1
Fede lay face down in the dust, moved his head to the left, opened his eyes to a red ant wandering towards his hand, then scuttling away. He pinched the insect with his fingers, holding its abdomen, watching its legs kick and struggle, its head swiveling every way possible. It wants to bite him. Bored of the drama, he pops it’s head off with his thumb nail and index fingernail. Another ant made its way down the same path, then another and so on for several moments. A cold gust of wind ran through his hair. The muffled ambient sounds of a desert afternoon reaching his ears as if he were underwater. The taste of iron in his bloodied mouth grew stale, a bruise on the back of his skull was no longer throbbing, he turned his head and went back to sleep.
Well into dusk he heard the hum of tractor trailers from the highway below, then the swooshing sound of feathers fanning his direction.
Recognizing the sound, he sprung to his feet, batting away two buzzards as he backed away, then tripped over a body and landed on his back. Letting out an agonizing huff he lay immobile, struggling to breathe, watching the flock of monsters devour one of the bodies.
Three buzzards flew away towards the boulders above. Another followed suit after a few moments but the ugliest ones continued, ripping flesh, slicing leather belts and boots with their razor sharp beaks, dried blood marking their black feathers, never blinking, never breaking stride, stopping only to see if anything else was dying.
Headlights lit the dark foothills for a moment then disappeared while he lay on his back, sucking wind through a straw, fighting to regain his breath, he pushed off the ground with elbows and forearms, rising to his knees and onto his feet, he stumbled down the bluff puncturing both shins on lechuguillas scattered along the hillside, scrapping past ocotillo thorns, warm blood leaked into his boots.
He reached the bottom of the hill. Walking towards the highway through boulders and yuccas, down one arroyo and up another, stopping momentarily to breath or dust his pants. He could see his breath in the cold air and stars sprouting in the darkening sky. He was cold and hungry. The highway did not appear to be far, the distance in the desert deceiving him, Fede walked another 20 minutes before reaching the road.
He took off his boots when he reached the highway, shaking out rocks, dirt, and dust. His socks were damp with blood. The upper part dried to his legs. Headlights from a vehicle landed on the mesquite branches above him, two sets coming his way, both at equal distance from each other. He gauged them passing in 2 or 3 minutes. Putting on his boots, fixing his shirt, and dusting his pants, he stood on the shoulder’s white line, waving his hand like a buffoon. Both cars zipped by, neither slowing down. The road was quiet again. Their red tail lights disappeared over the horizon.
The night grew colder, Fede kept moving. Another pair of headlights appeared in the distance behind him, moving faster than the previous vehicles, it’s headlights grew brighter by the time he reached the overpass. Fede thought of the car’s warm heater on his feet and nodding off in the passenger seat. He pictured them as good people, driving home from the border, a day visiting family in El Paso. What would he say if they asked questions? Maybe he could just sit in the back seat and not say anything, or answer every question, every specific detail until he goes limp from exhaustion. He wondered if the car smell like wet dog and cigarettes or spilt coffee and cat hair, or the thick smell of leather from a working man’s boots. He turned to face the oncoming vehicle, stuck out his right arm and outstretched his thumb. It’s headlights blinding him for a second then zoomed by and slowed, red brake lights lit the asphalt for a moment. They considered him and then sped away.
Thirst dried Fede, he wanted to fall where he stood, eventually stumbled down an arroyo and landing by a culvert. On his knees, his hands moved efficiently, scooping and tossing sand, making a trench to hide his body from the cold air. Fede dug a little over a foot in depth, and stopped, took a few deep cold breaths, then returned to digging out his burrow only to find wet sand and eventually water pooling at the bottom of the hole. He lay back against the embankment, exhausted. He pulled out his cigarettes and a lighter in his left denim coat pocket. A few clicks of the bic and the first deep drag filled his lungs with hot smoke.
Fede smoked his cigarettes then snuffed it into the embankment. He looked into the hole he dug using the dim light from his lighter, clear water, almost 3 inches deep had pooled. He stuck his face in the hole, put his lips to the cool water and drank.
He built a small fire with sticks and tumbleweeds, stacked them against the entrance of the culvert and lit a nest of dried brush, a warm yellow and red light snapped twigs, squeezing a hissing gasp of grasses from the thin branches of tumble weeds. Fede stacked heftier pieces in top hoping they’d catch, provide at least another 30 minutes of heat. The warmth and light felt good on his face, hands, and nerves. It must be late, he thought. He covered his body with brush and closed his eyes.
