only light we get in this windowless building, and they’re giving me a headache. At least I think it’s the lights.

One by one, we are taken out of here. When it’s my turn, I go inside and walk over to a window where a guard asks me my name, and then looks at me cross-eyed when I tell him. The only way I’m gonna get out of here, is if someone takes the time to actually look it up!

Will they ever realize that I’m an American, or will they continue acting like the dullards back in high school? Either way, I think I’m gonna need a lawyer. Hey, that’s it! A lawyer could help me get back home. Courts listen to them.

“Okay, Francisco . . .”  He says some stuff in Spanish, and I don’t have the patience for this right now.

“English. I speak English. I’m an American.”

“Yeah, right. You are registered in the system as, Francisco Villa, previously deported to Mexico from Arizona just a few days ago. If you thought that was a good name to use as an alias, I hope you think it’s funny ten years from now, because you’re stuck with that name now.”

Does he mean I wasn’t stuck with that name before?

“Seems now you smuggle drugs for a living?”

“No, these guys with machine-guns made us do it.”

“Who are these guys? Where did you meet them?”

“I don’t know who they were; I just met them in Tijuana an hour before they made us carry those backpacks into the tunnel. Hey, can I speak to a lawyer?”

“No need, we’re letting you go.” The guard hands me a ripped plastic bag. It looks like the same one I saw the other guard put all my stuff into, but my name must have fallen off. I look inside. There’s a bunch of white clothes inside. I guess this is going to be my new jail clothes. There’s a plastic bag with my phone numbers, and my St. Christopher’s medallion . . . I look at the guard.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t understand. What’s this?”

“That’s your stuff. We’re sending you back to Mexico. You’re no use to us.”

“My stuff?”

“Yeah, tus cosas.”

“But these are not my clothes.” Should I be complaining? I’m not going to prison.

“Are you sure?”

I look at the inventory stapled to the bag. “Do these look like Levi’s? And where are my boots?”

“If you’d like to file a complaint, you can see the officer at the front desk the next time you pass through.” He puts on a big smile.

That’s it? No boots and somebody else’s clothes? What the hell is going on? How hard is it to hang on to a plastic bag of clothes for a few hours?  “So I can go?”

“I can arrange an extended stay for you, if you’d rather.”

Shit. What else can I do? I pull out the clothes. Somebody is playing a practical joke on me. The pants and shirt seem to be made out of the same white cotton, and there’s a wide black cloth belt. I guess no one wanted my underwear, those are still here. I shoulda burned my shirt and pants too; I’d probably still have them. I’m gonna be barefoot without these Flip flops. This just keeps getting better. I change clothes quickly and the guard leaves.

When I finish getting dressed, I look at what I’m wearing. I feel like I’m going trick or treating. The guard returns, “Hey Pancho!” He tosses me a large, sombrero. I catch it before it hits me. He’s smirking at me, obviously getting me back for my smart-ass name. My father is lucky he’s dead, because if he weren’t—I’d kill him.

I walk out the door into a hallway and stand, barefoot, on the green line like everyone else. After a few more of us are gathered together, we are led out into a yard surrounded on three sides by a high chain-link fence with curly barbed wire all around the top. Daylight is just beginning to gain a foothold on wherever the heck I am.

All the other guys stay away from me. They must be laughing at the gringo with the Mexican clothes. Someone here has got to be wearing my father’s clothes. They are all I have left of my dad and I pity the guy who is wearing them.

When enough of us assemble, or when they run out of deportees to put in this holding pen, we are led into that small truck again and we go for another ride, this time without handcuffs.

After a while, the truck finally stops and we are let out at a border crossing guarded by several border patrol agents with shotguns. They march us all through a gate, and I’m back in Mexico. Every little rock in the ground stabs my feet.

My mom is home now, but I don’t have any money for a phone call. I find myself back in front of the only place I know someone: El Burrito Crazy. It’s well past morning now. If I don’t get home soon, my job is toast.

Cheech looks like he’s actually surprised to see me. He’s staring at me like I’m a naked monkey and I just pooped on his floor. I don’t think he really knows what to make of the fact that I’m back. That makes two of us, really.

There is an elderly couple eating at a table in the middle of the dining room, and they’re staring at me too. Then they look over my right shoulder. I look at Cheech and he’s looking too, so I turn around and immediately see what they’re all staring at. I’m dressed exactly like the guy on the wall mural, only I’m missing the holster with burritos for guns. I hate my life.

“So, It’s not hard enough to cross the border with your famous Mexican name, you gotta dress like that too?”

How do I even try to explain this?

“I know I told you that the other clothes could make it hard for you to cross the border, but you thought this made you look less Mexican?”

I can’t even respond. My mouth, my brain, my spirit, all feel used up.

“AAAAAW I get it . . .” He looks around wildly. “There’s a camera somewhere right? Of course, God! It’s so obvious.“ He searches across the street and looks hard at the parked cars. “I mean yeah, I knew it, I mean, Nobody, not even a gringo could be that big of a . . .” He’s not finding any cameras, and nobody is jumping out of their hiding place to confess they’re caught. He looks at me, and sees I’m not smiling.

“A moron? Go ahead—say it.” The confusion never leaves his face. I tug at my shirt. “These aren’t mine!”

”Okay, I get it. But you have to admit, you’re like some kind of a Mexican boomerang or something. I never seen someone have such a hard time getting across the border before.” I’m still not smiling. “Why are you dressed like that? Don’t you want to go home?”

“More than anything, but your friend, the one who would get me across the border for free—“

“Paco made you dress like that?”

“No, he made me carry drugs across the border.” Cheech motions for me to keep it down and nods his head towards the elderly couple. “It was the border guards that made me dress like this.”

“Ay-yay-yay! Their punishments are getting really harsh.”

“They did it because of my name.”

“They punished you because your name is Fran . . . cis . . . co?”

I turn around, not wanting to look at him any more. I see my reflection in the front door. I look like a Mexican ghost-of-Christmas-past. Through the door I see a guy walking on the other side of the street, and he looks familiar. I focus to get a better look. “That’s him!”

I dash out the door, and run across the street, not caring about traffic, and tackle the guy on the sidewalk. I sit up and begin pulling my boots off his feet.

Cheech comes running after me, albeit a bit slower and more concerned about not being hit by cars from either direction. He tries to pull me off the guy but I refuse to loosen the grip on my boot. The guy who’s wearing them actually helps and the boot comes off his foot. I show it to Cheech. “These are my boots, remember?” I give it to him to hold, while I jump up and tackle the guy again before he can get away. Then I begin taking the other boot off of him. “These are my boots, asshole.” I look into his face and feast off his fear—his guilt. He rattles something off in Spanish.

“Pancho, relax. He didn’t know these were yours, man. They were in his bag at the jail so he put them on.”

I stop pulling so hard, and the boot slips off. I hold it in my hand and look at the terrified little Mexican guy. He looks like he’s about fifty years old. He’s probably someone’s grandpa. Now I feel like the guilty one.

“I think I got some clothes at the restaurant you can have. Relax Pancho, you’re starting to freak me out.”

