"English motherfucker," he screamed into Avellanos's ear. "Do you speak it?"
"Not a word," the bearded man said, shaking his head in disgust, "not a word."
"I don't care who you are," the tall man said. "If you live in my country, you speak my language."
"Man is the most composite of all creatures," Avellanos said. "As in the old burning of the Temple at Corinth, by the melting and inter mixture of silver and gold and other metals a new compound more precious than any, called Corinthian brass, was formed; so in this continent,--asylum of all nations,--the energy of Irish, Germans, Swedes, Poles, and Cossacks, and all the European tribes,--of the Africans, and of the Polynesians,--will construct a new race, a new religion, a new state, a new literature, which will be as vigorous as the new Europe which came out of the smelting-pot of the Dark Ages, or that which earlier emerged from the Pelagic and Etruscan barbarism."
Both of the America's Guard members drew back, startled.
"What the hell is that shit?" the bearded man said.
"That is spoken language," Avellanos said, "also known as English."
"Sounds like politically correct bullshit," the tall, clean shaven man said. "Who said that, Keith Olbermann?"
"Ralph Waldo Emerson," Avellanos said. "It's from his journals. It's the passage usually credited with giving birth to the term melting pot."
"Oh Christ," the bearded man said. "It's one of those fucking college kids. Stupid cunt brings them here. Like father like daughter."
"I'm not sure what the problem is," Avellanos said. "You wanted me to speak English. I spoke English."
"My problem with you," the tall man said, "is that you're a traitor who enables illegals. You're worse than the illegals."
"That's your opinion," Avellanos said, "but what crime have we committed? As far as I know, you can only detain us under the CCIA if you suspect us of having committed another crime. So what crime have we committed?"
"That's what we're trying to determine," the bearded man said. "We noticed that you were walking along Route 1081?"
"Yes," Avellanos said, laughing. "Is that a crime?"
"Reasonable suspicion," he heard several voices say, "reasonable suspicion. Call it in."
The tall man looked at Avellanos.
"Under city law," he said. "We have no right to ask you for your ID, but we do have the right to detain you until a deputized immigration agent arrives, and, owing to the fact that you just confessed to a crime, since walking along a state highway off the sidewalk is punishable by a 25 dollar to 50 dollar fine, we are now within our rights to detain you pending verification of your immigration status."
Avellanos looked startled.
"You're joking?"
"Nope."
When Avellanos noticed two figures in uniform, he realized the danger.
Two "deputized immigration agents," two Poison Springs Metro Police officers, had indeed been summoned. The first officer was about 30, male, and very, very large. He looked a bit like the bouncer at a local nightclub who had just won third place in a Chris Farley look-alike contest. "Officer Joe Korzeniowski," his badge read. The second officer, who was a plain, heavy-set woman in her early 20s with a moon face, freckles, and bright red hair, was considerably less intimidating. "Officer Teresa O'Neal," her badge read.
"So what have you got?" Korzeniowski said.
"Looks like a wetback traveling with an old homosexual," the bearded man said, "and some college kid doing, what do they call it again?"
“Civil disobedience?"
"That's it. That's the one"
"Well," Korzeniowski said, "deport on the wetback, catch and release on the college kid and the old faggot."
"Catch and release," O'Neal said to herself. "That's not right."
Korzeniowski walked up to Avellanos.
"You're an American I guess."
"Speaks English better than I do," the tall man said.
"No," Avellanos said. "I'm not."
"You look like one to me," Korzeniowski said.
Korzeniowski extended his hand. When Avellanos refused to take it, he stepped forward very quickly, and punched him in the stomach. Avellanos doubled over, gasping for breath. Korzeniowski added a second blow to the side of the head, and Avellanos went down on one knee. Jorge rushed forward and helped him to his feet, then got pushed back. When Avellanos recovered himself, Korzeniowski extended his hand a second time. This time Avellanos decided to shake it.
"That's better. You're an American right?"
"Yes," Avellanos said, trying to catch his breath, feeling hot blood trickle into his mouth. "I'm an American."
"Good. Make sure it stays that way. Now put your hand on your heart."
Avellanos put his hand on his heart.
"Repeat after me," Korzeniowski said, taking a small flag pin off his shirt, and holding it up. "I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty, and justice for all."
Avellanos repeated the pledge with the America's Guard members gathered around him to judge his performance, which, except for the fact that they shouted out "under God" to boost what they seemed to think was Avellanos' less than enthusiastic invocation of the deity, they generally seemed to approve. Korzeniowski turned to Andy Jackson.
