I get to the border crossing again and this time I feel pretty confident. This looks like my real social security card, these are my real social security numbers, and this is how my name is on the original. All they have to do is look up the numbers in their database and I’m home free. I can even deny that the Francisco Villa wanted for entering the United States illegally is me. I’m not illegal. This Francisco Villa is an American citizen. Oh, but what if they check my fingerprints? And they took my picture too.

I stand in line with a few hundred other people and it takes hours to get to the front. There are a lot of women here, some with children. The men look tired but content, or confident perhaps.

My energy has already been exhausted. The concrete floor has been hammering the bottoms of my feet for hours and the small of my back is killing me from standing for so long. It’s hot, there’s no breeze in here and I can smell the people around me. There is a strong perfume in front of me, a soap smell to my left, and a pine-like scent behind me. I don’t see any of those tree shaped air fresheners hanging anywhere. Perhaps it’s that guy’s deodorant. I try my hardest not to smell the stale beer smell on the old man’s breath to my right. Every time I catch a whiff of it, I feel queasy.

I try to focus on the people in front of me. The woman with the strong perfume and her little girl, both in blue dresses. They look very much alike. I wonder what they are doing? Are they going shopping? Visiting relatives?

All these people have business in the United States and they’re doing it legally. It doesn’t look impossible to me. How did all of these people get their IDs? Why would people pay hundreds of dollars for fake papers that may not even work, when the real papers cost so much less?

Behind the counter at the front of the line, I see several police officers checking IDs and asking questions. I strain to hear some of their conversations so I can be prepared when it’s my turn.

The doorway to get through to the United States is straight through their little guard kiosks. The guard takes your ID and holds it up to the light and looks at it, then back at you, then they hand you back your ID and off you go, right into the United States.  Anyone not passing his or her ID test gets escorted into a hallway to the right, and then to who knows where. Actually, I have a pretty good idea where they go. I bet I’ve even been there. Just the thought that I have this knowledge sends out a whisper to the dark shadow that always hangs over me, inviting it in again.

The people who go to the right are usually upset. They never smile. I can’t blame ‘em. They’ve spent a lot of money trying to get across the border and it was for nothing. The people with real ID probably paid a few hundred dollars. It’s a no-brainer really. Wait a little longer and save tons of money—and don’t get arrested. Duh! Of course, if what Cheech said is true about taking fifteen years to get your visa, people might just try anything if it will get them into the US a little faster. Every day at work I see more than a few Americans who complain if their lunch takes five minutes to be made.

Now anger has joined depression and we seem to be having a little party here in the middle of shitsville. I need to shake this off. I have to be upbeat and act like I’m sure I’ll get home, and I do this all the time.

This looks pretty easy. Walk up, hand her your ID, she holds it up, looks at it, gives it back, and away you go.

It’s my turn. “Hi.” I smile and hand her my ID. She looks at it and then back at me, then back at the ID, then back at me. This is taking too long. I have a bad feeling about . . .

“Can I see your photo ID?”

Oh, God! “No, I lost it in Mexico.”

“Is this a joke? You lost your photo ID, but managed to keep your social security card?”

I didn’t think about that. Crap! She looks at my ID again, then smiles.

“You don’t think we know who Pancho Villa is?”

“It’s really my name; look it up. Run the numbers.”

“Run the numbers? Are you telling me that somewhere in our computers there’s an American citizen named Pancho Villa?”

“Yep, go ahead and check.”

“No photo ID?”

“No, I lost my high school student body card.”

“I’ll bet you did. Come this way, Mr. Villa.”

She turned right. I don’t want to go that way, that’s the sad way. What are we going to do now? This is so not happening. How could this not have worked?

She hands my ID to an officer. “Careful, he may be dangerous.”

He looks at my ID to see what she’s talking about. “No shit? I’ll bet he’s still wanted in Texas.”

This is never going to end. All my life I‘ve been getting this. That’s why I tell everyone my name is Frank Veela. It’s so much easier.

We get to a small room with a table, a fingerprinting thing that takes a picture of your fingerprint instead of using ink, and a doorway without a door.

The doorway opens up to a hallway and there are lots and lots of different IDs stapled to the walls. Those are probably fake IDs. Some of those look real. I wonder what’s wrong with them?

A small, pale, red-headed step-child of a border guard comes in, “Gee Mr. Villa, I can see from your pictures that you’ve lost a lot of weight.” Are all these guys closet comedians? “But if you don’t mind me saying so, it appears that some of it is starting to sneak back on.”

Ugh! my clothes. I know they’re tight. I didn’t figure on, now wait a minute, what was I figuring on? What if I’d have made it into the US? What then? I’d have been walking around like Bruce Banner after an anger management class?

“Stand over there Mr. Smart-Ass.” He hands me my new social security card, “This ID is fake, and it’s painfully obvious it was made just a few minutes ago.”

How the hell can he know that?

”Somebody dragged this through the dirt just to make it look old. Look, see there? See where the ink has dirt in it?”

Oh shit! I do now. There are a few specs of dirt embedded in the black numbers.“ Look, just run the numbers—you’ll see, I’m an American.”

“What kind of idiot you take me for? I do this for a living. Now I have to give you credit on your English, but frankly, my gardener speaks it better than you.”

“What’s wrong with my English?” Man, what I would love to say if I wasn’t afraid of getting in a lot more trouble. “Look, officer, just run my—“

“What American citizen needs a fake ID to get into his own country? Can you tell me that? That’s just crazy. And—oh this is the best part—Pancho Villa?  You must have really pissed off the guy who made this for you, that’s all I gotta say.”

“But it’s the truth!”

“That’s good. A fake ID is the truth. I’m keeping this one; it’s going on my wall of shame.”

“Please check my ID, officer. I’m sure it will explain everything . . .“

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m gonna find out who you are all right. Give me your right hand please.”

Damn! She’s going to find the wrong me, then I’ll be arrested. I should have just stayed in Mexico and learned to speak Spanish—or perfected my English.

She finishes taking my prints, and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. One end gets hooked in the side of the table, and the other gets latched around my left wrist.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere okay?”

Making fun of people is obviously the only entertainment these people get. What am I going to do? I should get a phone call. I’ll call Mom. She’ll know what to do.

After a few tense minutes, the guard returns. “Well, well, well, I’m mistaken. I think I owe you an apology.”

She’s holding a piece of paper, but not letting me see what’s on it.

“Your name really is Pancho—my bad,”

Did she find my real identity?

“But that whole trying to get into the US three times in as many days routine? What’s so important you gotta risk years of jail for?”

Nope. She’s clueless. Do these people even know how to use a computer? “Look, I’m going to lose my job if I don’t get home today—“

“Oh, so that’s it. Well then, you shouldn’t have gone home for vacation then should you? Please empty your pockets into this tray.”

Damn! This is it. There will be no explaining the contents of my pockets. I put the plastic bag with the addresses, photo, and what little money I have into the grey bus tub she put on the table. She picks up a slip of paper and reads what’s on it.

“Who are these people? You don’t look like Cartel. No tattoos.”

“Family.” This just proves her right.

“Yep, kind of an old picture though. Wow, who would have thought John Travolta knew Pancho Villa?”

“That’s my uncle.”

“Your uncle is John Travolta? You really got some nerve kid. You shoulda just stayed with them instead of trying to sneak back across the border. Things have changed, amigo. It’s a lot tougher these days.”

“Really?”

“Yep, 911 changed the game.”

“Thank God! I was beginning to think I was just extraordinarily unlucky.”

“Oh, you’re plenty that too.”

“Shit!” Oops, I said that out loud.

“Please place your boots in the tub too. I’ll go get you something a little roomier and in a brighter color.” She leaves me handcuffed to the table. How do I take my boots off like this?

I unbutton my shirt and pants since they’re coming off soon anyway, but I still can’t reach my boots very well. I tug at them with my feet, and right hand, and manage to get the last one off, right when the officer gets back. “Here you go.”

He tosses me an orange jumpsuit and some old, moldy flip-flops.

Oh my god, I’m going to have to put those on my bare feet? “If I get a disease from these you will be hearing from my . . .” mother.

He unlocks the handcuff from the table. “Anything else you want to put in here?” He’s looking at my chest. I take the St. Christopher’s medal off and place it in the tub.

“That’s it.”

He grabs the grey plastic tub, puts the boots in it and walks me down the hallway like a dog on a leash. I can feel the looks from the other officers, like silent, angry disapprovals. The sarcastic little Leprechaun hands the tub with all my stuff and the computer printout of my fingerprint results in it, to a worker behind a counter. Then we keep on walking.

“You know you’re in a world of shit here Pancho. They had to have told you the consequences for trying to enter the US when they released you yesterday.”

What can I say? She has printed proof from a reliable database that I am Pancho Villa, the notorious, serial border crasher.

A guard buzzes a door open. “Change out of your clothes, and put the orange jumpsuit on. Leave your clothes on the bench.”

I’m put into a small room and the door closes behind me. For the moment I’m in my own private little cell. It feels good to get out of those tight clothes. If it weren’t for the word, immigration, in big black letters on the back, I’d ask if we could trade.

I look around the place. It’s not too bad. At least I get to sit on a bench this time. I think I’ll give this one three stars in my International Travelers Guide to Jails.

I’m finally told to leave through the door on the other side of the cell. It leads to another small room. There is no knob on the other side. I hear a buzzer and the door unlocks. I push my way into another cell. Great! Lots of company. I immediately go sit by the toilet.

“What took you so long?” Cheech says, putting the open sign on the door and opening it for me.

“Hey, why do they keep sending me back to Mexico?”

“Because they think you’re a Mexican?”

“No, I mean, they keep telling me there is a fine and a two, five, now seven year jail sentence if I do it again, but they only keep me overnight.”

“You want to stay in jail for seven years?”

“No. I’m just curious.”

“Why don’t you ask them?”

“Because they might think I’m making trouble and really will keep me for seven years.”

“So you’re saying you believe them when they say they will put you in jail for seven years?”

“Yes.”

“Look, they don’t want to flood their jails with people whose major crime is they just want a job. They want to catch bad guys, not moms and dads, dishwashers and painters. They just want you to think they will so you won’t try to come back again. You thirsty?”