I sit down and the thief stands up, ready to run. I begin to put the boots on, without socks. A hand appears with two white socks, browned to perfection. Now I feel awful. A deep sadness hugs my body. “Sorry. Esta Boot-as es me padres.” For some reason, Cheech feels the need to translate my Spanish.

Cheech offers to buy “Jose” something to drink, and Jose looks at me to see if it is okay with the crazy gringo in the Mexican ice cream man suit.

Cheech pours us all a lemonade, and we sit there, drinking and not saying anything. I feel the cool lemonade slide down my throat and coat my stomach. Slowly, my depression begins to loosen its grip on me. I never really thought about it before, but it’s pretty difficult to be depressed when you’re drinking ice-cold lemonade on a bright sunny day.

They start talking about something, but all I hear is the conversation going off inside my head about getting home, my job, how do I get ahold of my mom . . .  Cheech interrupts my trance. “You gonna be in a parade or what?”

Somehow, he can make this all seem comical. “We got caught.”

“I’ll bet. One look at you—“

“No, you don’t understand.” Jose, jumps in and explains to Cheech what happened. Apparently, he too, had been forced to carry the drugs, and this was so common that the police just dropped us back at the border. They probably can’t prosecute all the unwilling drug mules they catch, and if they did, what would the charges be? We were forced to do it; guns literally to our heads. We weren’t bad people, we don’t have criminal records, and we wouldn’t have done it otherwise. We weren’t even getting paid for it. We were victims too. Victims that just happened to be carrying illegal drugs. Guilty and not guilty, all at the same time.

Life sure gets complicated once you become a Mexican. It seems the world is made up of lots of shades of grey that you never knew existed before. Black and white, hot and cold, legal and illegal. Those are just extremes. I think I’ll stay in school a bit longer and get a degree. Maybe by the time I graduate college, I’ll be ready for all the grey areas, exceptions, and technicalities life is going to be throwing at me.

We finish our lemonades while Cheech shoots off a couple more jokes at my expense, but they’re pretty funny so we all laugh and generally perk back up.

Jose says he has a cousin who is a coyote. He was on his way to his house when he got kidnapped by that drug gang. His cousin was going to take him over the border at a place in the fence where it’s safe to cross. Hey, that was why the driver was in such a hurry to get back to the van. The other people inside might try to escape if he’s gone too long. “Yo no tango denero,” I tell him.

“He says he will talk to him for you.” Cheech translates.  “He says his cousin is a good guy.” I look at Cheech. I might as well go with Jose, I don’t know what else to do.

Cheech goes into the back of the restaurant and returns with a pair of jeans, a blue and white striped long-sleeved shirt and an old pair of tennis shoes. “I collect clothes for the needy who come by. You’re not the only person to come to El Burrito Crazy looking for help. You’re just the only gringo this week.” He smiles. “When people can’t get through the border, they are usually broke, hungry, and need just about everything. I prefer to give clothes I collect from friends and neighbors. I can’t afford to give food and money to everyone who shows up at my door. I’d be out of business in no time.”

Cheech hands me the clothes and gives the shoes to Jose, who is very thankful. Cheech is a great guy. The look on his face doesn’t even say, hey look at me, I’m a nice guy. It’s more like, here, sorry, this is all I can do.

“Take some water,” he says, handing me a couple of bottled waters that he sells.  “You’ll need it.”

“Thanks, Cheech.”

“No problem-o Pancho. Hey you think I can put up a sign that says Pancho Villa ate here?”

“Shut up.” I head toward the bathroom to change. I can’t wait to get out of these clown clothes.

 

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When I return, I try to walk normally, but the shirt and pants are way too tight. I feel like the Incredible Hulk just before he shreds his clothes. I fold the white clothes and black sash, and put them next to the sombrero on the table.

“I don’t think I ever met anyone needy enough to want those,” Cheech says, looking at the outfit I just set down.

The clothes I have on are much more normal looking, but they’re practically cutting off circulation to my legs and arms. I don’t think I’m going to be able to hop over a fence, let alone ride in a van, or walk very far in these things. I slide a leg over and try to sit down on a chair, but I don’t seem to be able to bend enough to reach it. I feel like a very pregnant woman.

Finally, I get sideways over the chair and then let myself fall onto it, holding the backrest with my left arm to keep from falling all the way backward. Shirt buttons and pant snaps go popping all around. If I were green and really pissed off, this picture would be complete.

“You know, Pancho, I hate to say this but I don’t think those fit you very good.”

“Do you have anything else?” He just shakes his head. I go back to the bathroom to put on the white cotton clothes and use the black sash to keep the pants from falling off my hips.

When I return, I give Cheech back his normal clothes. I know that he’s done an awful lot for me, and I feel like a complete heel, but, “can I borrow some money to make a phone call? They kept my money in jail and I’m supposed to be at work today. I need to tell them I might not make it.”

Cheech gives me a, you gotta be kidding look, but he gets me some change anyway.  I go to the pay phone and call work. I’m beginning to get used to dialing a “1” before the phone number.

“Taco Bell, this is Robb. How may I help you today?”  Yep, that was a corporate kiss-ass answering the phone if I ever heard one.

“Hi Robb, it’s me Pancho—I mean Frank.”

“Frank, is that you? What’s happening? You’re supposed to have been here yesterday. This is not looking good for your career I gotta tell ya.”

“I know Robb, but this is way beyond my control. I’m stuck in Mexico. Someone stole my wallet and ID and the border agents won’t let me cross without them, so I’m having a really hard time trying to get back.”

“Border problems, Francisco Villa, really?” The phone drips with sarcasm. “You told me you were a citizen.”

“I am! You have my ID on file. It’s just—“

“Frank-Francisco-whatever, are you going to be making your shift tonight? Because if you aren’t, I’m going to have to take drastic measures to regain control of my schedule.”

“I know, I’m trying to get back—“

“Darren and I can’t keep working without days off.”

“I understand, believe me—“

The operator cuts in, “Por favor, Deposito . . .”

“See you tonight, Frank.” The phone goes dead.

I’m probably no longer in the running for the Assistant Manager position. The only thing I can do now is get home soon, so I can explain this whole mess and try to turn it around.

Cheech sees my face as I come back into the restaurant. “I know it can be hard to get across the border,” he says, “but it ain’t even this hard for Mexicans.” I force a smile to let him know I appreciate all he has done for me. Jose looks anxious to leave.

I’m following Jose, who is leading me to God-knows-where. He isn’t talking, and that’s more than fine with me. I don’t speak Spanish and he doesn’t speak English. It’s a mutual forfeit. Nobody wins, nobody loses; we just both agree not to play. I hope whatever we’re going to do, works. I need to get home today.

Jose sticks his thumb out to the passing traffic. Is somebody gonna pick us up on the freeway? Wonderful.

More than a few odd looks from cars as they pass by have me feeling self-conscious about my clothes. Holding my sombrero doesn’t help me feel any better, and I can feel my face getting sunburned when I don’t wear it. I hate my life.