2
Sergio loved charming Fede’s elderly mother. She put out a spread of huevos machados, re-fried beans, tortillas, homemade salsa, queso fresco, and a pot of coffee. Dona Florinda fed anyone who came over; stray cats, dogs, the mailman, the home security salesman, and she even fed Mormon missionaries, establishing a safe zone for the young evangelists at her breakfast nook or dinner table. Elder Smith, a familiar visitor, once brought a brown skinned elder, said he was a brother from their islands in Samoa. Dona Florinda had no idea there were brown Mormons. Good for them.
Why don't you come over more often. I haven’t seen you since last summer?
I've been super busy. I bought a house in Cruces, a big one, almost an acre and lots of pecan trees. Claudia says hi, the girls just keep growing. Joleen is already as tall as me….
They continued their chatter. Fede studied them, their gestures and smiles, their polite exchanges. Sergio was a pathological liar with the air of a wealthy light skinned Mexican. He wore a handsome stubble beard and long wavy black hair, the kind of Mexican you’d see at the outlet malls on weekends. Their women flaunt their bodies in tight trendy outfits of expensive jeans, blouses, and jewelry, or a sun dress that would make a priest blush. Their high heels, aviator glasses, and strut take up the sidewalk, rummaging through folded stacks of clothes as if digging through their own laundry, little or no regard for the hourly employees struggling to keep up and clean up their mess.
Dona Florinda was dressed in her bohemian Mexican garb, long skirts and sandals with a modest peasant blouse. She never dressed like this when he was kid, now it was more of a costume. She identified as Mexican and not a U.S. citizen. For years he thought she knew the Mexican national anthem by heart, but it was only the first four verses, she hummed the rest. Her resident alien card saved her from deportation numerous times during the Obama and Trump years. She was a beautiful woman. Fede tired of her. He wished she'd leave the kitchen.
I'm proud of you. She put her right hand on his shoulder. You’re making your own life. Make sure you tell your mamma I said hello. Exiting the scene, she gave Fede the same look she’s given him a million times before, a tired attempt at shaming a 34 year old man still living in his mother’s home. The men continued eating. Sergio poured himself more coffee, leaned over to freshen Fede’s cup but he waved him off. I’m good, he said.
What do you want? I haven't seen you in months then you randomly show up… I don't owe you anything, do I?
Nah man, we’re good, but I… I need your help. I've asked a few people, but no ones available, he said, putting the “available” in air quotes.
Memo??
Even Memo.
Guillermo “Memo” Villareal took every risk presented to him, even the ones that paid nothing. He did it out of boredom and namesake, “there goes crazy Memo”.
Y Roman?
Tambien
He scooped up the last of the refried beans with a tortilla, finished his coffee, never taking his eyes off Sergio, trying to catch a lie.
It'll be easy. I promise.
I can't.
Sergio sat back, pulled out a cigarette.
Aqui no, pendejo. Let’s go outside.
He picked up their plates, scraped the remains into a an empty light blue Morrell lard bucket, rinsed off the plates and left them in the sink. Vamos, he motioned to Sergio as he walked out the screen door.
They walked to the far end of the property where his father planted a Mexican Sycamore 20 years ago. It was the lone tree along the irrigation ditch levy that stretched to the Rio Grand. It was over 30 feet tall. It’s large dried crunchy leaves covered the ground around, stacking into the bottom of the ditch, creating a soft bed for laying prone and taking pop shots at the jack rabbits in the desert abutting their neighborhood. Sergio collected pecans along the patchy yellow grass, cracking their shells with his back molars. Two yard dogs followed them, sniffing their pant legs.
Watch out man, I haven't scooped up the dog shit yet. Fede picked up a tennis ball and shot it across the property. The dogs took off in chase. Both men sat on a log under the Sycamore and talked for over an hour. The dogs sat with them. The morning eventually warmed and Sergio left.
Two days later he drove his pick-up truck to the border to pick up Danny, Sergios friend. Danny pulled into a parking lot across the street from the old courthouse. He recognized the older fatter version of Danny from High School. His dirty Dallas Cowboys hat and oversized t-shirt camouflaged him among the people buying Mexican ice pops from the street vendors. Danny looked over at Fede, smiled and waved, paid the young vendor and walked over.