“Yeah, thanks.” He hands me a paper cup with Coke and ice in it without even asking.

“What happened this time?”

“There was dirt in the ink. They knew it was recently made.”

“Yeah, rush jobs. Want to try again tomorrow?”

“Naw, I need to get home today.”

“Yeah, they sure scared you straight.”

“I know, it doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. I keep expecting to wake up back in my bed and this was all just a bad dream.”

“Ok, look, I know someone who takes people around the fence and through the desert.  I’ll see if he can help you, otherwise I think you should try the legal way.”

“I have been trying the legal way. It doesn’t work.”

“Now you really sound like a Mexican. Have you tried the other legal way: the American Consulate. You could talk to them.”

“Where is that, is it around here? Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

“Hey, calm down Pancho. Man, you’re like a nervous little Chihuahua. Look, I don’t know where your consulate is. We have a Mexican Consulate in Mexico City, and one in Juarez, which is closer, but I wouldn’t go there if you paid me. And those are where our consulates are. Maybe yours is next door to it or something, I don’t know.”

“Do you know anyone who does know?”

“Even you went to Mexico City, It would take you a day or two to get there from here. You will need food and money for travelling, and another two days or more. And I don’t know if they can help you or not. I’m not an American, and according to America, you’re not one either.”

“I just need to get home. It shouldn’t be this hard, should it?”

“Maybe you should just call your mom and have her come get you.”

That does sound like the logical thing to do. I’ve had enough of this place, this help, this . . . everything. But for some reason, I think I’m meant to do this on my own, like so many others before me. Like my father. So many other people have done this. Millions of them. And all of them I considered inferior to myself. If they can do it, I should be able to do it. Otherwise, they are all better than me.

“No thanks, Cheech, you’ve helped me out a lot. I need to just do this. Can I get those white clothes back? These are killing me. If I’m going to be doing any jumping, climbing, heck, even walking or sitting, I’m going to need some looser clothes.”

Sure. I was going to keep them because there is no way anyone is going to believe this story without some kind of proof.” He smiles and disappears into the kitchen.

So, now that I’ve decided I’ve go to do this, how am I going to do it? I sure don’t want to go through the desert. That’s probably how my dad died, but that’s the only thing I haven’t tried so far.

Just before Cheech passes me to go get the clothes he asks, “You may want to wash them in the dishwasher before you go. I was hoping the dirt would help prove the story really happened.”

Yeah, that would probably be nice, thanks.” He turns to go and I ask, “hey, can you get me the sombrero too? I’m starting to get kinda dark without it.”

“It don’t matter how white you are, you’re not going to look like an American dressed like that.”

We smile. He leaves, I go in the back to get started washing my clothes.

Robb said if I don’t get back soon, I shouldn’t bother showing up at all. Then what will I do? How will I help Mom pay for food and stuff?

The desert brings back memories of the rape tree, guns, a little girl with flies in her mouth, prison—years of it. Death. These choices suck, but what else can I do? Stay here?

 

About two hours later, I just finished putting on the white clothes  and a van pulls up next to the restaurant. Cheech walks over and talks to the people inside. He motions for me to come too.

I don’t know if I can take any more of his help. I was kinda planning on doing this on my own. Cheech introduces me to Antonio, the driver. He looks at my clothes, and then back at Cheech. He would be driving me, and the others in the van, to a place where the fence ends and we could just walk right into the US. No fence, no tunnel, no sharks, no border patrol. It sounds too easy and as he’s telling me all this, the others in the van nod enthusiastically. They look like they all drank the same Kool-Aid—all smiles and optimism. Nothing Cheech has done for me so far has worked. Why should this? I have a bad feeling, but this will at least get me across the border. I can take it from there.

How’s the book so far?

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We travel on the freeway for at least an hour, then on a dirt road for another hour. We stop at some kind of checkpoint, and the driver gives some guys with rifles and machine guns money so we can pass. We continue on this dirt road for another half an hour, when finally, the van stops, doors open and we all pile out.

I just can’t believe my luck, but then, I should’ve guessed. Nobody wants to travel with the gringo; I might be immigration. I have to promise to wait half an hour before following them.

There are no women or children in this group, just a bunch of men looking for work. Some with families back home in Mexico. Some just starting out in life. I can easily tell the difference, even though I only understand about every hundredth word.

The younger ones are excited about the new life they are going to lead. Their eyes light up as they speak in excited tones about the future they are going to have. The older ones are sad for leaving their families behind. They listen patiently to the younger ones and smile politely every now and then. Sometimes they steal glances with other family men, sharing an unspoken knowledge—an inside joke no one is laughing at. These guys have heard the stories before. They’ve lived it. Perhaps they too told the same stories.

They leave me in front of a gate leading to the United States, and it’s not only unlocked, but I could easily just hop over it, even if it were. What is the point of even having a gate from one country to another? That can’t be legal for either country, yet here it is. It’s made of steel tubes, has hinges on one side, and a place where you can lock it if you wanted to on the other. It swings open and shut, and right now, it is open. There is no lock.

Why is there a gate here, and who was it made for? An American going into Mexico? A Mexican going into the US? Hey, maybe it was an American trying to get back into the United States because the BORDER WAS CLOSED!

And why is the border here? The terrain looks the same on both sides—it’s just desert. Why isn’t the border a mile north of here? Or a mile to the south? What is it about this imaginary line right here, in this exact spot, that made two countries want to begin and end their territory right here? It’s not like there’s a river, or canyon, or mountains separating one country from the other. The border’s in the middle of a fricking desert. I mean, how did that conversation go?

“I think we should put the border over here.”

“You’re loco, that’s prime desert right there essay. We should put the boundary up here.”

“No, no, no, no. You’re not pulling a fast one on us. We’re too smart for that. This here’s our worthless desert. Someday, sand and scrub brush is going to be worth a lot of money, and we want our share; lets put the border in the middle, lets saaaay . . . here.”

“Stupid gringo, you think I’m going to go home and tell my people I gave you guys valuable dry, uninhabitable desert land for nothing? Put it over there.”

“No here.”

“No there.”

“No here.”

“You’re loco.”

“Your dumb.”

“Perro.”

“I don’t even know what that means. Look, you got lots of desert down there and we don’t have hardly any.”

“Oh no? What do you call Death Valley—farm land? That’s some world-class desert you got there.”

“You have a point.”

“I do? I mean—I know. Tell you what, lets just put the border right here.”

“Okay, I’m tired. Lets celebrate. The beers on me.”

“Gracias. The tequila’s on me.”

“Hey you hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“We got some great Barbecue over here in Texas.”

“I was thinking more like Chicken Mole with rice and beans.”

“Hey, since were in the compromising attitude, let’s create something with both.”

“What would that be like?”

“I don’t know, but we could call it Tex-Mex.”

“You mean, Mex-Tex.”

“No, Tex-Mex sounds more natural.”

“Natural to who?”

Yep.  I bet that’s just the way it happened too.

God! Even my boredom is hot. The sun is beating down on everything with hot, flaming hammers. I think it’s safe to try and follow the group. I can at least start off this way and then make it up as I go. I mean north is north after all.

I’m glad to be wearing these clothes. I can see why they used to wear them like this. They’re good protection against the glaring sun and the oven-like heat in this desert. I can only imagine how hot I’d be if I were wearing levis and a black concert t-shirt. Those clothes were made for a civilization with air-conditioning.

My hands burn from the ruthless breath of the desert. I wonder if these clothes originally came with gloves.

About every half hour or so I sit down and take a break. This heat is sapping my strength. I feel like I’m in an oven and I’m being cooked. I grab a couple of sips of water, take my sombrero off and use it like a fan. I can tell I’m getting sunburned. My face and hands are scorching hot.

I kinda remember getting pretty dark when I was a kid. Then Mom told me about Dad, and that was also the last time I went outside without a shirt on, or sunscreen in my pocket.

Dad. I’ve been angry at him for a long time. It looks like he might not have been such a bastard after all. Maybe. It just doesn’t seem real somehow. I mean, I have no real proof he’s dead. For all I know he did run out on all of us.

I need to get going again. I put on my hat and walk with the sun over my left shoulder. North is all I need to know. Each step takes me farther into my own country. One step closer to home.

Roselyn. I wonder how I look to her?  What does she think of me? Why is that even important?  I guess because she’s the only person at work I really look up to, or don’t—didn’t look down on . . . as much. It’s like she’s the Queen bee of Taco Bell and everyone else is just worker bees. Drones.

Work. Robb. Darren. Darren is still an asshole. Robb? Yeah, probably too. Cream rises to the top. Impress me. Yeah, they deserve each other. But then, what do I deserve?

Now that I think about it, I’ve been living like a Mexican all along. I work and bring home money for my family. The only difference for me is I still live at home. I bet a lot of people would still be at home if they could work closer to where they live.

I wonder if it’s true that Americans jack up the cost of living down there. I know they lower wages up here. Why hire an American when a Mexican will work for less? Why will Mexicans work for less? Why won’t Americans work for less? And why does shit keep costing more for the same thing all the time no matter what we do? We work hard to get a raise but gas prices go up, the cost of bread goes up, car prices go up, the cost of clothes go up, ticket prices go up. The whole cost of living goes up and the wages go up with it. It’s really meaningless to get a raise if it’s just going to cost more money for the same stuff.

Wouldn’t we get the same results if everything just stayed the way it is now—forever? Then we wouldn’t need raises. We’d be making the same amount of money every year and the stuff would cost the same every year too. You could call it zero-flation. Maybe if you wanted a raise all you had to do was spend a little less and save a little more, or get a second job, or a real promotion, or made some kind of art or product or something. There must be some reason that isn’t the way it is, otherwise, it probably would be the way it is. It sure makes a helluva lot more sense than the way we do things now. We just live with the perception that we are improving the quality of our lives through hard work and sacrifice. The truth is we work really hard, sacrifice time with our families, go to school longer, stay at work longer, just to live the same as we did before.

God, I’m hot.

This water is going fast. I think I can smell the plants cooking.  What kind of stuff lives out here, besides scorpions and snakes? I don’t even see a bird in the sky. What’s that over there? Looks like a pile of clothes on a piece of wood. Who would leave their clothes . . .  That’s not wood.