Miraculously, an old blue Chevy pickup pulls over. That didn’t take long at all. I run to keep up with Jose. He gets there first and is talking very politely through the passenger side window. Looks like a man and a woman inside. Jose is smiling. He comes to the back of the truck, steps on the bumper and over the tailgate. I follow his lead. The man looks to make sure we are okay, and then he floors it to get back onto the freeway. The woman looks me over. I smile and try to look friendly.

The sun beats down on us pretty good now, and I wonder how long we’ll be traveling east. Jose hasn’t touched his water, so I don’t either. Well, just a taste won’t hurt. He looks at me like he just caught me with my hand in the cookie jar. Okay, I was just taking a sip, see? I’m putting the cap back on. I wonder why nobody has figured out this eye talking stuff as a real language. Everyone speaks it, and it works in every language.

The freeway here skirts the border between Mexico and The United States. There are hundreds of white wooden crosses attached to the fence. There were some just like these on the fence near the beach. Some of the crosses have names, and years, and some are decorated with flowers. There are a lot of crosses. I look down the freeway where we came from, and there are crosses as far I can see. That’s a lot of people.

There are quite a few towers with cameras on them every half mile or so. Nice to see we’re finally doing something about our border in California.

Local artists have spray-painted a few murals on the border fence, and then the crosses continue. A giant odometer-looking thing painted on the fence looks like it’s counting how many people get killed trying to cross the border. Could this get any more morbid? Wait, it just did. There are dozens of coffins with flowers and names on them, standing up against the border fence. Gruesome. This is someone’s idea of art? Or maybe it’s a political statement. Maybe it’s an enterprising funeral home. No, some don’t have names, just numbers of people who died, and the year. Every year the number gets bigger. Some people never learn.

The freeway leaves the fence and we turn off and go through a town. There are hundreds of shops in aging buildings of many different colors, punctuated by trumpets, accordions and Spanish lyrics. Only in Mexico could you paint your business purple. The only green around here is painted on some of the buildings. We finally do see some plant life in the town, and then we’re off into the wilderness again.

The road bends back toward the wall, and then snakes around next to it. The border fence is high on a hill, then falls back down, almost level with the freeway.

Jose looks like he sees something. He knocks on the back window of the truck and it pulls over. What the heck? This is a crummy place to stop. There’s nothing out here.

We jump out of the back of the pickup and wave goodbye, then run across the street and walk back in the direction we just came from. I wonder how far we overshot our mark. It’s very hot out here.

Jose stops walking and just stands there. Nothing. Why are we standing around? Yeah, way to look nonchalant, Jose. Just a couple of guys innocently hanging out beside a freeway in the middle of nowhere. I’m sure lots of people do this every day, especially nervous Mexicans with Americans who dress up like they’re auditioning for a western. No need to act suspicious or any . . .

A van pulls over and Jose smiles at me and motions toward the van. As soon as it stops, the doors open and a bunch of men, women, and a couple of kids come running towards us. Where the hell are they running to? Is there a gate I’m not seeing?

A couple of guys carry a ladder out of the van and run after the others. I take it we’re all going to use the ladder to get over the fence. But why exactly here?

The guys walk quickly down a well-trafficked dirt path to a dry gravelly creek bed, which we follow to the border fence and two guys set the ladder up against it, while the other people stare at me. Jose has been running next to someone, trying to tell him all the way over here that I’m okay, or something. The leader, van driver, ladder owner, or whatever he is, is not liking this one bit.

“¡Apúrate!” one of the guys says as he holds the ladder and people start up and over the fence. I can’t see how they get down the other side. Maybe there’s a ladder on that side already, that’s why out of all the miles of fence, this is the place to go over. Bags go flying over and more people scamper up the ladder and disappear over the fence.

Jose’s primo doesn’t like the idea of me, a white guy dressed for Halloween—in August, needing a coyote to sneak him into the US.  I hear, “pinche loco,” and I know what that means, followed by some other things I don’t quite understand. I notice he’s not really paying any attention to me, he’s just yelling at Jose.

I turn and follow the last person up the ladder like that’s what I’m supposed to do. I quickly climb to the top. Shit! No ladder on the other side.

I hear some loud yelling. I’ve been seen! I drop my water bottle over the fence, then hike both legs over so I’m sitting on top of it. I grab the top of the fence with both hands, then hang and drop to the other side. Unfortunately I didn’t stop swinging before letting go with my hands, and I land on my butt. I definitely heard a rip. The rocks on the riverbed are hard, and it really jarred my spine.

That seemed to settle the argument between Jose and his cousin because they are coming over the fence right behind me. After they both land on this side of the fence, I hear the ladder clank and scrape it’s way down. The van driver must be taking it with him.

Jose is trying to introduce me to his primo, Fernando, but he obviously wants nothing to do with me. He comes over and gives me a dirty look. I adjust my sombrero and he looks like he’s going—Damn! I fall to the ground. He hit me in the face with a gun. My whole face hurts. Holy Shit! He’s pointing the gun at me now. He’s going to shoot me. I can’t believe it!

He’s yelling something. I wish I knew what he was saying; this could be important. The other leader guy yells at him. He seems to think about—Ooof ! He kicked me in the ribs. At least he’s putting the gun back in his belt. If he’s warning me not to mess with him, I get it.

He starts heading down up the creek through some sagebrush-infested hills.  Everyone scatters when guns come out. I guess if you don’t pay, you can’t play.

My side is killing me. The fence is over ten feet tall and there’s no place for me to grab or hang onto it. Getting back over is not an option, but then following that coyote isn’t an option either. What the hell am I going to do?

Getting up is hard. My side and my face hurt. I feel my crotch and find the source of the ripping sound when I fell off that fence. Not too big of a hole. Probably not noticeable. Feels like my ribs may be broken, though. I’m having trouble breathing.

I pick my water up off the dirt and look around for options. This creek bed flows between two tall hills. I guess the only thing I can do is follow this creek and let them stay ahead of me. I sure don’t want to have another conversation with the Jose’s cousin again. I wonder what his problem is. Maybe he’s not comfortable with me being white. I heard “Imigra” a few times from those other people. Maybe they think I’m a spy. Yeah, that makes perfect sense:  A white guy dressed like a Mexican peasant from the nineteenth century—It’s the perfect cover.

The more I think about it, I think I heard “Incarce” which probably means incarcerated, and “anyos,” which I know means years. I’m probably the first white guy he’s ever tried to smuggle across the border and he probably isn’t sure what the penalty would be if he gets caught. Willie said coyotes get a lot harsher sentence than the rest of them, but how could someone possibly get in trouble for smuggling an American across the border? It’s the other guys you’re smuggling that will get you in trouble. I guess you don’t have to be a genius to be a coyote. You just need a gun, and a bad temper.

So now I’m in the middle of nowhere and all alone. The sun is almost overhead and it’s probably a hundred degrees out. I can’t really tell if I’m better off now or when I was in jail. I think they have a good enough lead for me to start following. They were following this creek bed, and I should probably try to keep them in sight, so I don’t catch up with them—that could be fatal. Out here in the hills, there would be nothing to stop him from killing me.