"You may be an old chicken hawk, but you look like an American."
“More American than you," Andy Jackson said. "I fought for my country. I know you didn't."
"Ah, the old I fought for my country line every old bum uses. Teresa. Arrest the wetback and send this punk and the old faggot on their way."
"You're not even going to ask them for their ID?" O'Neal said.
"Nope," Korzeniowski said, moving towards Jorge.
"I think we should take them all in. We shouldn't play favorites."
"Your concern has been noted, but Steve told us catch and release until the media pressure eases up."
"Catch and release only confirms the argument that we're engaged in racial profiling,"
"Confirms the argument that we're engaged in racial profiling," Korzeniowski said with a sneer in his voice. "Start the violins."
She was about to answer him but he indicated that she should remain silent.
"I don't answer to you, but let me explain what this punk is up to," he said pointing to Avellanos. "Punks like this come here without ID because they want us to arrest them. They want to clog up the jails."
Teresa O'Neill frowned.
"I'm not a fool. It's just my opinion that racial profiling and favoritism undermines law and order. You create the impression that the law isn't fair, and nobody respects it."
Korzeniowski laughed so loudly and so heartily that it finally seemed to cow her into silence. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the ground.
"Thank you professor," he said, walking over to Jorge, taking a pair of handcuffs off his belt, and putting them on his wrists.
He pushed Jorge in O'Neal's direction then walked back over to Avellanos.
"That's what you want, isn't it?" he said to Avellanos. "You want to clog up the jails so the city spends so much time dealing with your daddy's lawyer we can't arrest the real criminals, including," he said, pointing back at Jorge, "foreigners who cross our borders and invade our country."
Jorge looked at the ground, saying nothing.
"Jerry, Hank, help Teresa put the wetback in the car, and make sure you put some men around the mall," he said to the two America's Guard members. "We're going to have to be extra vigilant until that fence goes up. And get those bikes inside before this snow picks up. Get those bikes off the road now. Officer O'Neal, put the wetback in the car. What are you waiting for? They've got to get those bikes inside. Chop. Chop.”
O'Neal put her hand on Jorge's arm, but the cuffs were so tight he grimaced in pain, cursed out loud, and began to struggle. She attempted to restrain him, grabbing him by the other arm, but he shrieked out
in agony. When he accidentally elbowed her, Korzeniowski walked over, drew out his nightstick, and rested the end on Jorge's forehead.
"You elbow my partner again, and I'll whack you right between the eyes."
Korzeniowski took out his key and loosened Jorge's cuffs before he and O'Neal muscled him into the first squad car. She got into the front seat. He rapped on the hood with his nightstick, and she pulled out onto the service road. Avellanos watched in silence as the car continued back to Route 1081, but Andy Jackson started yelling.
"That's my friend. Where are you taking him? Where are you taking him?"
Korzeniowski walked up to Andy Jackson, his nightstick still in hand.
"You shut up," he said, resting the end of the nightstick on Andy Jackson's forehead. "You don't shut up I'll give you a shot right between the eyes."
Andy Jackson went berserk. He rushed at Korzeniowski, screaming all the while that no one was giving him any kind of shot. Somehow he managed to pull the gigantic man's legs out from under him, get on top, and pummel him in the face until Hank and George pulled him off. Korzeniowski shoved him up against the second patrol car and twisted his arm behind his back.
"Hey faggot," he said to Avellanos. "Come over here."
Korzeniowski continued to twist Andy Jackson's arm.
"I want you to shut up about the fucking shot. Shut up about the fucking shot."
But Andy Jackson kept screaming about the shot, so loudly that no one could hear Avellanos when he yelled "stop it. Can't you see he's crazy?"
"Now beg motherfucker beg," Korzeniowski, still twisting his arm, said. "Beg me for forgiveness."
Avellanos stood in place, frozen in terror. He looked into Andy Jackson's eyes. Andy Jackson looked back. Korzeniowski put his whole body into the wrestling hold. The arm suddenly looked like rubber. Avellanos heard a loud crack, almost as if it had been the branch of a tree blown down during a hurricane. Jackson went silent. Korzeniowski cuffed him, pushed him in the back of the second squad car, and walked up to Avellanos with the nightstick still in his hand. There was a look of post coital satisfaction on his face. He grabbed Avellanos by the neck and looked him in the eye.
"I broke his arm," he said. "You remember that. Tell anybody you want. Now get the fuck out of here. Run. If I don't see you running in five seconds, I'm not only going to break both your arms. I'm going to break both your legs."