A cold flash rushes through my body, and nausea squeezes my stomach. Is that what I think it is? I slowly sneak up on it, careful not to disturb it. Holy Crap! It is. I don’t want to look at it, but I can’t help myself. Who is it? What happened? The sand around him or her looks wet or stained. It’s much darker, closer to the body. Yech! This person cooked to death. Its skin is dark and caved in. The clothes look loose and ripped. Why did this person die? Did someone kill him? I think it’s a him. The hair is pretty short, what little there is. The clothes are still on too, so it’s not like a woman got raped and killed. Not this time. Ugh! There is no breeze so the odor spreads out like an invisible foul mushroom cloud.

This person died trying to get to America. People do die here—it’s not an exaggeration. People aren’t just making that up to justify some liberal immigration propaganda bullshit. It’s right here in front of me. I gotta keep my distance, don’t want to get any on me.

The sudden realization that this could happen to me ratchets up my heart rate. I feel myself unconsciously inviting that black cloud closer as I wonder how my mom will find out if It does? I have no ID. I’m in the middle of a frickin’ desert. Some animal could eat me.

The sun baked face makes me look at it. It seems to scream in pain, mouth open, face turned up towards the sky.

I get another picture in my head. This one sadder, more profound; maybe this is what happened to my father. Maybe I’ll die like he did and my mother will think I abandoned her too. She’ll wonder what the heck is so wonderful about Mexico that the men in her life go there and never come back. The darkness wraps itself around my heart like a cold, wet glove, and the hand inside pulls downward. This is hopeless. I should just give up.

It looks like this person is talking to me . . . yelling something . . . Run!

I start running northward, fast at first, but then I slow down to a jog in order to keep it up for awhile. It doesn’t take long for the heat to start pressing down on my shoulders, weighing me down, making me weak. It’s like the desert doesn’t just rob you of just water, it also takes your energy. It wants all I have. Then it’ll discard me and leave what is left on the desert floor for strangers to see and animals to devour.

I still have some water left, so I’m doing okay.  I have to get home. I can’t do that to my mother. And my other family. They’ll both think I abandoned them. Maybe this is my reward for blaming everything bad in my life on my father. Now everyone will have to go through it all over again. They will all think the same about me.

I stop running and look at the ground ahead of me, trying to take my mind off the subject of death. Maybe I already died and this is Hell’s version of Groundhog Day. I keep trying to get across the border, but keep waking up in jail and sent back to Mexico. That would make me, what, Pancho Murray?

I finish the last of the water and stop fanning myself. I need to walk on but each time I do I get tired quicker. I’m also cursed with the vision of somebody’s thirsty relative, dead in the desert, and they will never know what happened to him. Think about it—somewhere out there, there’s a boy who’s angry at his father, not realizing that they were loved so much their dad risked—and lost—his life trying to get back home. Somewhere out there, someone will grow up with hate as their best friend.

Man, I never should have come here. I could have been happy as a Mexican. I could have learned the language—maybe. I already know some of the dances. I have the blood. I can’t let the desert soak it up like that thing back there. I can’t go out like that. I gotta get home. My pace quickens and fear strengthens my resolve.

Water stations. There have got to be some water stations out here. I used to hate the assholes who left water for the illegals. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think that I’d be the one needing the water.

So who is the bigger jerk? The bleeding hearts that make it easier for invad—Mexicans to come into the US, or the people that sabotage a humanitarian good deed in order to protect their country, and actually kill people?

Shane and Willie. Do I still want to be like them?

The heat coming off the desert floor makes it look like it’s alive. Moving. Living. Breathing. Scary.

The smell of drying sage brush is a constant directionless landmark. The desert stretches on for miles without any civilization in sight. I have to keep my eyes on the ground in front of me and watch where I step. I don’t want to wake up any rattle snors or scapions, or whatever else they have out here.

Coyotes. I wonder what a coyote would do if he saw me. Would he run from me or want to eat me? What am I doing out here? This is insane. I’m an American. It should be against the law to refuse me my own country. It’s probably illegal for me to live in Mexico. Shouldn’t it be illegal to make me go back to a place where I’m illegal? Hey, that’s a double illegal. Does that make it okay?

My feet are booting in these bakes. Why is my shirt dry? Maybe it’s cooling. I don’t feel cooling. I feel pretty damn hot. My whole body’s hot. My mouth is dry. I’m gonna have to drink this water pretty soon. Oh shit, that’s right; I have no water. That stupid baking is sun on me.

I gotta sit down. There, that’s better. It can bake my butt, I don’t care. I feel a major headache coming on. I’m so tired. I wish I tired to find some shade. This sombrero is busted. I’m hot. I see green up ahead, or greenish-brown—whatever . . . but I can’t tell tree from frush with all the moving squiggly heat coming off the . . .

Why can’t we just pay more and hire legal residents? Wouldn’t it be cheaper than all this hiring and firing and training? Then all the prices can stay the same.

Can’t. Not much profit in food. Too many mouths to feed. Managers pay . . .  good because they have to produce . . . If they don’t they get the fired. Owners. That’s what I want to be. Screw this manager crap. Not you Romelda. Romelda? Who the heck is that?  I meant . . . What’s her name again? I think it starts with an R. Anyway, what was I . . . Why is that body following me?

The whole world is on fire. Flames ebb & flow like a hellish tide.

Another dead body—just like the last one.

I gotta get outta here before I . . . What? Another one?

And another. They’re all around me.

I must have stumbled into a desert cemetery. How did I not see this? These bodies go on for miles.

Someone is watching me. I can see him. A faint numbness comes over me. Maybe he has some water. He kinda looks like my father—like his pictures, anyway. He even dresses the same, but my dad would be much older now. What is he doing in the middle of all theses bodies?

The closer I get, the more I see he really doesn’t look like my dad. He looks more like Cheech. Cheech? How did he find me?  He’s walking away from me, then suddenly, he dives into a bush.  I hope he brought some water, Gatorade, something. Heck, I’d even drink a beer right now.

I crawl into the dark space that’s under a low-lying tree. It looks like a bear or something carved this out to make a shelter. I crawl inside. It’s cooler in here.

I see him. His back is to me. He slowly turns around. “Hey Chee . . .”  he’s dressed in a black flowing robe. I can’t see his face. A bony hand comes out of the sleeve and holds a long pole with a curved blade at the end of it. The Grim Reaper?

He grabs me by the neck with long and bony fingers. I shiver violently. The shock of being really hot one minute and then really cold the next is tremendous. I start to breathe shallow and rapidly, like I jumped into a frigid lake. He picks me up, and throws me down, again, and again, and again. My body convulses in hot and cold spasms. I can’t control my breathing.

He steps back against the dark shadow that is this great open cave-like space, and he disappears into the blackness. He is gone. I breathe in coughs, and choke out gasps of life. The smells of dirt and scrub brush flood my nose. I’m drowning in this desert.

A few yards from me, to my right, lies another body. I don’t want to touch it. I quickly look away.  A few feet from it is the body I saw before, out in the desert. Stiff, dry, dark, deflated. Hair withering in the hot sun, and the dark, damp area all around it where the desert sucked out all his liquids like a big sandy sponge.

He moved . . . I think.

Yes, he did. First his arms, then his body. He takes a huge breath, and his saggy deflated body fills and expands. What is happening? Did this guy just come back to life or is something evil claiming his body? Why did he wait for me to get here to do this? His face gets more features as it fills, like a raft slowly filling with air. It’s . . .  it can’t be.

It’s my father.

He sits up, takes a quick, sharp breath, as if awakening under a grave full of snow . . . then my dad looks around.  His deep blue eyes search for mine, like two small flashlights with sapphire lenses. What the hell is happening? He doesn’t speak, but he smiles. Am I glad too?

There is so much I want to say, so much I want to ask. Is this real, or is this a dream? Or am I dying? His face grows visibly sadder.

He should come home with me—if I make it home. I wonder what Mom would say. I want him to explain to her why he never came back, so she’ll feel better about it, to know she was right all along. Then we can have a family and I can have a normal life.

I stand up and motion for him to follow me. Can we go now? I move toward the opening of the cave. He doesn’t budge. I notice a thick, heavy chain around his ankle. A thick shiny black chain glints sadistically in the dark from the light of my father’s deep blue stare. There is an evil living in that chain. Fear tugs at my chest and I shiver. At the other end of the chain is the dried, dead body I saw earlier. Is this why he can’t come home with me?

Grabbing him by the hand I pull hard to get him moving. Maybe we can just drag the body behind us and cut the chain off when we get home. He tugs at the chain trying to come with me, pulling at it with all his strength.

The dead body suddenly pulls back. It starts to fill, breathing, growing stronger. Its eyes spring open and it looks right at me. I feel another cold wave and goose bumps sprout up all over my body. The evil in the chain has infected the body, and it, too, gasps for life. The body takes on a female shape.

She falls forward, upward, quickly, and she stops violently in a standing position, dressed in a shimmering white satin dress. She wears long, white satin gloves, and her face is covered in a pearlescent white veil. Her black eyes stare at me, the only thing visible from behind the veil. They are like two black marbles wrapped in a sheer white bag.

I look over at my father for an explanation. He’s now dressed in a tux, tails, shirt, and shoes—all black. He doesn’t look happy. His face is painted with a watercolor guilt, which drips down his cheeks and onto his shirt. He cannot look at me.

She lifts back the veil, revealing long, snarling black hair, and a hard, chiseled beauty, like a stone gargoyle made from gleaming white sandstone. Black jewels glitter around her neck from the glow of my father’s laser blue eyes.  A tiara on her head, covered in black jewels, sprinkles dancing blue/black stars all around as she slowly walks toward me.

A Mona Lisa smile plays at her lips. There is a dark secret beneath her cloak and she flaunts it with an arrogance that betrays it. Secret—yet obvious.

My dad looks at me with sad blue eyes. He knows he let me down. The bride laughs at him. It’s a roaring, wicked laugh, and evil flies out of her mouth like angry, winged rats that scream out into the night and smother all the stars in the sky.