There they are. They’ve taken a trail out of the creek that slowly leads up a hill. I see several other trails going here and there across the hills. I need to keep them in sight or I could get lost and there would be no one to help me. I wonder how far we are from a town.

This so sucks. I can’t believe I’m having to do this. I’m a fricking American citizen for Christ’s sake. Why should I be sneaking around the hills trying to get back home? I should be shouting and making myself seen or heard from far away so someone will help me.

Rollling hills with scrub brush and short, enemic trees cover the landscape. The sun is baking everything in sight. I don’t see a bird in the sky either. Oh, great! There’s a fork in the road. I know I’m going to regret this, but I think I’m going to take it.

 

I haven’t seen the others for quite a while now. I’ve seen a few side trails, some going up, some going down, but this way looks the most popular.

Okay, the trail now forms a “T”. Up or down? Up I guess. Wouldn’t it suck to go back down only to find out I went the wrong way and have to come all the way back up again? Well, if I take the high road, I will at least be able to get a good look at what’s ahead of me. Maybe I’ll see a town or something.

I hope this is the only hill I have to climb; this is exhausting. I don’t think I’ll be able to do another one. The heat up here is getting unbearable. I keep the sombrero on and use it’s shade as much as possible.

When the trail gets really steep I take small steps and when it levels out I take regular steps. This way I can keep going and it will seem like I’m just walking. Keeping my eyes on the ground in front of me seems to help too. Every now and again I stop and look around, especially when another trail leads away from the one I’m on. Then I try to guess which one is more popular.

Radio towers stretch upward from a plateau up ahead. As I get closer, I see they are surrounded by some fencing and barbed wire. I try to walk as quietly as possible in case Mr. Gun is taking a break. This would be a good place to do it.

Something to the right of me catches my eye. Some dirt moved a bit. Holy shit! A snake. And it’s looking right at me. And it’s coming my way. Those coffins by the side of the freeway suddenly come to mind. I suddenly have to pee. What do I do? Run, Freeze? What?

I slowly begin to move away and the snake coils rapidly. Shit!  I jump and start flying down the path, Oh shit! I freeze. I could be running right into another one. Maybe that’s their plan. One snake scares the prey right into the other one that bites them. Snake teams! What’s this world coming too? My heart is beating a mile a minute, and I’m breathing like I just ran a mile.

The longer I go without seeing anyone, the scarier it gets. It’s so hot, yet I get cold flashes whenever I think about being alone and lost. I gotta keep a lookout for snakes too. These boots will protect my feet and ankles. Another plus on the boots side, but with my luck a snake will nail me below the knee and right above the boot. Yeah, maybe they know about boots. Maybe they have snake schools. Yeah, just my luck I’ll get nailed by a snake who’s a grad-student, doing research for his masters on ankle biting.

The more alone I am in these hills, the worse off I feel. It’s times like this I wish I were a boy scout, but then, when did I ever think there would’ve been a time like this? That’s probably why their motto is always be prepared, or something like that.

But how can anyone really be ready for anything? Should I buy a boat in case California falls into the ocean? Should I buy guns and ammo in case a natural catastrophe makes us all revert to hunters and gatherers? Should I learn to speak Chinese, Japanese, German, Farsi and any other language just in case they take over the world? It’s just plain impossible to be prepared for everything. I guess that’s natures way of ensuring everyone gets screwed from time to time.

All of my water is gone. I don’t know how long I’ve been walking through these hot and rocky hills. I’m beginning to feel panic deep inside my chest. There is no civilization anywhere. No planes have gone overhead. No proof man even exists on this planet. I feel like I could be the last person on earth—the only person. No map, no guide. This trail is taking me eastward, I think. The sun is right above me, so I’m not really sure.

The sweat on my shirt dries almost as fast as I make it. I’m losing water fast. I try to breathe through my nose to save what little moisture I have in my mouth.

Rattle snakes don’t seem so scary when you’re dying of thirst. I go over to a well used side trail and begin to follow it. I wonder who made it? Animals? Humans? It leads down a valley, then slants upwards over a hill. Lots of hills around here. Where am I?

 

 

 

The sun is now a bit lower in the sky now, so I keep the sun on my left side to keep my northward progress. Or is it the right side? No left. Yeah, left. I gotta remember that. I’m really glad I have this dorky hat, or I’d be toast by now, on top of the redness I developed on the water yesterday. These hats look like hell, but they are great for keeping the sun off of you. Those stupid border guards actually did me a favor. I should send them a thank-you note when I get home.

I’m getting very tired. I need to find some place to rest and get out of the sun for a bit. Maybe I should travel at night. But then how do I navigate at night? I have no idea what stars to walk toward, and they move across the horizon too, just like the sun and moon. I have to travel in the daytime or I’ll get even more lost.

There is a large bunch of trees up ahead and it looks like there may be just enough shade for a nice place to rest.

As I get closer, I see litter scattered about. There are jeans, bags, empty bottles of water.  When I get under the trees I see four large burlap and canvas bags, partially buried in the sand.  They remind me of the drug backpacks I was forced to carry through the tunnel. One of the bags is open.  I look inside and see two huge plastic bottles of water, but when I pick them up, they’re empty.  I open another burlap bag and two of the plastic water jugs are empty. I check inside a canvas bag and it has two one gallon water jugs that are about a third full. Yes! I pull one out and open it up and smell it. Nothing. Great!

I take a few sips and a cool waterfall slides down my throat. It had been buried beneath cool dirt in the shade. I take a breath, remove my hat, and splash some water on my head. Soothing wetness washes over me. Somebody put some water out here, or left some behind. Why would anyone leave water behind in a desert? Wouldn’t they want to take it with them? I drink some more, grateful for someone’s generosity.

This is the perfect place to rest. Two trees on one side of the trail, and one tree on the other side. Someone could sit here all day and be shaded.  On top of this hill I can see for miles around. The horizon is a bunch of brown hills and valleys with patches of dark green scrub and scattered low-lying trees.

The trail winds up and down some hills and gullies and definitely travels northward for the most part, but for as far as I can see, there is still no civilization. The blue sky is the most barren part of this landscape. Not a bird or cloud in sight.

Snakes! Just when I get comfortable, they pop into my mind. I look around cautiously. I don’t see any, so I relax a bit. I want to take a nap, but I’m afraid I’ll wake up at night and be lost, or worse: I could wake up and find myself spooning with a rattlesnake. I pick up one of the gallon bottles of water and begin to walk again.

Am I on the main trail or a side trail? Is this going to town or is this how the local animals get around the hills, not really wanting to go into town?

Something moves on the ground, crawling away from me.  I look closer. It’s a scorpion. Holy Shit! Scorpions too? I jump up and look all around to see if there are more.

I might as well get moving again, sticking to the largest, most used trail.

The sun is about halfway down and west is very obvious now. I notice the trail mostly going deeper and deeper northward, into the US.  That sounds good. In the USA. I’m home. All I have to do now is find a pay-phone, or get a ride into a town and call Mom. I can’t wait to sleep in a bed again, take a real shower. And work. Darren. What kind of sabotage has he done to me?

