Puzzles are a waste of energy? Did you work out that opinion during your leisure time or regular business hours? If you’d ever done one, you’d know that puzzles required a great deal of concentration and discipline. It’s like meditation. Wait, I’m not going to justify. It doesn’t matter. I’m working on the Grand Canyon right now. 1,200 pieces.
I like to fish, been doing that since I was a kid. In the summer when the water is warm, I’ll get in with a spear gun or a Hawaiian sling. I like diving best because the fish and I are equals, level playing field. Hey, a big shark comes along I could be dinner too. Although I’ve never seen a really big shark, I’d like to. I love sharks. If you’ve got to go, a shark attack seems about the perfect way out. Anyway, it’s hard to spear fish, requires skill. They’re very fast and they love to hide in eelgrass, behind reefs or underneath rocks. A good spear fisherman must have excellent breath control—takes years of practice.
The rule is: if you kill it you eat it. It’s a code I’ve lived by my whole life, started by my mother and her insistence that we honor all living things. It’s one of the reasons I did-n’t throw rocks at squirrels and such or torture cats when I was a kid. I knew my mother would make me eat it. But I did hunt for fish. As a youth I was unskilled and impatient, I would shoot just about anything. Nothing was too small for that bloodthirsty kid. And once I killed it, I would eat it—every time. I built a fire right there on the beach and cooked up my prey on a stick over the flames. I liked it best when there was an audience. Choking down bony little fish was a point of pride for me. I felt self-sufficient and strong. I still like catching fish and cooking them on the sand. Man in nature.
I like to read novels. All kinds of novels; I am not a snob. There’s nothing better than losing yourself in someone else’s story. Most nights you’ll find me with my nose in a book.
Poaching weed is my passion. I love spending time up in those mountains, love the beauty of the land, the changing of the seasons. (Yes, we do have seasons.) And I enjoy the intricate strategies I develop in order to successfully complete my missions. I work very hard on my business plan but it’s like another puzzle, something that I enjoy. I’d poach weed even if it didn’t pay. It’s that much fun.
I do spend a lot of time on women. I like women and they like me. I especially love messing with my clientele. It’s like a fringe benefit of being in the business. Get them high and let them ride the painted pony. I’m rarely turned down. The fancy ladies always smell so good. I love it. Most of them are married or involved with someone so nothing ever really sticks and that’s just fine with me. Not a lot of room in my camper, you know? I’m not looking for a roommate.
The future? Don’t really think about it much. Can’t see any point, really. Most plans fall through, you know? I’m right here, right now. That’s good enough for me.
LONG RIDE FOR FELIX
IT WAS A SCHOOL BUS, PAINTED BLACK AND HIGHLIGHTED IN candy apple red, very clean and well polished. Someone had taken great care with the details and there was a ring of tiny red flames that ran all the way around the body, licking up at the windows. The chrome grill was immaculately clean and right there in the middle of it was the blue and silver insignia that said, “FORD”. An American bus for his journey north. Felix had been waiting since before dawn, one of the first to arrive, and so he was able to get the window seat right behind the driver. He hugged his duffle bag to his chest and waited as the bus filled. On a normal ride you could expect to be crammed in with passengers. A lot of pushing and shoving and there were usually chickens and turkeys taking up too much space. Bleating goats and crying children, sweat and unwashed clothing, all in a haze of black exhaust. The smell would stay with you long after you’d arrived at your destination. Felix had spent his life on such buses, riding into Morelia to see friends or to work. It was all he knew.
But this was different. The people boarded quietly and carried hardly any luggage, small suitcases or backpacks and a jug or two of water. That was it. No animals, no furniture. The bus was only half full, the seat next to Felix unoccupied. It was mostly young males about his age, a few women, one or two with children, and a couple of older men. People nodded in greeting, sometimes with the hint of a smile, but everyone seemed lost in their personal journey, absorbed with thoughts and fears of what the future would hold.