Behind her, many more men appear. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands—all in formal dress.  And there are women and children too, coming up from the floor of the desert, like they’ve been hiding there, waiting for this moment. They are all hers. She wills them forward. They rise from the plants, and the snakes, and the tarantulas, and beetles, and dead bodies. Dead birds fall from the sky, quickly balling up into sick colorful trophies that men and women and little children snatch up and shove into pockets so no one else will see their shame.

 

After everyone has assembled, she looks down at you and hisses disapprovingly. Your shoulders sag as you go to her. You have been hers for a long time. I cannot have you back.

I am consumed with longing for you, my father, the man I’ve hated all my life. I know you want to come with me, to tell me things, to reclaim some whisper of a stolen past. Selfishness wells up inside me.

You look over at me and smile as if trying to rescue any good that was born in this moment—the only moment we will ever have. You look happy to have had even this brief visit. The emptiness inside my heart begins to fill with a sad liquid that courses though my veins like thick black tar.

The dark queen waves her hand in the air and the cinema inside my head plays all the things I’ve missed—the things I hated you for. The little league games where you should have sat, cheering, alongside all the other boys fathers. The junior high school graduation, swim meets, creative writing contests. All the times I saw other kids standing with their proud mothers and fathers, and mine, forever absent. My mother, always working to make up for what you were not providing. You took her from me too.

The countless nightmares I had of winning the Olympics. How could winning the ultimate contest become a nightmare? By not being permitted to join the other winners on the pedestal to receive my medal, until, that is, after the others have finished receiving theirs. When it was my turn to claim victory, the crowd had already packed up and left. They had already seen who they came to see, and no one had come for me. I grabbed my medal and turned to the naked bleachers, wondering why I even bothered. The nightmare was the same as when I was awake. I never felt more alone than when I won an award; I hated you for that.

I can’t count the times I cursed you for what I thought you did to me and my Mom. The empty cavern inside a little boy, that’s normally filled with love and acceptance when nurtured inside a loving family. I filled that hole with a mountain of hate and anger, and not just at you, but at anything that reminded me of you. Anything related to you. I was a Fort Knox of anger and resentment, bitterness and pain.

I feel myself slide into a deep, dark, depression. All those wasted years . . . I want to throw up.

She, this woman, this queen of the dead, the damned, and the dehydrated, looks at me and raises her chin. She’s in front of me now, taking my measure. Inspecting me for something. Her smile is a lie. Is she mocking my anger?

She reaches out a hand to me. My father’s eyes are wide with panic, but he can do nothing. With a wave of her hand, a happy white mask comes down over his face and I’m left to stare at a frozen, molded expression, with two piercing blue eyes staring out from behind it. I look around and everyone has on the same mask, but their eyes are black and dead. Everyone stands and waits.

The dark queen arches her neck as if showing off her jewels. Is there a promise implied?

I’d like to spend some time with my father now that I know him a little better.

She smiles—that’s the promise. She’ll take me where I can stay and talk and be with him as long as I want. Her grim black smile peeks through her thin, white veil. Her eyes are laughing.

Coyly she turns and walks away, her flock following dutifully behind. I follow, too, deeper into the desert night. Her tiara has a gravity that sucks some of the smaller, weaker stars right out of the sky. Now, in the sky, as on her head, there are great patches of blackness that hold the bright and shiny lights apart, separating them. There is light, or there is dark, and there is no in-between. I’ve never seen anyone like her. Who is she? Why have I not heard of her?

Mom! I stop. What am I doing?

The desert bride turns around: her smile persists, but her eyes no longer laugh. She extends her hand to me. She is obviously not used to any kind of refusal. She holds a promise and a secret. What is that secret? Why does she hide it from me?

What would be my wish? No more pain, no worries, no bills, no border problems. This would be wonderful. All my problems solved, but I have my mom to think about. She’ll be worried about me, and will have to take care of herself—alone. It’s too far; I won’t be able to visit. I’ll miss her. Yes, I’ll miss my father too.

I know what I must ask: let him come with me.

The earth quakes and I lose my balance. There is a deep yellow-orange glow leaking from her smile. Flames lick her black lips, and remove all moisture from them. The quake stops. Her lips close, and the flames retreat. Her cold hard beauty returns.

I run and grab Dad’s hand and pull towards the entrance to the cave, but his leg is chained to hers. She cackles another evil laugh, and all the stars in the sky shiver in fear. Her long, thick hair reaches out and strangles every slow moving star, and then swallows them whole. Everything is cloaked in the blackness of her hair. My father’s eyes make a desperate plea.

“Come with us, or let him go,” she says to me, fire dancing in her words—ice in the cold threat of her stare. Her joy is my pain, knowing I must make the choice, and then live with the results. Confidently, she waits.

“I can’t. I just can’t.” My words echo off the canyon walls and come screeching back to me like shouts from a stranger.

A hand grabs my shoulder and I am pulled away.

Mom, you found us.

Dad is yanked from my grip and he’s flung to the ground, where the sand drains his body of all it’s life and liquid, shape and form. He’s gone, leaving nothing but the shadow of a stain. The bride sinks into the sand, and her family dutifully follows, leaving everything like it was before.

I turn to my mother. She is smiling.  What is she doing here?

A white gloved hand bursts violently up from the sand below me and grabs my right arm, pulling me down. My arm sinks into the sand up to my shoulder, but my mother pulls on my left arm and I feel my heart ripping in half. My right arm, beneath the sand, is turning cold, and the chill is spreading throughout my body. This is it. Whatever happens now will decide my fate forever.

My father rises up from the ground and stands across from me. He looks over at us. Mom sees him for the first time in many years. In the blink of an eye, a lifetime’s worth of conversations pass over their faces. It’s a gentle exchange I will never hear, but they will always remember. Time means nothing right now, and this moment is for them.

The sand below me erupts, and the desert bride flies out and catches my dad looking at my mom. Jealousy consumes her and her dress turns black as hate. The ground quakes beneath us. Flames fly out of her mouth releasing sparks like angry fireflies. She lets go of my arm to push Dad back into the sand. They both disappear into the desert floor, acrid black smoke rising from where they vanished.

Mom yanks hard at my arm and pulls me though the small opening of the bush and back into the desert. The fresh night sky is cooler, and has no scent. I wake as if falling in a dream.

Where am I? The desert. I seem to be in some kind of shallow hole under a bush. There is a thin blanket on the sand below me and there is little room between the bush and the nice cool ground. Someone made a little shelter here. My hand hits something and I find a plastic jug with lots of condensation clinging to its inner walls. I’m ravenous with thirst.

I shake the jug to get all the water to pool inside it and unscrew the top to drink the few mouthfuls of water it contains. My mouth soaks up most of the water before I can even swallow, but I’m able to feel some of the cool liquid run down my throat and into my stomach.

I am so tired. Maybe if I rest here a little while, this headache will go away and I’ll get the energy to get moving again. I lay back down and look out the opening of this little shelter. I see thousands of blurry stars looking down on the desert. Without the sun to guide me, I will have no idea which way is north. Maybe I should just spend the night here and get a fresh start in the morning.

I feel just like I did when I woke up in jail before uncle Carlos found me. Thinking back on that experience I must say I do prefer the smell of sand and sage to that drunken scarecrow scent in the jail.

I don’t know if this is a dream or not, but there seems to be a big black scorpion walking across my shirt. Holy shit! It feels real. Don’t move. Don’t even breathe.

Slowly it wanders up my shirt toward my face, getting closer and closer. What should I do? Maybe it’s looking for food. Please don’t crawl on my face and sting my eyes.

Slowly the scorpion turns and walks toward my arm. How is this thing going to get off my body? It stops at the gap between my body and my arm. I want to raise my arm a bit and make it easier for it to leave, but I can’t move. It slowly continues and heads into the little canyon between my body and my arm. The stinger is getting close to my arm. Will I get stung if the tip just bumps into my arm?

I watch helplessly as the scorpion uses his pinchers to push off of my arm and then drag himself over it. The scorpion climbs off my arm and onto the sand using the same method. I want to jump up, but I can’t. There isn’t enough room. I am frozen in place and forced to watch this deadly insect wander up toward my face. It stops at my cheek. All I can do is wait. Every inch of me wants to jump up and hurl the scorpion off of me, but my body isn’t listening. I can hear it’s clickity-crunchety footsteps as it walks on the dirt past my ear. Oh God! Don’t go into my ear.

I listen very carefully for the sound of it walking past my ear and entering the bush above my head. Ever so slowly, I slide my way out of the dugout, while keeping an eye on the little stinger until I can’t see it any longer. Dragging my body out from under the bush, trailing my stiff legs behind me, I get as far from the bush as I can until the thought that where there’s one scorpion, there’s probably a few more, makes me shiver and shake like a dog in order to remove any stray bugs that might be wandering around my clothes.

I reach down and grab my sombrero and inspect it carefully. That was close. My arms and legs feel jello-like. I seriously need to get myself together.

As my eyes become accustomed to the night, I see the dugout I had been sleeping in is actually part of an old water station.

Water.

There are a couple of plastic water jugs scattered around, and a a broken table that’s wedged under the bush. Sheets of cut up burlap are scattered about. I must have found it before I passed out.

To hell with scorpions and rattlesnakes. I search for more clear plastic jugs. I can’t believe my luck . . . but as I pick a jug up I see a knife has carved a slit all the way through an entire side. The Minutemen have been here.

There are remnants of water at the bottom of some of the jugs and I greedily soak up all there is. When I’ve finished, there is not a drop of water left in any of them. I feel a little better, but I’ll need much more water before I get out of this desert.

If there had been more people with me, how would that have played out? Would we all drink a little and everyone still dies? Or would one or two drink and and maybe live while the others died? Would one drink like me, and still want more, while everyone else died? Who would make those decisions? This is so disturbing. I need to get my mind back on track and get home.

I take in all the sights and sounds and smells around me and try to get a sense of where I am. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many stars in all my life. There is no moon and the sky looks white with black dots. It reminds me of chocolate chip ice cream. I see my shadow on the ground, and the shadow of everything else too. It’s like daytime, only weaker. This is amazing.

I take a big whiff of air and take in the smells of stretching and yawning plants.  The desert seems to be waking and re-absorbing the moisture it lost during the day when it slept. Where before I was in a giant oven, now I am standing on top of an enormous sponge, draining the air of every last ounce of moisture it gave up during the day. It’s actually more like the desert breathes in at night, and then exhales during the day, over and over again. It’s like the desert is breathing.