I hear a woman’s voice. I must be getting close to the others. That’s great; I’ve been going the right way after all. Wait a minute. She’s not talking, she’s yelling. Someone is getting a piece of her mind. She’s probably pissed she’s been dragged out here in the middle of nowhere.

Wait. Is she crying?

Another voice . . . a guy . . . he’s yelling.

To the left, about half a mile away, near a small valley, is a tree with many brightly colored things in it’s branches. That tree is probably important for some reason. Maybe it has water or food. That’s where the crying is coming from. I take off my sombrero and inch closer. My stomach grumbles, angry at only having water to feed on all day.

The girl whimpers and cries. It sounds like the guy is hitting her. He’s yelling, then laughing. A young girl runs out from beneath the cover of the tree. I duck lower, behind some scrub.

The girl’s hair is messy, and her clothes are ripped, or half off. She struggles to keep her shirt on. A man yells at her as he comes out from under the tree. It’s the guy with the gun. He’s tucking in his pants. Another guy comes out from under the tree. I don’t recognize him. She keeps some distance from them as they look at her, speaking more calmly. She tosses something white up into the tree. The stranger yells at her again and she runs down a trail that leads around a hill and I don’t see her any more. The guy with the gun laughs, says goodbye to his buddy, then follows after her.

She looked like she might be the older girl in that family that came out of the van. And older, I just mean older than her eight or ten year old brother. Something’s not right here. Where’s the mother and father?

The stranger ducks back into the tree, then comes back out and slings a rifle over his shoulder. Great! More guns. He heads up the path leading right to me.

Holy shit! I duck and crawl backwards halfway around the hill, keeping out of sight and scouting for avenues of escape. There’s really nowhere to go. I grip my sombrero tightly. I slowly walk backwards around the hill as I watch the guy with the rifle walk by on the trail that leads to the camp I just came from.

Oh no! The camp. I got the water from his camp. I look at the jug of water in my hand—it’s half empty.

When I get around the hill enough to where I can’t see the guy with the rifle any more, I take off running down the trail, leading down to the brightly decorated tree. That’s the only place you can’t see into from on top of that hill the camp is on. On the other side of the colorful tree is a trail leading into some short, dense brush and more hills. I don’t know where it goes from there, but it must go somewhere. I run over to the tree and duck into it’s protective cover.

Underneath the tree I see a ripped, blue sleeping bag opened-up and lying on a flattened out cardboard box. Nothing much else.

I look up into the branches of the tree and what I see doesn’t make sense. What the heck is underwear doing up in the tree branches? And not just any underwear—panties. Many different kinds and colors. There must be two or three dozen of them hanging from the branches like colorful little sunshades.

The sleeping bag looks freshly used. A sick story assembles in my head. She tossed—he made her toss her panties up there . . . as a decoration, or souvenir or something. They raped that little girl; her clothes were ripped. I swear, if I had a gun right now . . . Those bastards. What is up with these people? She was, what, ten? Twelve max.

Walking around the tree I discover a few scattered women’s shirts and a pair of small pants, off to the side. The pants look like kid’s pants. There’s no food or water here—this is not that type of camp.

What could possess someone to not only rape young girls, but decorate a tree with their panties? Even wild animals wouldn’t do such a thing. That guy wasn’t a coyote—he’s a . . . a . . . I can’t even think of anything to compare him to. Evil. He’s just evil. I need to get as far away from this place as possible, and right now.

I follow the trail leading out the other side of the tree, and into some more brush. I’m not ten steps from the tree, and I see a body—a small one. This one has no pants. She has not been dead long, and there are flies all around her face. The smell is horrific. She’s in the most unnatural position, like she was thrown there, and abandoned like an unwanted doll. I can’t look. It makes me so upset. I want to throw up, but there’s nothing in my stomach but water, and I don’t dare lose any of that.

A deep sadness grips me, and I try to put as much distance between me and the tree of panties as I can. I throw up what little water is in my stomach, then swallow it back down, over and over again, for about half a mile. I feel dizzy, and the specter of depression rips through my chest and pulls downward on my back and shoulders. I want to lie down, curl up into a little ball and go to sleep, but I can’t. Not here. Not now.

Oh God . . . her mouth was open, as if screaming, or gasping for air. I try not to think about it, but the memory lingers in my eyes like the brightly colored shadows that stay in your vision after you stare directly into a light bulb, then close your eyes. What kind of place is this? This is not the United States I know.

I think about the family of the girl they just raped. The father, mother, young son—and her. What must it be like for them, to have to travel this way? For a father and mother to make that kind of decision, to risk their entire family’s lives to come to the US. I wish I could talk with them and find out what was worse than this, to make that choice? I can’t even begin to understand it. I bet now they wish they had stayed home and lived in poverty or starved, or whatever.

What if I run into these animals? I would love to kick some sick Mexican coyote ass . . . Mexican. I just said Mexican like a swear word. That felt kinda weird. I’m a Mexican too, kinda, but I’m nothing like these guys.

Keeping to the main trail, I keep an eye out for more colored trees or shady camps. The scraggly brush has left me exposed with nothing but the curves of the hills to hide behind. I know the guy with the rifle has noticed his missing water by now.

As if on cue, I hear a gunshot from behind me, and a short zinging sound to my right. It’s him! I knew that was his camp. Many things fly through my brain at the speed of light. I run farther up the hill, following the creek in it’s snake-like course, trying to lose myself behind the curves in the hills.

Every time I look behind me to see if the rifle guy is there, I almost twist my ankle, like every person in every movie who has ever run from a killer. I hate where this is going.

Screaming coming from high on the hill behind me tells me he’s climbing up the ridge to get a better angle. A shot rings out and it hits somewhere behind me. He obviously doesn’t plan on capturing me. I run around the curve of another hill again. It’s hot and I’m getting thirsty. All my energy is about to be used up very soon. Moisture slowly seeps out of my skin and into my clothes.

The cursing stops and the shooting begins again. I hear zinging sounds followed by bullets hitting the ground around me. He yells. More shots. A bullet whizzes by my right ear. Is he getting better or luckier? Does it even matter?

Zig to the left for a few steps, zag to the right—another shot. That one came close to my right hip. I don’t seem to be able to zig and zag and think at the same time. My body is getting heavy, and my lungs can’t get enough air. I stagger to the left, then forward, then to the right.

Turning the corner of a nice steep hill, I freeze. The guy with the gun doesn’t even matter any more. Right in front of me are two mounted patrol deputies in the bottom of the valley between two hills, guns drawn and aiming right at me.  “Don’t shoot! I don’t have a gun.” I instinctively drop the water and put my hands up.

The officer on the brown horse says some stuff in Spanish as the other one gets off his black horse and looks around the corner to see where the shots came from. He lies on his belly and looks through some binoculars and occasionally talks into a radio.

We stay like this for a few minutes, when the desert silence explodes with the thumping of a helicopter as it jumps low over the hill behind us, heading in the direction I had just come from. Yes! Let’s see that rabbit outrun that. Now the hunter becomes the hunted. I wish I could be there when that animal gets what’s coming to him.