Felix looked out the window as the bus pulled away. It had been hardest to leave Ernesto. That little boy had the sweetest nature, he never threw tantrums and always obeyed, eager to please. Their father had died when he was just an infant. Ernesto adored Felix and imitated him in all things; he walked his walk, copied his speech patterns, stood with his hand on his left hip, tucked his napkin into his shirt or held his fork in just the same way as his older brother. They’d shared a cot from the time he started walking. Each night Ernesto was bedded down in his corner of the room by his mother but once she was asleep he’d sneak across the room and crawl in with Felix. He’d never spent a single night without his older brother and so he did not understand when Felix told him about going north. Nothing could stop the tantrum this morning when Felix said his goodbyes. His face turned red and his fists were feverishly hot as he hit at Felix’s arms and legs. Felix tried to hold him in his arms but Ernesto twisted and flailed so that he had to be put down on the floor. Finally their mother had asked Felix to leave. “Just go,” she’d said. “It’ s too hard on the boy.” She assured him that everything would be fine. So he had walked out of their that everything would be fine. So he had walked out of their little house and up the street until he could no longer hear the cries of his little brother.
Felix couldn’t really let himself think about what lay ahead. He didn’t have any idea. There was terror lurking around the edges of his imagination; he just tried to shut his mind down. He looked out the window at the dusty towns and tiny farms they were driving past, unfamiliar and yet very much the same as his hometown. A couple of hours into the trip the bus stopped in the center of a village and another big group of passengers got on board. A thin man in a cowboy hat took the seat next to Felix. They smiled and nodded at each other but did not speak. The bus was full now and a couple of the passengers were trying to make themselves comfortable on the floor. They would be driving straight through to Altar. The driver said it would take about thirty hours. People talked quietly. Felix looked out the window.
Violeta’s house backed up on the church and graveyard. She’d snuck out last night and met him there, something she’d always refused to do before. They’d sat on an old stone bench and kissed each other with a new passion that made Felix feel strangely sad. She took his hand, guided it underneath her blouse, giving him a tour of what would be his when he returned. The softness of her skin, its warmth, and the firm fullness of her breasts had almost been too much. He took his hand back and stroked her hair, kissing her, telling her how much he loved her, promising great things for their future. And then Violeta had touched him, rubbed him through his pants until he couldn’t hold back any longer. This was something she’d always refused him in the past, and he’d wondered if his maleness, his very sex, had repulsed her in someway. Other girls he’d known had been much more willing. Sometimes he worried that she didn’t truly desire him in the same way. But last night she’d changed. Last night she’d been eager for him and thinking about it now, he wondered if he should have pushed things further. He could still vaguely taste her kisses and smell her sugary perfume.
Felix fell asleep with his head against the window and when he awoke, the sun was beginning to set. The man next to him snored, his head thrown back on the seat, his hat rested on his knees. He was older, probably in his late thirties, and had a thick mustache, that was twisted and curled at the ends, and dense dark brows. Felix wondered about him, what he was leaving behind and where he was going. He guessed that most of the people on this bus were heading north to work in fields or to do cheap labor. How had they afforded this bus ride? Where did the money come from that would pay the coyote?
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The bus pulled to the side of the road and stopped. The bathroom breaks were few and far between. Felix gently shook his neighbor. The man jumped as if shocked by a cattle prod.
“Sorry.” Felix grabbed his small bag. “We’re taking a break. I thought you would want to get off.”
The man nodded and put his hat on his head.
“I’m Felix,” he smiled and extended his hand. “Felix Duarte.”
“Santos.” The man shook hands in one quick yank. “Mucho gusto.” He stood, picked up his backpack, and filed off the bus with everyone else, clearly uninterested in making a new friend.
Just as well. Felix didn’t really have the energy either. He got off the bus, peed in the bushes with all the other men, while the women went off behind a tree, then got back on board and willed himself to sleep.