Now, which way is north?  I can’t even tell one constellation from another there are so many stars out. Which way should I go, and how will I keep from walking in circles?

An owl hoots nearby, breaking the silence around me. I make my way slowly, keeping my eyes mostly on the ground, watching out for anything dangerous. Meeting that scorpion gave me an even greater appreciation for boots; I just wish they went all the way up to my neck.

Was that a gunshot? I stop to get a better listen. Yep, there it went again. Someone must be hunting—at night? Who hunts at night? Several more shots rip through the tranquil desert air, and now I hear an engine. Someone is driving and hunting.

Maybe they have something to drink. That would be so great. Maybe I can get a ride with them too. The shots keep getting closer and the engine is getting louder; the pitch changing from low to high and back again. Racing, and groaning, and racing, and groaning, and getting louder, getting closer.

A bullet speeds by me, and I immediately diver for the ground. What if they accidentally shoot me? I gotta find something to hide behind. I can see bouncing lights just on the other side of some trees about a hundred yards away. I don’t have much time.

There is a bush close by; that will have to do. I get up and run to it, keeping as low as possible in case more stray bullets come my way. I slide head first behind the shrub, then immediately think of scorpions and wish I hadn’t.

Someone rushes by, scaring the crap out of me. A searchlight finds him and briefly illuminates his whole body. I look at him, and he looks at me. For a brief second I see him, lit up and scared as hell. He is in pure panic mode. His eyes wild with fear and devoid of any real thought. He is taking orders from that ancient voice deep within us all that tells us—no, screams at us—to run like crazy or we will die. I still see his face for several seconds after he disappears; eyes wide with fear, searching for salvation.

I made no noticeable impression on him. I didn’t figure in any plan that resulted in his eventual survival. My brief appearance was promptly discarded as useless information and the search for anything that could help continues.

More lights flood the sky, and I duck behind the bush. The truck’s headlights briefly light up my tiny little bush, then veer off in the direction of its prey.  A second later the truck rushes by me and I get a better look at it. It has search lights mounted on a roll bar and two guys with rifles hanging onto it in the back.

It’s them: the Cowboys.

More shots echo in the night air as the headlights and spotlights and tail lights bounce like a ship on a violent sea. The engine strains and springs creak and excited voices fade away as the chase goes on.

Then everything suddenly stops.

I crawl around to the other side of the bush, and watch the shadows as a couple of people walk around and the searchlights move up high to scan the horizon. There are short trees and small boulders popping up all over this hilly part of the desert. It should be easy to hide if you really needed to.

A big beam of light makes a wide loop and bounces off me & keeps going. Good. Wait! It’s coming back. I duck further behind the bush. Shouting erupts from the truck. Did they see me?

“What are you doing?”

“I thought I saw something.”

“Over there asshole, in front of us. He’s getting away.”

The beam of light darts away and the desert is dark again.

The truck creaks and groans and whines. There’s some shouting and two more shots are fired as the chaos moves away.  More shots.  More yelling. More straining engine, and the scent of the desert sand and dirt fills the air.

The shooting stops, but the lights continue to search. These guys aren’t hunters. They’re murderers.

I don’t have a clue where I’m going, but away from here is all that matters. My God! How can people be so cruel? That’s a person they’re shooting at. His scared face is in front of me as I run.

The sounds of the truck slowly fade into the night, and more slowly still, the sounds of the desert return. First the crickets, then something scampering on the ground, an Owl hoots . . . then silence.

An engine roars over a hilltop and lights fall from the sky and search the desert floor. I am out in the open.

I break out into a full-on run, but I know I can’t keep this up for very long. I’m so thirsty and tired.

“There, there, over there on your ten, on your ten!”

Spotlights reach out for me like greedy, spastic fingers. Scanning, bouncing, searching for tracks, sniffing out fear. Anything with a beating heart will do.

“There’s some tracks, look—fresh.”

They’re coming my way, and I’m just about out of energy. I stop running. The lights get stronger, and soon they are on the path behind me.

I dive down behind some scrub brush, and a rabbit jumps up and makes a dash for it. It scares the crap out of me. I think I took its hiding place. The truck stops and a few beams of light follow the rabbit.

A gunshot.

I stay low and keep moving. Someone jumps out of the back of the truck and picks up a dead rabbit. He tosses it in the back of the truck before jumping in himself. They come again. Are they playing with me? Do they know something I don’t know? Good, they turn and speed right by me. They were going too fast and the searchlights were looking too far into the distance to find me.

“Hey, let’s go back. I think we passed him.” Maybe their secret is they are really good at this and I am going to be dead before they stop. Maybe they always get their target, and their confidence just looks like playful incompetence.

The tractor beams of hate turn back around and search for any traitorous sign of me. Slowly this time, they scrape each rock and probe every bush.

What do I do? Up ahead, a rabbit takes off running, its eyes glowing in the beams of light. “Rabbit!” someone shouts.

No! It’s running toward me.

Three shots bring it all much closer as the bouncing rabbit dodges the bullets. Another one hits the dirt in front of it, sending it in another direction. Another shot and it turns again, coming back my way. I hear the truck stop.

The rabbit is running straight for me again, eyes two bright reflections in the black night. I see a big rock that’s mostly hidden by a piece of bushy scrub brush, so I crawl over and hunker down behind it. It’s not as much of a hiding place as I thought, so I try to burrow in as deep into the sandy soil as I can, but it’s too late. Two more shots pierce the night sky, getting closer. Another shot bounces off the rock in front of me, and moves it. I push against it, hoping to keep it still. Another shot, then silence.

I hear someone jump out of the truck and the sound of footsteps getting louder. There’s probably a dead rabbit on the other side of this rock. He’s going to see me for sure. I hear the footsteps getting closer and I curl up into the smallest ball I can. The rabbit’s feeble struggle is drowned out by a final shot so loud I almost scream. “It’s dead now,” the cowboy shouts. He stopped. Why? Is he looking for something? Listening? Can he smell me? What is keeping him here?

“What’s up, Jake?”

“Just wait a minute,” he says as his footsteps get closer. I hear the cocking of his gun, putting another round in the chamber. I’m so screwed. There are a million places to hide in this desert, but that won’t help me much. The problem, the real challenge in this game of hide and seek is not finding a good hiding place. It’s not running when everything in your body tells you to go. It’s when you run that you give yourself away, and none of these many hiding places can protect you from that.

Suddenly another rabbit jumps from it’s hiding place nearby and makes a run for it, demonstrating my thoughts.

The search lights follow it and the truck begins to move. It stops right on the other side of this rock. “Forget the stupid rabbit Jake, get in! We’ve got bigger game to bag.”

He hops in and away they go, back towards the top of the hill where they were chasing that guy. They stop at the crest of the hill and a couple of them get out and search the ground, spotlights leading their way.

Time for me to get out of here. I get up and quickly walk in the opposite direction; toward the US, away from the US, it doesn’t matter just as long as it’s away from these guys.

I try to pick out some bushes or trees or even a big rock as I walk. It may come in handy should they . . . my shadow appears on the ground in front of me. A bullet whizzes by me and I know they see me. I run, looking desperately for anything to hide behind. There is nothing but small bushes and half dead trees.

A few more shots ring out and I begin to zig and zag as my shadow on the ground gets smaller and darker and the sound of the engine gets louder and louder.

I see a bush and I jump behind it, practically landing on the big rock that juts out from the ground behind it. I lay on the ground for only an instant. This is so stupid. They’ve already seen me. Hiding now will only give them a easier target. I jump back up and start running again, much to the delight of the guys in the truck.

“There he is! Yahoooooo!”

They move quickly in that truck, and every second they close in on me.

“This beats the hell out of huntin’ rabbits!”

“Hold on boys, we’ll run this one down so he can’t run away.”

That gives me an idea. As long as I keep that boulder between us, they can’t run me down. I run straight away from them, but the truck begins to turn to avoid hitting the bush, so I turn too, keeping the boulder and bush between us. The truck turns back and gets closer and goes to turn around the bush again and I make a hard right like I’m changing directions. They’ll have to turn if I’m going this way. They did.

An explosion of glass breaking, metal bending and people screaming as the truck comes in contact with the boulder that was hidden by that bush. A second later, the only sound coming from that direction is steam venting from the busted radiator. Most of the lights are still on and the truck’s front end is wrapped around the boulder and covered in scrub brush. There are two bodies sticking out where the windshield used to be, and about twenty yards in front of them, two skinny boys are lying on the ground in grotesque yoga-like positions.

My brain screams now would be a good time to run.

 

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After about half an hour, I watch in amazement as a pickup truck pulls to the side of the road. I bet a border patrol officer with sunglasses on—at night—is going to jump out of the truck and start making fun of my clothes—and my name.

Nobody is coming out. I’m obviously expected to come to them. Good sign.  It’s an older red Chevy half-ton pickup. I go over to the passenger side window and catch a reflection of myself before it rolls down. Damn.  All I need is theme music and a side kick, and I’d be a Saturday morning cartoon.

Behind the window is a broad smile of very white teeth. He’s a pleasant looking senior citizen. Finally a friendly face.  “Where you going dressed like that?”

“To the nearest payphone.”

He thinks for a moment. “Okay, hop in.”

I go to jump in the back, but the passenger door opens a crack. I get in before he changes his mind.

He’s about sixty, with mostly dark hair, but with some silver on the sides. Mexican. I should have known. Nobody else would have picked me up—heck, nobody else did.

“Hi, My name is Roberto.”

 

I don’t want to ruin this, “I’m John Wayne.”

He looks me over. “Really? That’s great. Hey, you’re a long way from home, John, what happened?”

“It’s a long story.” He’s not speaking Spanish. Am I in America? “Hey, how did you know I wasn’t a Mexican?”

“Why, are you trying to be?”

“No, but I’m dressed like one.”

“Really? Did you just step out of a time machine? Because I don’t know too many Mexicans that go around dressed like that these days, and I should know; some of my best friends are Mexicans.”

He smiles and then we both start laughing. It’s obvious he’s Mexican, yet he pretended . . . he . . . wasn’t.