The officer on the brown horse speaks some more Spanish to me, but his southern accent makes it sound like a combination of Spanish and Yiddish.

“What? I don’t speak Spanish.”

“Don’t speak Spanish amigo? Where you from?”

“Arbol Verde, Arizona.”

“Really? You do know you’re quite a ways from home?”

“Yeah . . . I got lost.”

“We can see that.” They both laugh, and the officer that was on the ground dusts himself off and puts his radio and binoculars away. “What do you do in Arbol Verde?” asks the officer on the brown horse.

“I go to school and I work part time at Taco Bell on Justin Boulevard, just call them.”

“Who was shooting at you, amigo?”

“Why are you calling me amigo?”

“Ok son, what’s your name?”

I hate my life . . . “Francisco Villa.” He looks at me with those damn sunglasses.

“Okay, if that’s the way you want it . . .” The officer now standing next to me, spins me around and snaps a plastic strap on my left hand, then yanks it down behind my back, and before I know it, I have both hands in plastic handcuffs. I think I pissed him off. He pats me down roughly. When he’s satisfied I don’t have any weapons, he pushes me to the ground. With my hands behind my back, I can’t catch my fall, so I land on my shoulder and my head, and wake up my aching ribs.

We get to the police station, or immigration center, or whatever you call this place, and I’m paraded around a like a new car. “Guess who I have here? Don’t recognize him? He’s Pancho Villa.” They laugh and think he’s making a joke. “And get this; he works at Taco Bell.” I need to come up with some story that sounds better than the truth. Come to think of it, just about any story would do that.

A lady behind yet another glass window gives him a concerned look, ”Hey Frank, you having a bad day?”

“No, Clarice, really. This is what he says. Tell ‘em amigo.”

He takes a Handi Wipe and cleans my hands before taking my prints. According to police records I will be, in fact, Pancho Villa, but I will also be a Mexican who has been deported and tried to smuggle drugs into the United States. Recently. Yesterday, in fact.

“My name is Francisco Villa, but everybody calls me Frank.” Suddenly I’m lifted off the ground, faced with an intensely angry immigration officer.

“Calm down Frank. We don’t need any lawsuits,” the lady says from behind the glass.

“You wouldn’t say anything, would you, Clarice?”

“Kid, I’d suggest you watch your step. Frank here, is a might sensitive to people makin’ fun a him.”

I look down at his name badge and see the name, “Blanco.” Oh Shit. Frank Blanco—Francisco Blanco? What are the odds of him having the same name and nickname?

“You watch your lip kid, or you might find yourself lost out there in the desert, comprende?” I nod. “Now tell Clarice here what your real name is, or we’ll go for a nice elevator ride—you and me.”

Great, what do I do now? Tell them my real name and get my ass kicked, or lie to them.  “Francisco Villa is my name, and I’ll thank you for not making fun of me. People have been making fun of my name my whole life.” There, the indignant approach. Maybe he can relate to that.

I am picked up again and spun around hard against the wall. My head and back explode in pain. The lady behind the glass hit some kind of alarm. This can’t be good. “I lost my ID in a bar, and I’m trying to get home. Why is that so hard for people to—“  All the wind in my lungs rushes out, and two other guards burst into the room and pull Frank off of me.

“Calm down, Frank.”

“Yeah, what’s going on?”

“This punk is playing me!”

“Frank, you’re not in high school any more.”

“Yeah, cowboy up, big guy.” One of the guards walks over to me, “Hey kid, I’d suggest you watch what you say in here. You’re not in Mexico any more.”

“Yeah, there’s nobody here to protect you but us,” says the other guard.

“And we’re gonna be on Frank’s side if there’s any trouble. Comprende?”

Now they just stare at me while I gasp for air.

“Okay Frank, you’re even. Now just process this loser and let’s get him back to Mexico where he’ll be someone else’s problem.”

“Yeah, c’mon Frank.”

Great, they’re going to send me back to Mexico. Why does this keep happening to me?  I get a look at the two officer’s who came in and saved me. One officer has the name, Lee, on his nametag, and the pudgy, obviously desk-bound border guard is Bradford. They talk some basic Spanish to each other, just a few feet away from me. I hear Moron, and I look over at them.

“I thought you didn’t speak Spanish, Pancho?” Frank says, twisting my arm a little, while taking my fingerprints.

“What?” officer Lee says, “Pancho Villa doesn’t speak Spanish?” Bradford smiles. Frank is still pretty pissed. He’s messed up my fingerprints and has to start over.

“So, Frank,” Bradford continues, “you go out for a ride with your partner, and you come back with a non Spanish-speaking Pancho Villa, who works at Taco Bell, and is dressed up like he’s in an old Clint Eastwood movie?” Frank laughs.

“Next time, when you go out to the hills, don’t take the trail that cuts through the Twilight Zone,” adds officer Lee.

There’s so much laughter I can’t hear myself think. At least Frank is laughing now.

Frank finishes taking my prints and Lee empties my pockets, then frisks me, beginning with my hair. When he gets to my neck he finds my St. Christopher’s medal. He takes it off my head and places it on the table.  They study their findings, and give me a wry look, like now they know for sure I’m lying to them.

Bradford goes to get the camera ready, and Lee shows me where to stand.

“Put your back flat against the wall, Pancho . . . (Flash) Now turn to your right, oh, you’ve done this before.” Shit! I should have waited till he told me to turn.

“Okay, Pancho, let’s get you a room until we find out who you really are.“ Frank leads me out of the processing room and down a long corridor.

I know what the ID check is going to say: I’m, Pancho Villa, the illegal border-crossing, drug-running Mexican. That’s who I am now. I’m even starting to believe it myself.

They lead me to a cell with about twenty Mexicans in it. They all become energized and stare intently as the door opens, and I enter. This just keeps getting better and better . . . All the benches are taken, and a couple of guys are just standing around, nowhere for them to sit. I see that my old friend the stainless steel toilet area is vacant.

 

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“Pancho Villa.”

Huh? Did someone call my name?

“Time to go, Pancho.”

This feels darkly familiar. I get up, and two guards lead me out with the last of the guys who shared my cell. I don’t know where the other guys went; I fell asleep. We all wait to be processed and some of the guys are handed back some personal property. I’m next. I get my plastic baggy with the business cards and phone numbers, wedding picture, and St Christopher’s medallion. What, no hat? No such luck, it’s coming. Look who’s coming with it; it’s officer Bradford and Lee. What? No Frank?

I’m handed my sombrero and we’re herded down a hallway with officer Lee leading the way, and officer Bradford in the rear with me. “You know, you should really pick a better name than Pancho Villa.” I just look at him.

Officer Lee opens a door that leads outside. “Yeah, you’re better off using a different name. Why don’t you try one a little more American.”

“Yeah, ANY other name. Hell, you’d-a-been better off using John Wayne.”

“At least that’s believable.”  They laugh. They’re so easily amused. Lucky me.

“Yeah, and you should work on that accent too.”

“Ha! Yeah, that’s the worst one I heard today. Ha!”

“And what’s up with that tan? Ha haaaaaa!”