The bus pulled into Altar around lunchtime. Felix could feel the dry heat sucking the moisture from his body. His skin felt tight, itchy and his mouth was parched. He’d never been in such an arid climate and looking out the window at this small dirty town made him ache for his village. He looked out at the plaza, packed with people restlessly milling around in front of the dusty mission church, and realized that there wasn’t a single person in this town, in this entire state, who cared about him. No one would miss him if he disappeared, no one would lift a finger to help him if he got in trouble.
Buses, vans and small trucks took up all the parking spots so they had to circle the main plaza a few times until they found a place to stop on a side street. When the driver turned off the engine, Santos, who hadn’t conversed with anyone on the entire long ride north, stood up and addressed the bus.
“My name is Santos.” He cleared his throat and twisted the right side of this thick mustache so that it pointed slightly higher than the left. “I am the main guide for this journey.” With his announcement of personal authority his posture seemed to change. Now Santos stood taller, his shoulders squared.
“I remained invisible to you for my safety. If we’d been stopped, and I’d been identified as the leader . . .” He cleared his throat and twisted the other side of this moustache so that now it was balanced. “There has been some trouble lately. Cracking down to placate Americans. You would have walked away but a coyote pays the price. It was better for everyone if you did not know.”
Felix was too tired to be surprised. He was entering a world with a new set of rules, ones that he didn’t understand. All he could do was listen and hope for the best.
“We will break into groups of twelve. I will assign each group a leader. We have people who work for us here in town. Some of the groups will be making the trip sooner than others. Wait for our instructions. We have rooms here in town where you will rest until it is time to move on. One room per group. I would advise you to stay off the streets at night. This is a dangerous place. The only person you should trust is your leader.”
Santos turned and got off the bus. Everyone followed him down the block to the main plaza where the other coyotes waited. People made comments as they walked by, referring to them “Pollos”, the common nickname for desperate migrants. Chickens and coyotes. Felix couldn’t let himself think about it.
Santos quickly divided everyone. He selected Felix and eleven other mostly young, healthy men for his group. The coyotes given women and children were clearly annoyed, rolling their eyes or spitting in the dirt. Felix felt a bolt of fear run through him for these women and for himself. Would they be all right? There was a girl who looked about twelve traveling with her young mother. The girl’s glossy black hair was neatly plaited into two long braids. She’d lost one of her yellow hair ribbons but she looked remarkably fresh. Her mother kept a protective arm around her shoulder. They were both so beautiful and unmistakably alone. What would happen? Who would protect them? It was another thing that Felix couldn’t allow himself to think about.
The plaza was crowded with vendors selling cheap “American” clothing, backpacks, sneakers, boots. Stall after stall offered jackets and gloves for the cold nights or water bottles and hats for the scorching desert sun. The shopkeepers competed with each other, shouting advice about fitting in on the other side of “la linea” and how their clothes were the most authentic.
“Ignore them,” Santos said as he led his small group to the room at the hostel where they would wait. “Once we get across, we’ll give you everything you need. A change of clothes will not make you fit in. It’s nonsense.”
There was a double bed covered by a brown tattered blanket. A small table with a lamp sat next to the bed and opposite there was a single wooden chair. The floor was covered in an old matted carpet, once green, now mostly brown. A dirty sheet was tacked up over the one window that looked out on the street. There was a bathroom with a shower where two thin towels hung on a rack.
“We will cross tonight,” Santos said. “I’ll be back in a few hours to get you.” He stood in the doorway, smoothing his mustache. “The food on the cart downstairs is pretty good. Cheap. If it was me, I’d eat something, take a shower and try to get some sleep. The crossing will be difficult. Cold at night and the days are brutal. Drink as much water now as you can. People die in that desert. I’m not going to lie to you. Every day people die.”