“Besides, I’ve lived on this border all my life, and I ain’t never seen a Mexican try to cross the border dressed like that. You had to be just, like . . . coming from a party, or your car broke down on your way home from a play . . . or your friends left you out here in some hazing ritual or something. Did you lose a bet?”

“Yeah, something . . .”

“Man, you look beat up. How long you been out here?”

“All day.”

“All day? Really?”

I nod. I don’t really have the energy to continue this conversation. A combination of dehydration, exhaustion, and the possibility that this whole odyssey is finally over, immerses me in what I can only describe as a nervous waking slumber.

“Where do you live?”

“Not far.” I hope.

“You need to call somebody or something?”

“Yeah, I need to call my mom. She’ll come and get me.”

“Hmm. You look like you could use something to eat.”

“I could go for a gallon of water.”

“Okay, I’m on my way to Dennys for my nightly constitutional. You can use the phone there. I’ll get you all the water you can drink—on me.”

Denny’s! I’m in America. His smile and sense of humor make me feel more relaxed. I bet he has grandkids. His face is deeply wrinkled from probably a million laughs. They give him an easy going look. His rough hands grasp the steering wheel lightly, and his wide middle suits him. His life used to be hard, but now it’s easier.

 

 

We pull into a Dennys parking lot. “Where are we?”

He looks at me.  “Puerto Centro,” he pauses, “Arizona.”

“Yeah, thanks.” That’s not far from Tobar. I’ve made it. I pull out my plastic bag, with the phone numbers, photo, and Mexican money. I take out the Mexican money. “Is this enough for a phone call, you think?” He looks like he’s beginning to think I’m crazy.  “I’ll explain everything in a minute.” I grin as we both get out of the truck.

“Yeah, I have a feeling this is going to be the most interesting thing to happen to me all day.” His smile is comforting, and I’m feeling a little more relaxed, walking up to Denny’s—a definitely American institution. “I’m glad I picked you up. I come here every night and shoot the breeze with a couple of old farts. Usually we just sit around and lie to each other, you know, exaggerating the high and low points of our lives. This is really going to spice things up.”

The moment I step inside I feel a chill from the cold stares. I try to roll up the sombrero and make it disappear, but it doesn’t work.

We walk straight to the counter. He sits down and I scan the area for glasses of ice water. Oh yeah, it’s Arizona. You have to ask for water, they don’t bring it automatically. Right. Like I look like I’d turn down a glass of water right now?  I sit down and try to arrange my shirt and tuck in my legs to hide as much of my clothes as possible.

Roberto reaches over the counter and grabs a glass and a pitcher of ice water. He fills the glass and slides it down to me. I’m so excited I almost choke on the ice. “Slow down, son.” Roberto reaches into his pocket and hands me some change. “Keep your pesos, John, they don’t work around here.”

I nod. The bathroom sign points down a hallway in the back of the restaurant. I put in a quarter and dial home, this time without the international code. It feels good—feels American.

“Hello?” She answers on the first ring. It startles me.

“Hi Mom, it’s me.” I feel myself getting emotional for some reason. I don’t know why, it’s just a phone call.

“Thank God! It’s you. I didn’t know you were gone until I noticed you weren’t eating your meals. Then I got your message. You should have told me earlier. I would have come and got you.”

“I didn’t have a phone number, and I didn’t know it was going to be this hard to get home.”

“Where are you? I’ll come to get you.”

“I’m at a Denny’s in . . .  I forgot the name . . .  oh, yeah, Puerto Centro.

“Okay, don’t move, I’m coming.”

“Thanks, Mom, and hey, could you bring me some clothes?”

“Are you naked?”

“No, I’m just wearing . . . I’m just dirty, that’s all.”

“Okay, I’ll be right there, don’t go anywhere okay?”

 

“Yeah Mom. Just get here before immigration stops in for coffee.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“So what happened? Why did you go to Mexico? How did you get there?”

“I’ll wait ‘til you get here. There’s too much to tell you and I want to take a bath and go to bed.”

“Okay honey, I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

“Okay. Goodbye.”

“‘Bye honey.”

The weight of the past few days finally hits me, and my emotions go on a roller coaster ride from hell: I’m finally home. I feel twisted inside. On the one hand I feel guilty I made it, when others didn’t; and on the other hand I feel grateful I did, when, for a while there, it looked like I wouldn’t. I think I’ll get a little cleaned up, wash my face and hands.  I feel dry and crusty with dirt.

I step inside the bathrooms and I’m immediately assaulted by the huge mirrors. Always with the mirrors. This time they’re laughing at me—making fun of me. It looks like I cooked a little out there in the desert. I’m about twelve shades darker, with a little bit of pink mixed in. I’ve never seen that color before on a human being. My once white clothes are now off white, and wrinkly. It looks like I slept in them again—which I guess I did. I’d love to take them off and hide them.

I turn on the sink and the water feels cool on my hands and face. Tastes really good too.  My skin feels like a sponge, soaking up the water. I put my whole head under the faucet and wash my hair. Brown water swirls down the sink. I force myself to stop before taking off my shirt and jumping onto the sink counter. Best not get too carried away. This does feel great though.

I turn off the water and look over at the hand dryer. The last thing I want is hot air.

Scanning the bathroom I notice there are no paper towels. It would be too much to hope for a clean spot on my shirt to wipe my face. Maybe I can get a napkin off an empty table on my way back to the counter. I rinse off the sink and notice there’s dirt and mud everywhere else around me. I splash some water around to clean it up before leaving.

 

One final look in the mirror and I almost don’t recognize myself. I try parting my hair on the left side, and that looks a bit more natural, although not normally my style. I do look more Mexican now too.  Mexican. I’m a Mexican-American.

Time to get back to reality. I leave the bathroom, walk down the hallway, past the pay phone, and back into Arizona. Home.

“Did you get through okay John?”

“Yeah, thanks Roberto, you’re a life saver. My mom is coming to get me.”

“Great. John Wayne, I’d like you to meet Raul, Pete, and Digger. Boys, this is John Wayne.”

It’s obvious they don’t believe my name. They’re just looking at me to see if I deny it or not.  Finally, the dam breaks and a chorus of laughter and comments spill out of them. This must be the coffee club: a small group of people that come in to a restaurant, for hours at a time, and just drink coffee. They hang out for the gossip and the free refills of coffee. The one at Mom’s diner is middle-aged. This one looks like senior citizens. I guess every restaurant gets them.

“Ha, ha, ha Roberto, you’ve outdone yourself this time.” says the skinny and goofy looking guy one of them called Digger, breaking through the one-liners bouncing around the counter.

“Yeah, where’d you find this guy? “ asks Raul, the fat, bald guy in the corner.

“I told you, in the desert, on the way here.” Roberto looks over at me, hoping I will add credibility to his statement.

The laughing slows down a bit. They look confused, and amused, but then again, I don’t really know what they looked like before.

“John, what’s with the getup?” Pete asks.

This, evidently, is the big controversy they’ve been holding in since Roberto and I showed up. Roberto just sits by my side, sipping his coffee, with a confident look on his face. I put down my ice-water, “What getup?”

Pete sprays his coffee all over the counter, and that makes everyone laugh really hard. He coughs and tries to recover some dignity.

I look for the waitress. I need a bigger glass, or maybe that pitcher behind the counter. There is a small hiccup in the laughter, and Roberto is congratulated on his contribution to the night’s entertainment.

 

“Oh, he’s good Roberto,” Digger says.

Pete wipes off his shirt and the counter area around him with a paper napkin. “Damn, I just got that coffee the way I like it.”

I notice the dishwasher coming out from the kitchen area. He’s a thirty year old Mexican man, almost as wide as he is tall. His dark brown pleather apron protects him from the wet chaos of the dish room. He puts an empty bus tub into the bus station in the middle of the dining room, and then struggles a bit, trying to get the full one out. It’s overflowing with plates and coffee cups and silverware. He gets it out okay, but struggles with the weight of it. A couple of plates fall to the floor. The carpet absorbs their fall, so nothing breaks, and without really thinking about it, I rush over to help him. I pick up the plates and put them more securely in the bus tub. He smiles at me. The sweat in his shiny black hair looks almost like gel. This guy looks like the only one here; I don’t see a busboy. He walks back to the dish room and I return to my seat. I feel a little guilty sitting here relaxing and enjoying myself while he works so hard.

“I’m gonna get something to eat.” Roberto hands me a menu. “You want something John?”

“Sure, I’m going to be here for an hour or so anyway.” I grab the water he slides over for me. It doesn’t last long. I’m beginning to acquire quite a collection of empty glasses in front of me. I chew on the small frozen chunks of ice at the bottom of the glass like it’s ice-water gum.

The smell of the diner makes my stomach growl, drowning out the sounds of silverware clinking on plates and machines grinding away in the background. It all sounds so . . . American. I’m home. I’m giddy with happiness. I made it.

“Hi Roberto, who’s your friend?” I look up and see a large red-head with big thick red lips and a brown Denny’s uniform staring down at me.

“Hi Julia, this here’s John Wayne.”

“Yeah, right, and I’m Lucille Ball.  You got a job kid? Our busboy didn’t show up for work tonight,” she says, looking me over.

“Yeah, it’s because of the crackdown,” says Pete. “I told you there’d be repercussions.”

 

“Will you be quiet over there? I’m trying to get you better service. This kid’s obviously not afraid.” She turns her attention back to me. “Seriously, do you cook or bus tables, wash dishes, what?”

I can’t believe she’s asking me this.

“I never heard of no Mexican named John Wayne,” Pete says.

Raul pulls out a couple of packets from the sugar caddie,” He’s not Mexican.”

“He is too” says Pete.

“I bet you think just because he’s dressed like that he’s got to be a Mexican.” Roberto says, winking at me.

Julia pours Roberto a cup of coffee and refills the other cups along the counter.

“Can I get you something, sugar?” She’s not buying the John Wayne thing.

“Water please, and no more ice.”

“Sure thing, you need a bigger glass? ” She looks down her nose at the three empty ones in front of me.

“Do you have a hose?” The guys around the counter laugh.

She takes the empty glasses and returns with a pitcher of ice-water and a large empty glass.