“What really gets me is the hat! Ah haaaaa.”

Everyone piles into the courtyard and Officer Lee hits a buzzer. The outside gate opens up.

“Okay, Pancho, as you can see were letting you go,” says Bradford.

“We could have kept you for a couple of years, Pancho.” Officer Lee gives me the hundred-yard, highway patrol-sunglasses stare. “So consider yourself lucky, punk.”

“Yeah, we got better things to do than deal with little pukes like you, but listen good, because this is your third time being returned to Mexico. I’m thinking the next time won’t be so easy. You are hereby officially banned from entering the United States for ten years.” I start to reply, “Let me finish. If we catch you one more time trying to cross this border, we will incarcerate you, do you understand what I have just said to you, or do you need this in Spanish too?”

What can I say? I’m being refused to be let into my own country, and I’m being threatened with jail if I try to go home again. Life just can’t get any worse.

“And,” Officer Lee continues, pushing me out the door that leads to the Mexican Border, “you’ll be fined five thousand dollars.”

I try to ignore him as I walk back into Mexico. I look around and try to figure out where I am. There’s a long wall heading in both east and west. The border fence. But where? According to the rising sun, I head right. I have no idea what I’m going to do, or if I’ll ever get back home.

El Burrito Crazy feels like a frienemy.  Cheech seems like a really nice guy, but I either get arrested or almost killed taking his advice. I must look like such an idiot. But where else can I go? What are the odds that anyone else will try to help me any place else? Of course, there’s the possibility that someone else might actually be able to help me get home, but would they?

He sees me through the window. I might as well go in now.

The aroma of beans and meats simmering in the steam table and the sound of tortillas sizzling in the fryer is comforting. His expression is like he half-expected me to return.

“If you keep coming back, I’m gonna have to adopt you or something.”

I smile, but don’t make eye contact. There are two people sitting in a corner booth. They look at me, then up behind me, and then at each other. It’s that stupid painting. They probably think I’m the fricking Burrito Crazy mascot. I’m more than depressed. I just want to go to sleep and forget this whole ordeal ever happened.

“Hey man, I gotta tell you, I never seen anyone have this much trouble trying to get across the border. Are you sure you’re Mexican?”

“And that is supposed to make me feel better?”

He looks down at the counter. He hands me a paper cup. “Hey, those ladies were asking for you yesterday.”

I don’t know what to do, how to act. My fake, half-hearted smile is frozen in place. I feel like a mannequin in an abandoned store window.

Cheech goes back to cooking, then walks around the counter to serve the two quiet old men who think I modeled for the wall mural. I sit at a booth and Cheech comes over when he’s done.

He is quiet for once, and I can’t stand how uncomfortable that makes me feel. Someone needs to be the first to speak. I figure out where to begin, then let him have it.  I tell him what happened this time, in the hopes that he might understand and not pity me as much as I do. He listens, no jokes, no grins—just listens. When I finish, he just stares at the table, contemplating who-knows-what.

“If I had a dime for every hard luck stories you Guerros . . .” His sentence trails off and he sports a brief smile, but nothing more follows.

“So Cheech, if it’s so hard getting into the US illegally, why doesn’t everyone just fill out the paperwork and do it legally? You know, there’s always that option.”

“You know, it never ceases to amaze me how ignorant you Americans are about how your own country works.”

“We’re ignorant?”

“Yeah, do you know how many years it takes to get an interview for a green card?”

“About a year or two?”

“That’s if you have a close relative who sponsors you. I know one guy, he was single when he applied, he had a family and his kids were halfway through school before he was called for his interview.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. By then it was too late. He already started a business here so he just gave up. You guys are so scared we’ll take over your country, you keep the numbers down to hardly anything. Would you wait fifteen or twenty years to have a better life for your family?”

“Why can’t they get a better life here?”

“Some can—they do. Some can’t—they don’t. It’s not just about can and can’t. It’s usually about what is possible and what isn’t. If your town didn’t have good schools, you probably dropped out to help feed your family by picking crops or something. That doesn’t exactly pay very good, and you know when you grow up your own kids will have the same future. The US offers better pay and a dream for your kids. A better life than what is offered in your own home town.

“What about those NAFTA factories, or whatever they’re called?”

“Maquilladoras? Oh those are great. They pay a couple of dollars a day, house you in crappy company housing, which they charge you for, or you get a bunch of people together and rent a small house. After expenses, you have very little for yourself, or to send home to help your family. That’s if you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky, one day you go missing, and nobody bothers to ask why because it happens so often, and there’s so many more people looking for work that can take your place. Maquilladoras make money for the owners, not the workers.”

“Why don’t you make unions and fight for better wages and working conditions like we did?”

“You ever tried to change something when the people with money who run it are happy with the way it is?”

“So the only option is to go to America illegally, and risk your lives doing it.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the choice some of us have. Stay here and give your family the same life you got, with the same limited choices, or go to the U.S. and make lots more money and have many more choices for how to live your life. Which would you pick?”

“Then what are all the people doing working in hotels and restaurants down here? Do they get paid crap too?”

“Not if you speak English. If you can speak English, you work in the good jobs where you get tips from the tourists. If you don’t, you work the harder jobs, get paid little, and don’t make tips.”

“What about all those nice houses I saw coming up here? Some of you guys are doing pretty good.”

“Us? They’re probably vacation or retirement homes for Americans and Europeans who live cheaper here than they can at home. And that’s another thing, you old farts retire here, buying all the good houses, and driving up the prices, and push us Mexicans out of the market. We can only buy or rent homes in the poor neighborhoods, or out in the wilderness, while all you guys live a life of luxury in the best areas at our expense. Either way, there’s not a whole lot of hope down here for some people. Stay here and live poorly, or go north and live better. Better houses, better schools, better pay. It’s not easy having a rich neighbor so close to home.”

“So the whole world lives by the rules the US makes, which happen to serve only our interests and not anyone else’s.”

“You’re catching on Guerro. Good for you. But you know what really gets me? It’s when you beg us to come and work up there, then treat us like criminals when we do.”

“Where do you guys come up with this?”

He looks out the window towards the body shop across the street. It is dirty, a little run down. “See those guys over there? They’re lucky like me. They make good money compared to the rest of the country, heck, this town has more wealth because it is so close to the US. Lots of American tourists come here for a good time and spend a little money. I get asked a dozen times a week if I have any work.”

He helped me instead of one of his own people. And he helped Jose when he showed up on his doorstep.

Cheech, shakes it off, and smiles again. “NAFTA. You know what NAFTA taught us? Beware when your rich neighbor wants to do you a favor.”

His words bounce around the room like angry echoes. Maybe if everyone moved back to their own countries, everything would even out.

“It doesn’t pay to be angry at how the world works. My father used to say, ‘I can’t change the way things are, and I won’t let this stinky old world change who I want to be.’ “

We both take another deep sip of soda, and exhale our frustrations. Then he continues. “I’m happy with who I am and with what I got. I don’t need any resentment holding me hostage in my own skin. Hey, gringo, take off your clothes and put on an apron and give the ladies a show. Maybe later you can guess what kind of Mexican food I make for you.”