Toma buey, he told him, climbing into the cab of Fede’s pick-up, handing Fede an ice-pop. I knew you'd bring your shiny ass truck, he told him. No worries, we’ll leave it here and take my car.
Yeah, that's fine. Fede took the off plastic wrapper of his coconut treat.
You haven't seen my new car, huh? It's right over there.
Si, pendejo. I saw you pull up. I thought you didn't want to call attention?
They drove Danny's metallic black El Camino with white wall tires, “TX-VATO” personalized license plates, and 5 inch white letter decals commemorating his grandfather’s passing on the rear window. Octavio Perez - Gonzalez, 1932 - 2015. They drove over Puente Tornillo Guadalupe into Mexico and took Carretera Dos, following the border through towns, dirt road colonias, pharmacies, corner markets, wooden pallet shanties and gangs of stray dogs. The desert opened up, the El Camino picked up speed.
We'll be back by tonight?
Simón buey, no te preocupes. Looking out at the desert, both hands on the wheel at ten and two, Danny gave Fede a reassuring nod.
Fede sunk into the warm leather bench seats. He gazed out the window to watch the roadside brush fly by while the distant desert stood still. Fede’s breathing slowed, the car seat molded perfectly around him, his muscles and eyelids grew heavy in the warmth of the mid-day sun, Fede dozed off. He dreamed of a January evening under his father’s sycamore. A rust colored dusk to his left, a buildup of clouds over the Organ mountains to the north where the sky darkened. His dog sat next to him, a handsome black German Shepherd named Geronimo. The dog sipped coffee from an old metal cup and spoke to him in Spanish.
No hay mal que por bien no venga.
Then a long pause. The dry branches of the sycamore tapped scraped on each other.
Lo se. He said.
The cold wind felt good against his cheeks. The weapon felt heavy in his hands. Geronimo’s ears perked up to watch roadrunners scamper in the desert brush below.
Que piensas?
Geronimo looked into his coffee cup, a few ounces of cold coffee left. He swirled them round. Cada dia, el mundo nos rechasa, como el perro que sacude sus pulgas.
Fede broke into laughter. Mocking his dog, You’re a fucking idiot.
3
He woke when they pulled to a roadside cafe.
We're here, Danny said. You ok?
How long was I out?
About 20 minutes.
It felt like an hour.
The cafe was small, packed dirt floor, high ceilings, and heavy timber beams supporting a tin roof. It was warm inside, with the occasional dry breeze coming through the open back door. There were two children watching a small television behind the cash register. An old Tarahumara woman brought them water and dark overcooked greasy tortilla chips. They ordered food and beers. She took their orders and pointed towards a refrigerator by the side door for beverages, a help yourself policy. They each drank two. After ten minutes a squat muscular man walked in and introduced himself. He looked like a suburban gringo, sporting the dad-vacation outfit, khaki cargo shorts, tennis shoes, white socks, and a bright pink LaCoste polo shirt. He spoke perfect Spanish with a foreign accent, not Mexican.
Listos? He asked them.
Vamonos, said Danny, laying down a 20 dollar bill on the table.
They backtracked towards Cd. Juarez on Carretera Dos, following the man onto a dirt road a few miles ahead. The road ended at a rock quarry. It was just past lunch time. Most of the large rock haulers and heavy equipment were shut down except for a few pickup trucks coming up the rim. They pulled up to an office trailer. The man went inside for a few minutes, returned with a set of keys and some papers, motioned them to roll down the window.
Alright, the truck's on the other side of the office. Here's the keys, the bill of lading, weight papers, and log book. You're hauling 3 tons of coarse white granite. You'll go back to Puente Tornillo and you know the rest. You ready? His perfect English threw him off, like listening to a talking dog, he wasn’t expecting it and couldn’t look away.
Yeah, lets go, lets do this. Fede got out of the car. Danny leaned over to the passenger seat, Don't worry man, I’ll be behind you. It's just rocks... I'll see you back at the truck.
They watched Fede through the office window blinds. He did his truck checks and paperwork, then cranked the engine and brought the tractor trailer around the building, dusting up the dirt road and making a left onto Carretera Dos. Within a few hours he’d be at his pick-up and on his way home. He could see Danny’s car trailing at a reasonable distance for the first 10 minutes then disappeared. He scanned both mirrors intently then despairingly, hoping the El Camino would surface over a rise or pop around a curve.