“Julia, could you get John here a burger and some fries? He looks hungry,” Roberto looks at me to make sure I’m okay with that.

“Yeah, please. My mom’ll pay for it when she gets here.”

“Awww, don’t worry about it. We’re going to be talking about this night for weeks.”

“You got that right,” says Pete.

“Speak for yourself ‘berto,” Raul says. “My life’s plenty interesting.”

“More interesting than this?” adds Digger. “What—you live in a circus?”

Laughter all around—me included.

 

 

 

When I’m done eating, Roberto asks, “you want another? I don’t think you tasted that one.”

“No thanks.” I did eat that pretty quick.

Julia arrives to pick up my plate. “What are you dressed up for anyway, really?”

 

I can feel everyone’s eyes on me.

“A contest—I mean a bet.” I’m definitely showing some signs of fatigue.

“Did you win?” asks Pete.

I nod and smile.

“I bet you did too, sugar.” Julia winks and puts the plate in a plastic bus tub, then makes her rounds refilling everyone’s coffee.

“If he’s the winner,” Digger adds, “I’d hate to see what the losers are wearing.”

Everyone falls about the place, Julia too, and even some people in booths near the counter.

Behind me the front door opens and the joyful rucus turns silent. I turn to see a large middle-aged man in a tan sheriff’s uniform walking into the restaurant. I’m 5’9” and he’s way taller. He’s also over two hundred pounds, but being big and tall isn’t what gets me; it’s nighttime and he’s wearing those sunglasses. They must all shop somewhere together, or maybe they come with the uniform.  That would explain why they all wear them. It would also explain why he has them on at night. They probably switch to night-vision glasses automatically when it gets dark.

He looks around the room like Arnold Schwartzenegger in “The Terminator,” sizing up the occupants of the café: threat, no threat, no threat. . .

I look over at Roberto. His eyes search mine for clues as to what this could mean for me. I look down at my coffee, no longer laughing.

I’m suddenly very self-conscious of my clothes. I couldn’t blend in with everyone else here if my life depended on it, and right now, it just might. I feel like I’m wearing a flashing neon, illegal alien sign, just above the bullseye on my back, and the kick me sign on the seat of my pants. I need to focus on something before I drive myself crazy. I can feel the officer’s cold stare boring though my back. Julia is holding a pot of coffee in one hand and staring at me, waiting to see what happens next. She’s got that deer in the headlights look you get when a cop pulls you over and you know you’ve been busted.

I hear footsteps walking toward the counter, and feel the grip of a giant frozen blanket squeeze my body.

“Hey John, you paying this time or is it my turn?” Roberto asks, making this sound like a regular event.

“I think it’s—“

“ Excuse me son . . . “ I jump. Wait, what am I worried about? He can’t do anything, right? I’m home, right?  “ . . . where are you from?” I can’t believe this is happening still-again-whatever. I turn to look at him and as I do I can see my ssitting on the floor next to me, and when I look up at him, his eyes are on it too.

 

“You’re not from around here are you son?”

It’s going to be okay. I can handle this. I’m way past the border now right? What can he do? “Yes . . . No . . .  I mean, not here-here, but Tobar-here, so I am from here, just not from right here,” my God! What am I saying?

“That your sombrero?”

“Yeah, well no-yeah, actually. It is now.”

“You seem a little nervous.”

I didn’t hear a question. I don’t know what to say.

“Do you have any ID?”

Oh no! I’m facing twenty years if I get caught again. This is not happening. This can’t be happening. I’m a fricking American citizen for Christ’s sake. “No sir, I don’t have a drivers license yet. I’m only seventeen.”

“Is there something wrong officer?” Roberto tries to help.

“I’m talking to the young man here,” the Sheriff says, giving Roberto a little of the ol’ lie-detector sunglasses treatment.

“Oh, John, yeah, we know him, don’t we fellas?” All three of them suddenly look like there’s something interesting at the bottom of their coffee cups.

Roberto looks up at Julia, who gives him a—Don’t look at me—look, turns and walks away.

“I’m sorry, and your name is?”

“Roberto Vega”

“Alright, Mr. Vega, How do you know young . . . ?”

I can see Robert is at a loss. He really didn’t buy the John Wayne thing, and he knows the cop won’t for sure.”

“Okay then, can you tell me your name son, since your good friend, Mr. Vega, can’t?” Oh shit. He’s back to me. Why did he have to ask me my name? What am I going to tell him? John Wayne? He for sure won’t buy that. The truth? He won’t buy that either, and if he does check it out, there will be a warrant for my arrest. “Son, that was an easy question.” Oh shit. I’m taking too long. People usually just spit out their name. Me, I don’t know what to say. Shit-shit-shit-shit!

All eyes are on me. Everyone in here wants to know my real name.

 

“Sorry, I’m just very tired, My name is . . . Frank.” The boys at the end of the counter all mumble to themselves, and Roberto tries hard not to look confused.

“You got a last name, Frank?”

“Yeah, sure it’s Veelah, Frank Veelah, from Tobar, Arizona. I go to Washington High School. I’m a junior—gonna be a Junior, next year, um—this year, I mean.”

“That right?” he looks over at Robert and the boys. Julia is nowhere in sight, probably telling the dishwasher not to come out front right now. That Terminator cop might start asking about him too.

“We don’t get very many kids from Tobar, Arizona, in these parts Frank. Pardon me for not being familiar with the latest fashion trends.”

Does he buy it? Is he serious? The boys laugh nervously at his joke. So does Roberto. I join in too. Am I free? Is he messing with me? “You mind stepping over here for a moment?” I look at Roberto for some kind of help.  He sees me, stands up and looks at the cop,

“Hey man, leave the kid alone. He’s had a long day.”

“Yeah, looks like you been playing in the desert for quite a while. Can we have a poquito chat over here?”

“Look officer, he hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“I’ll handle this if you don’t mind. Now I’d like to do this with as little drama as possible, so if you’ll please leave us alone for a few minutes I won’t have to arrest you for obstructing an officer while in pursuit of his duties.”

Roberto sits back and looks at me. He tried, I have to give him that. How am I going to explain this to Mom? Maybe Roberto can tell her what happened. I should just give myself up, throw myself at the mercy of . . . I stand up and walk with the officer over to the door and in comes Mom.

Her eyes and her brain try to focus on the facts in front of her. Her son is dressed in a costume, and he’s being interrogated by a sheriff. She runs and hugs me tightly.

“Oh, thank God you’re okay. You look so different.”

“Oh, yeah, these clothes.”

“Oh those too, but I mean your face, you’re so—“

“You know this boy ma’am?” the cop asks?

“I should, he’s my son.”

“Oh, so you’re his mother are you?”

 

“”Yes I am officer, has he done anything wrong?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out Ms . . .”

“Diane Villa.”

“Which is it? Villa or Veela?”

“I don’t know, is it tomato or tomato?” I quickly jump in.

He looks at me sideways and I feel my blood instantly turn cold. “If he’s your son, then surely you must know his name?”

The look of confusion on her face turns to anger. The boys are glued to the proverbial TV set, as this game-show plays out in front of them, like a twisted episode of Family Feud—Deluxe trailor park edition. “His name is Francisco. There is a pause. The cop obviously expects more. “But he prefers to be called Frank.” In your FACE sheriff Dipshit.

“So, do you have any ID, ma’am?”

“Can you tell me what this is about, officer?”

“Ma’am, if you will just cooperate this will be over quickly, unless you’d rather we do this at the station.”

She digs around angrily in her purse and comes up with her wallet. She opens it up and before he asks her to take the license out, she hands it to him.

“See, now that was pretty easy now wasn’t it Ms. Villa?”

Mom’s face is getting red from this guy’s patronizing attitude. I have no idea what she’s capable of doing when she gets really mad. I’ve never seen her get this mad—ever.

Okay, I have just a couple of more questions . . . “

“Has my son done anything wrong officer? Because if he hasn’t, and I haven’t, then I can assure you if we do go to the station, you’re going to need a Dream Team of lawyers to dislodge the lawsuit I’m going to shove—“

“We can do this however you like ma’am.” He smiles, but behind those sunglasses the meaning is cold and threatening. He stares her down, waiting for her to make a move, exercising his power over us.

Without taking his eyes off of my mom, he bends over and whispers in my ear, “What is your birthdate?” Before I can respond he quickly puts his ear to my face. I really feel like yelling it in his ear right now, but I can’t chance it. I whisper, “September 2, 1995.” I can literally see him mentally adding and subtracting on both hands and feet.

 

“Okay Ma’am, if you can answer this one thing for me, then you can go. When was your son born?” He still doesn’t believe her. The way he said your son.

Without blinking or even taking a second to think about it she says, “September 2, 1995. We live in Tobar, Arizona. He goes to Washington High School where he’ll be a junior this year. That’s right hun? A junior? Yes that’s right. ”

“You mean you don’t know for sure ma’am?”

”Do you have any kids officer?” She stands defiant, like she’s ready to kick his ass or something. “I was sending him to kindergarten, what seems like just last week.” He thinks about that for a moment.

All eyes are on the policeman.

The cop looks at me and then my mom. I still think he doesn’t get it.

“Anything else officer?” Mom glares at him. I’m just about to tell him she knew my name, birthday, city and school, what more does he want, but he hands my mom her ID before I get a word out. I’m happy to leave it at that, just to get this over with. This interview is draining me of what little energy I have left.

“No, you can go. I was just a little concerned when everyone said they knew him, but nobody knew his name, and he is dressed rather strangely.”

“Well dressing weird is a teenage rite, not a crime,” She replies.

He removes my sombrero from under the counter and hands it to me. “You two drive safe now.” He gives us the forced “polite” cop smile, then walks over and grabs a seat at a corner booth, far away from the counter and everybody else.

My mom grabs my hand and we walk quickly out of the diner. Before I get into the car, I turn back and see Roberto watching us through the front door. I wave and thank him. I look at the boys now standing around the counter, necks straining to see us leave. Their minds have been blown. If that little scene would have been recorded, they’d be hitting the rewind right now to play back all the parts they don’t quite understand. Roberto sticks his head out the front door of the restaurant.

“Roberto picked me up and gave me a ride here.”