We both laugh, but I feel a little toasted from our conversation.

He grabs my arm as we go back to the dishroom, “Hey, you know I’m only joking about you taking your clothes off right? “

“I thought you said the ladies were asking for me?”

“Yeah, if you attracted beautiful young women, I wouldn’t mind looking at the worst case of plumbers-crack I ever seen, for five hours.”

I dive into the work, trying not to think about things too much—and failing miserably. I clean the bathrooms and mop the floors, somehow I find myself grateful to get Cheech’s help.  As he walks by I point out, “Hey Cheech, I’m working for a brown boss now.”

He keeps walking, and without missing a beat he says, “Yeah, and I got an American dishwasher. Finally there’s some justice in the world,” and he disappears around the corner.

After the lunch rush, I get caught up with the tables and dishes and Cheech makes me something to eat. I look at the plate. “ This is a burrito.” And just as the words leave my mouth, I know what his response is going to be.

“Good Guerro! You’re learning. I think I’ll start telling people you’re my mentally handicapped cousin.”

“Ha!” Cheech is a funny guy. I see why he holds on so tightly to his sense of humor. It’s his shield against the cruel reality of the world, his forcefield, his cone of serenity.

Cheech hands me some change out of the register. I didn’t even have to ask. I like Cheech a lot, but I’m getting a little uncomfortable about this relationship we’re forming. I’m used to being the one to give duties and privileges. I feel like Cheech and I have switched places. It’s like a parallel universe down here. Now that I think about it, I don’t remember seeing many brown people supervising white ones in the US. It’s not that there aren’t brown managers, it’s just that they usually supervise brown employees too. I never really thought about that before.

I call home. I hear my voice, the American me, in America speaking to me, the Mexican me, here in Mexico. I leave a brief message telling Mom I’m still in Mexico and may need her help coming home, and then hang up quickly, trying to save enough money to make another call tomorrow, in case I’m still here. Damn! I forgot to get El Burrito Crazy’s phone number again. When I get home I’m going to have to listen to both the outgoing message, and the one I just left, to see if I can hear a difference.

I stare off in a daze, not really knowing what to do or think or feel. I’m in another country, and I’m trying to reclaim my past life. A life that speaks to me now as if I’m someone else, banished from my own world. Does any of this make sense?

When my Mom gets home, in our house, in our country, she’ll hear my voice that was transported from Mexico, and now resides in the machine on our kitchen counter, in our home, in our country. Right now, my past voice, and my present voice, both, reside in the same machine on the kitchen counter. The only one NOT in our home, in our country, is actually me.

Next I call work.

Robb answers. I feel nervous about my job. I begin an apology, but it gets cut short.

“Look, Frank, or rather, Pancho, I like you and everything, heck I was thinking of giving you the promotion, but I need people I can rely on. I can’t have people running a store for me, that can disappear on a moment’s notice, like this.”

“Yes, I know how this looks, but never, in my whole history of working here have I missed so much as a minute of work, and I pulled doubles when other workers didn’t make their shifts—remember?”

“Yeah, too bad I have to remember—long distance, and from someone who can’t even cross the border to get home. Does that sound familiar?”

It does. We had a couple cooks who took extra weeks and even months coming back from Mexico after the holidays. We cut their shifts in half when they got back, but we needed them, otherwise we probably would not have re-hired them at all, but after you struggle short-handed through the holidays because half your crew gives you two days notice they are going back to Mexico, what are you going to do? Chances are, if you hire someone else, they’re just coming back from doing the same thing to someone else, and you’ll have to train them from scratch too. And who’s to say their papers will be legit? It could take half a year to get your schedule back under control and your labor costs back to normal. Of course, we’ll only give ‘em a week to get up to speed before getting back to a regular schedule—ready or not.

The only ones who pay for any of this BS are the people left behind. They’re the ones putting in the extra effort to make sure everything runs smoothly. And they never complain about it, like it’s okay or something. Maybe they just know that next time it’s their turn to go back home for the holidays.

“We’ll talk about this further when you get back, but if it takes much longer, then maybe you shouldn’t even bother.”

Message received. I need to get home or all my extra hard work and butt kissing will have been wasted.

 

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“Hey, Cheech. I really need to get home. Do you have any suggestions that would really work for me?”

“Yeah, first, we need to get you some other clothes.”

“That would be great.”

“Pancho, you think if you got a fake ID, you could get back home?”

“Huh?”

“If you had a real ID before, then if you got a fake one just like it, and the numbers and names check out, you should be . . .”

He didn’t have to finish his sentence. It was brilliant. He eyes me for a second, and then takes off towards the back door. “Watch the place for a minute.”

“What do I do if someone wants to order something?”

“You work at Taco Bell; do what comes natural.” He stops as if he just walked into an invisible wall. “Better yet, just go up there and pretend you work here but you don’t speak any Spanish. I won’t be long.”

 

 

He comes back from who-knows-where and tosses me some clothes. They’re the same ones that didn’t fit before.

“Put these on, then come over here.”

I throw on the shirt and then look around. Nobody can see me, so I take off my very roomy white pants and squirm into the tight jeans. He motions for me to follow him to the back of the restaurant. He has a Polaroid camera in his hands, and he’s tacked up a white sheet against the wall near the back of the restaurant.

“Stand in front of this, and don’t smile.”

I do what he says and wince at the flash. “You can make student ID Cards?”

“No, but I can make a drivers license.”

“I never had a drivers license—not yet anyway.”

He tosses the fresh Polaroid in the air. “You said you had ID.”

“I had a student ID card and a social security card.“

“Oh man, are you screwed. Getting across the border is the least of your problems.”

“Huh?”

“You lost your social security card down here? A real one? The next hundred Mexicans that go north are gonna be named Francisco Villa . . . okay, maybe you’re not so screwed after all, but they’ll probably want to use your social security number.”

“I didn’t have my social security card on me—it’s at home.”

“And it matches your real name?”

”Yep.”

“Good, what’s the number?”

He pulls a pad and pencil out of his shirt pocket, and writes it down.

”Now, for real, what’s your legal name, just like it is on your card?”

Oh God, I hate my name. “I told you, this is no joke. My full name is Francisco Carlos Villa.”

“Tough break.”

“Tell me about it.”

He takes off again, out the back door. I wonder if this scheme is going to work, or if I’m going to get arrested again.

He returns less than an hour later and he hands me a social security card. It looks good too. He takes my new social security card out of my hands and I follow him outside. He drops the card on the ground and stomps it into the cement. He picks it up and hands it to me, “Don’t tell anyone about this.”

“Don’t worry Cheech. I would never . . . “

“I know, but this was how my uncle made most of his money when he owned this place.” He smiles. “He wasn’t a good cook, like me.”

Now I smile too. “Wish me luck.”

I put the new social security card in my back pocket and start walking. Just before I get to the front door I hear Cheech say, “I’ll have dinner waiting for you when you get back.” I stop and give him a disgusted look, and then push my way through the door. If I’m lucky, this will be the last time I see that little guy’s face for the rest of my life.