Santos left, closing the door behind him. The men introduced themselves: Nacho, Argus, Luz, Pedro. Everyone said their names, they all shook hands but Felix didn’t really hear. Every day people die. That sentence took up all the space in his brain. Dying was not part of this deal. Somehow he’d thought that Julio and his partners were going to bring Felix across safely, that because he was working for them he’d be special. He’d envisioned hiding in the back of a truck or perhaps curled up in a secret compartment inside a dashboard. He thought he’d be driven across the border. It never occurred to him that he’d have to walk.
Some of the men headed downstairs to eat. Three of them lay on the bed. One guy took a shower. Felix sat on the floor in the corner, head resting on his bag, and tried to extinguish the roaring sound of his fear.
They were loaded into a small van with three bench seats. Twelve in the rear with Santos and the driver up front, it was crowded. Felix got in first and sat on the left side by the window at the back. It was late afternoon. The rear windows didn’t open and with all those bodies packed in so tightly together, the rattling van was like an oven. How do people live here? Felix thought as they drove out of town. That relentless sun robbed the earth of the lush fertility that had been so much a part of his landscape. This desert was sterile. Even if you had the water, the earth was cracked and barren, no minerals, no richness. Here and there they passed a bunch of low, thorny cacti or some mean looking brush, dry and brown, but otherwise nothing grew. There was no oasis, no safe resting place in sight. The endless sand and jagged rock made Felix unbearably homesick.
“It’s about another hour to the border.” Santos turned in his seat and addressed the group. “There’s a checkpoint up here where we may or may not have to check in. They used to try and stop us from crossing but not now. Don’t be nervous. They’ll just tell you about how dangerous the trip is. Warn you to carry at least three gallons of water. Encourage you not to go. Government stuff.”
Don’t be nervous. For some reason that stuck Felix as funny. As if his nerves were a condition he controlled and changed with a flip of a switch or turn of a dial. Don’t be nervous; be happy or calm or excited. Rotate the knob until it points to another more appropriate emotion. Felix was scared out of his mind. He hoped that Santos’ abilities as a guide were more finely tuned and useful than his advice.
“Once we pass the checkpoint we’ll turnoff on a rough road by an abandoned brickyard. Another half hour and we’re at our crossing point.” Santos cleared his throat. “We’ll leave just after dark and walk all night into the early morning. I know some caves where we’ll rest during the hottest part of the day. Then we’ll walk again through the night. We should be able to make it to our pick-up spot by sunrise.”
“You’ll be taken to a safe house and given clean clothes and a hot meal. From there, I assume you have all made arrangements. My job ends once I deliver you to the house.”
They drove past a wrecked van that looked a lot like the one in which they rode. It was flipped upside down, the roof completely crushed, windows broken; one of the doors had been ripped off and was lying nearby in the ditch. No one could have survived that crash. Felix looked away and tried to remember the pattern of the shawl that his mother was finishing just as he left. Was it primarily red? Dark blue? He tried but could not see it in his mind.
Pedro, who sat next to Felix, indicated the checkpoint ahead on the right. Santos and the driver argued about something but Felix couldn’t hear what they said. He looked to Pedro who shrugged his shoulders. Santos pointed to the guard shack with an angry gesture and the driver yanked the wheel, bringing the van to a stop in front of the small tin shed.
Santos and the driver got out to greet the guard. They talked for a few minutes, gesturing, laughing, slapping each other on the back, and then Santos took some money out of his pocket and handed it to the guard. They shook hands and got back in the van.
“Change of plans,” Santos said as they drove away. “La Migra is all over my usual route. We’ll go another way. A little bit longer but we’ve got a better chance. Everything will be fine. Don’t be nervous.”
Felix knew that La Migra wasn’t the only danger when crossing the border. Bandits roamed the area, preying on migrants. They stole from people much poorer than themselves with no remorse. Often they killed just to kill. Santos explained that the group had nothing to worry about. He showed them his gun and told them he was an excellent shot. “I’ve never lost anyone to a bandit,” he said with pride.
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