“Thank you so much, Roberto,” she says.

 

“It was really my pleasure. You have a great son Ms. Villa.” He turns and walks back into the restaurant. Before the door closes I can hear the boys in an animated conversation, “So he is a Mexican.”

“But he lives in Arizona.”

“So he is an American.”

“But Roberto found him in the desert.”

“So he is a Mexican.”

“But his mom is white.”

“So he is—“

 

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Mom gets in the car and unlocks the door for me. I get in and take a huge sigh of relief. I take in the smells and the textures. I don’t know where to begin explaining my adventure. The immigration raid? The flight? The jail? The search for my dad? The party? My father? The journey? The border? El Burrito Crazy? The jails again? Telling this story is going to take forever.

I turn for one last look at the diner before it gets tossed into my junkyard of memories. The dishwasher comes out and cleans a booth next to a window. He looks out and sees me.  I flash him a smile, he smiles back, and then he fades into the back of the restaurant from where he came. I bet the corner of the restaurant that officer is sitting in gets lousy service tonight.

Now, back to my world. I never thought I’d see the day where this old Ford Taurus would ever look so good. I can’t believe I’m feeling nostalgic about it. I’ve only been gone a few days.

The cloth seats feel like old friends, and the dashboard smells of Armor All, like always. We haven’t even left the parking lot and it feels like I’m already home. It’s finally over.

Mom looks at me, smiles, then starts the car. “Thanks Mom. You have no idea how good if feels to be home again.”

“You can tell me all about it tomorrow. Just get some rest; you look . . . beat.”

I probably won’t see much of her for a couple of days. I’m really tired, but that water and burger kinda revived me a bit, and besides, I really need her to know . . . but how?

When we get on the freeway, I get an idea. “Mom?”

“Yes honey?”

“I need to tell you something about Dad.”

“Look, I really don’t need to know—“

“It’s not like that. You see, you remember . . . You know how we always thought that Dad left us for another family in Mexico?” She bites her lower lip and fiddles with the leather wrapping on the steering wheel. “Well, when I got there I ran into Uncle Carlos.” She looks at me. “He said Dad left to go back to the United States to be with us and they haven’t heard from him since.” I let that sink in for a second. “They kinda thought he might have left them to be an American with us.” She returns her eyes to the road, and looks confused. “And then, when I was trying to get across the border, I saw some stuff—lots of stuff—and I have the feeling that Dad tried to get home . . . he just didn’t make it.”

My body falls slightly forward as we very noticeably slow down. I can almost feel how she’s taking this. A look of concern comes over her face, but still no questions. I’ll just leave her with that for a while. I’ve had a week to deal with all this and I don’t quite know how I feel about it.

“So he didn’t have another family down there after all?”

“Nope. He was on his way back to us and he just . . . vanished.”

“I heard some things that happened to some people. I guess I always kinda wondered—no, I knew—there was something wrong. Your father was just too genuinely excited about your birth to have just left us.”

“You never told me Dad got deported.” She looks at me and then continues driving, waiting for me to continue. “That’s something we now have in common.”

That looked like it revived some very old memories. Her eyes immediately send tears running down her cheeks.

“A lot of people die every year trying to get into this country. It’s not as easy as hopping a fence and dodging some border guards, although, that part ain’t easy either, let me tell you.”  Surprise registers in her eyes and she dries her face. I’ll tell her the whole story tomorrow.  “I learned a lot on this trip.”

“So tell me, what happened, are you okay?”

“I’m fine now. I’ll fill you in tomorrow when we have some time. It’s going to be a long story.”  She looks like she’s still digesting what I’ve told her so far. We sit for a little while, listening to the hum of the tires on the road and the wind whistling through the gaps between the windows and the roof of the car.

“Where are your clothes?“

How can I answer that without getting into the whole story? “I left my baggage in Mexico.”  She looks over at me. I try to keep a straight face, but we both laugh.

 

“I was in such a rush to come get you, I forgot to bring the clothes like you asked.”

I pull out my plastic baggie with the slips of paper with the names and phone numbers and addresses. Mom looks at a few of them as she drives, and then stares into space as if trying to see their faces.

“Don’t forget to drive Mom.”

She wipes her eyes, and in the headlights of oncoming cars, flashing like a strobe light through the posts holding up the center divider, something indescribable seems to be erasing from her face. I lean my head back and peek over at her. Peaceful. She looks peaceful, and something else. I can’t put my finger on it.

“All those years I straddled a sharp fence. Something went wrong, or I wasn’t good enough. Now, all my love for your father is coming back like . . . like . . . like going through that old box in the closet and looking at the old memories . . . how easily feelings get revived, when you want them to.”

Lighter. That’s the difference. Years of doubt have been lifted off her shoulders. Finally, I surrender to a deep, black sleep.

My room. Warm, soft. It feels so good!

I move to stretch and my legs burn. My nightmare in Mexico was not a dream. My face is warm and very dry. My tongue feels like it’s coated in wax. I brush large amber rocks from each eye, and my room slowly comes into focus.

I must have been out cold, but I don’t remember any dreams. That makes sense, considering every waking moment of the last week had been a nightmare.

My bed is so soft and warm, and I have my digital alarm clock to tell me the time whenever I want. Nine o’seven. Nice.

Memories of my adventure come cascading back like the shuffling of a mental deck of cards. The desert, the underwear tree, Roselyn, Uncle Carlos, Grandma, I have the blood, the party, El Burrito Crazy, Cheech, border shark, jails, horses, the bull, beer, tequila, drug tunnel, so many jails, fishing! Mexico, family, border, job, meeting, my alarm clock—Nine o’ seven. Ay-yay-yay! I was hoping to meet Robb at the restaurant before it opens today, so we’d have time to talk before it gets busy.

I jump up and pain rips through my entire body.  As I stagger over to the shower, I marvel at it’s design and ingenuity like it was just installed this morning.

I find a good, warm temperature and jump in. It burns my face, neck and hands so I turn it down a lot, lather up, rinse off, jump out and grab a towel.  I begin patting myself dry, not wanting to feel the friction of the towel grating over my sensitive, sunburned skin.

The white clothes I wore the last couple of days are on piled on the floor. They are the color of dirt. Did I walk around in public in those?

Wow, I got dark! And thin. I must have lost twenty pounds. I barely notice the person with the funky farmer’s tan staring back at me in the mirror. The Saint Christopher’s medal is hanging around my neck. It feels natural, like I’ve always had it on.

Hey, I’m starting to grow a mustache. Nice. I’ll leave it for now. I’m very careful shaving the rest of the face—it’s tender.

Ay yay yay! A toothbrush. I never thought I’d see a day where I was so grateful to have a toothbrush. I take an extra minute and really scrub my teeth, but they still look a bit brown after I’ve finished. I’ll have to do this again later. As I comb my hair, the mirror stops me. It has a suggestion.

I part my hair to the side just to see . . . It’s my dad; he’s smiling at me in the mirror. I do look like him. Eyes, nose, mouth; all his. So is the mustache. I throw on some jeans, underwear, socks, a shirt and head back to the mirror. Perfect! Now all I need is a big black horse.

I head toward the door and see the plastic baggie with the slips of paper with the phone numbers and addresses is sitting on the counter. I must have put it here last night when I got home.

For the most part they are worn, yet legible. A couple of them have some ink that ran a bit, but it’s darkest where they wrote, so I can still see the names and phone numbers. Others, written in pencil, fared even better. Even the paper held up pretty good, considering the journey they’ve gone through. I smile as I think that family is stronger than the border that separates us. I get a very warm feeling, verging on emotional.

Opening the front door, I see grey clouds moving eastward. It looks like it might rain. I run to the closet to get out my jacket. The cardboard box at the bottom of the closet doesn’t look so scary any more.

I put it on the sofa and open it. Right on top, as if waiting for me, are two very happy people. Dad was solidly built; he probably did a lot of hard work in his day. He sure didn’t belong to a gym, not in those days. Did they have gyms back than? I should work out.

Sadness creeps back into my heart like a bitter aftertaste. My eyes blur. I can’t even tell what I’m feeling right now. My whole world has changed so much. Everything I thought I knew: I didn’t. I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be any more. What if I had not gone down there? What if I never learned the truth? What if I never met my relatives? Would I have grown up living a lie? My whole life would have been a waste of time and energy. What am I supposed to do now? Do I check Hispanic, or Latino on registration forms? Am I really in trouble with the border people? Do I have a record in Mexico? Do I have a record here? After all, I’m a citizen and it’s not against the law for a citizen to enter America. I touch my St. Christopher’s medal through my shirt. Am I a Catholic, or what?  Who is Pancho Villa? What am I supposed to do with my life? What’s going to fill this empty hole where I used to store my anger? My insides feel like an echo chamber of confusion. I feel hollow and exposed.

Something breaks inside me and I surrender to it. I’m just too tired to hold it back any longer. Years worth of emotions come flooding down my cheeks. I’m sorry Dad. I’m so, so sorry.

 

 

 

After a few minutes I wipe my face and get myself together. I have a feeling I’m gonna need some serious counseling some day.

My father would not grow to be much older than this photo. Not much older than me right now. Just a few years, really. What a short life. At least it looks like he found happiness. I study the similarities in the eyes and forehead. I also notice some differences, which don’t seem the same as before.

My dad, at about the same age as I am now, had ventured across a dangerous border, bringing only his wits and his belief in himself. His future held the promise of a life more than poverty on a mountaintop, in his father’s house. He supported his family. He was an asset, sending money back home, worked two jobs, lived on his own, and married the woman he loved. I’m still living at home with my mom.

Hanging above the TV, a medium-sized print of a trolley car going down a steep hill in San Francisco. It’s the center of the room. I never really paid much attention to it before. It feels out of place now.

Picking up the wedding picture, I walk over and remove the San Francisco print and replace it with my parent’s picture, then stand back for a better view. I bet Mom will be happy when she comes home and sees it hanging proudly in the house.

I put the trolley car picture in the closet, but leave the box out in the living room. I’ll want to explore it more when I get home. I stop to look one more time at the picture on the wall.

 

The picture stays in my mind as I walk to work in the light drizzle of another early Arizona rain. Sure could have used this rain yesterday. Thanks!