He was alone. He had no way of calling him. He knew this would happen, but this probably meant the load was legitimate, 3 tons of crushed granite gravel for a ranch north of Fort Davis, just rocks, nothing nefarious. He was better off not knowing, making a better lie, grounded in the only truth he knew, willful ignorance with no hesitation in his voice. The officer would side with him for being sincere and forthcoming. They’d both have a good laugh over the circumstances and he’d be able to tell his friends the story over beers one day. It might even make a good story for a first date. Flashing red and blue lights of a patrol car behind brought him back to the dusty cab of the tractor trailer. This can’t happen, he thought. He pulled onto the right shoulder of the highway, calmed his nerves and greeted the officer.
4
They knelt overlooking a desert plain extending towards the silhouettes of distant foothills and their mountains. This was underwater millions of years ago, he thought. This would be a sea bed where millions of life forms swam, crawled, and ate each other. He thought of what came after the sea receded. His legs and knees burned as he told himself to focus on anything besides the pain, thirst, and self pity. They'd been on their knees for hours. The men standing behind warned being shot if they stood or collapsed. They were told those who lasted until sunrise would live.
The patrolman that pulled over Fede eventually collapsed from exhaustion. A man walked up to the sobbing bastard and buried two thuds into his back from his suppressed weapon. Then shot him again to quiet the convulsions. The eastern horizon was outlined by razor thin layer of rust colored orange burning off into a thicker layer of blends of lavender and violet with a thick layer of black and indigo buffering the night from the coming sun. He took a deep breath of cold air holding the scent of damp mesquite and dirt.
The men behind them wore black balaclavas, black uniforms, and carried American weapons. They whispered to each other in Spanish, Mexican accents, one with an American accent. They spoke to their captives when necessary, reminding them to stay still. Unable to move, the captives had pissed or defecated themselves but none of that mattered, it would be over soon. The sky to the east lightened with each passing moment.
The American accent walked up behind Fede and whispered in his ear, “fall on your face, puto”.
Fede tensed up and grit his teeth. A rifle butt struck the back of the head. He fell face first into the dirt. Then a volley of suppressed rifle shots forced the other three to the ground. A taste of blood in his mouth, ringing in his head and ears, Fede was sure he'd been shot. He woke many hours later to the sound of buzzards.
5
Fede smoked his last cigarette at dawn after a cold night in the arroyo, he hadn't eaten in two days. He continued walking the same direction he'd been walking all night. Danny drove the opposite direction, passed him and turned his car around. He pulled the El Camino in front of Fede and ran to meet him.
Holy shit, you look like shit. Lets get you in the car.
Agua, he asked Danny. I’m fucking hungry, bro.
We'll stop up here and get you something.
A few hours later they arrived at the bridge. The Border Patrol agent stuck his head into Danny's El Camino. Both men nailed their lines, “American Citizen” they each responded.
What's your business in Mexico?
We were visiting family... a birthday party.
What’s up with him. The agent pointed his chin at the Fede.
Oh, his old lady made him sleep outside. Danny giggled nervously. He was sleeping with her sister... she found out last night. Too much information, Danny thought. Now it really sounded like a lie. The agent kept sizing up the passenger.
You guys bring any fruit, vegetables, medicine....birds? Another agent and a large German Shepard walked around their car.
No sir, nothing of the sort. My friend and I just had a wild night at our family's. Danny was running out of lies, he thought of details he could manufacture on the spot. The agent pulled his head out and waved them through.
The El Camino rounded the Border Patrol check station and weaved through barricade serpentine course. Fede notice a tractor trailer with similar rock quarry logos as the one he was driving being stripped by a gang of agents.
What the fuck is that? Fede pointed at the dismantling operation at the far end of the port of entry.
What? Danny ignore him.
That! Fede stuck his finger out.
The rock trailer? Hell if I know. They’re probably looking for something. It was clear Danny didn’t want to discuss what happened.
Fede watched agents strip away the tractor and trailer as they drove away. Far behind them, three gravel trucks from the same quarry made their way across the border. After a mediocre meal at a tourist Mexican restaurant, he drove home in his pickup truck. Curious to know how much money they’d left in his glove box, he pulled into a strip mall parking lot, pushed the large button on the drawer. It dropped open, there was nothing there.