Korzeniowski shoved Avellanos back, turned around, and walked back to the second squad car. Avellanos bent over, and picked up a stone. He seemed ready to throw it at Korzeniowski, but hesitated, and, before he could steel his resolve, the big police officer had gotten into the second squad car. The America's Guard members without motorcycles piled into two large SUVs, which started up and turned off in the direction of the construction site at Winterborn II. The four bikers started up their motorcycles and roared out onto Route 1081, with Korzeniowski following along. Avellanos looked up, noticing for the first time, the graffiti on the vacant two family house near the bridge.
Attention Illegals," it said. "America's Guard Is Watching You."
John Avellanos ran, the snow flurries swirling about him. He continued, half dazed in the direction of Route 1081, the hulk of Winterborn II behind him, and WillyMart across the highway to his right. The temperature was dropping almost as quickly as the wind was picking up. He felt inside his pockets. There was a wad of 10 and 20-dollar bills. Jorge had slipped him all of their cash when he helped him up to his feet. There was a row of cheap motels used mainly by prostitutes and their clients about 7 miles south on Route 1081. They didn't check IDs and let you pay in cash, but there were no buses that went south of WillyMart, and walking along Route 1081 in the snow would probably mean another Citizens Immigration Arrest, so he decided to try his luck downtown. Sleeping in the train station would be difficult, but it was worth a try.
He dragged himself across Route 1081 to the bus stop in front of WillyMart. The sign hanging over one of the doors, Poison Springs Metro, was askew. Everything about the gloomy looking little bus shelter, covered with leaflets, graffiti, and posters from political campaigns, testified to the city's neglect of the bus system. He sat down on the bench. Ruiz had mentioned there was a bus that ran from WillyMart to Reagan Plaza. He leaned over, checked the bus schedule, and noticed that there would indeed be a bus downtown in about 45 minutes. He noticed a large campaign poster for Michael Catalinelli, and another for his cousin and Martin James Ruiz's half-sister, and his cousin, Elizabeth Felton.
"Use the police for criminal, not civil violations," one of the bullet points on her campaign poster said. "Stop the harassment of migrant laborers."
"Thanks," he laughed bitterly as he spoke to the image on the poster. "You almost got me killed tonight."
"Are you talking to yourself?"
Avellanos turned around to see a young woman about his own age. She was a little above average height. She was gray canvas jacket, and had short blond hair tucked under a black ski cap. She had a bag of salt under one arm, and a green snow shovel slung over her shoulder. She had a long black scarf. Avellanos, out of some instinctual chivalrous urge, stood up to help her with the bag of salt, but felt dizzy and sat back down almost as quickly. The young woman sat down next to him. She unraveled the scarf from around her neck and pressed it against his head.
"It's never a good idea to get into a drunken bar fight just before a snowstorm," she said, wiping the blood from the large, swelling bruise underneath his eye. "At least you're smart enough to leave your car at WillyMart and take the bus."
"Oh I don't have a car," Avellanos said. "I hitch hiked."
"Hitch hiked?"
"I'm new in town."
"Oh I get it now. That's why you were talking to the poster."
"Poster?"
"You came to volunteer for the election."
"Ah, just like the cop said," he said, half to himself. "Yes. You're correct," he added out loud.
"Personally I think you're wasting your time, but to each his own."
The young woman continued to look at Avellanos.
"You certainly picked the worst day of the year to hitch hike into town."
"I have a question," Avellanos said as he realized how closely she was examining his features. "Have you seen a man around here who looks kind of like me?"
"The only person around here I've seen who looks like you is you."
"He'd be a few years older, and he'd have longer hair."
"No. I haven't."
"He might have been wearing a green and yellow hat, a green knit hat with yellow ducks."
"I haven't seen anyone with a green and yellow hat."
"Maybe he's back home."
Avellanos looked at the snow, no longer just flurries. If he had been able to go back to the "inner base camp" with Ruiz, Jorge and Andy Jackson, he might have found it beautiful. But here it only seemed to remind him how alone he was. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, followed by a loud clap of thunder. He jumped up and almost tripped over his own feet before the young woman caught him and pushed him back onto the bench.
"Jesus Christ," he said. "What the hell was that?"
"Thunder snow."
"Thunder snow," he said, looking into her brown eyes. "Holy shit."
A concerned look came over her face.
"Are you sure you're OK?"
"I'm fine. I'd just never seen anything like that before."
"Maybe I can give you a ride."
"I don't want you to get stuck driving home in the snow."
"You're probably right," she said. "I'm going to be shoveling this crap all day tomorrow. Keep the scarf. You know you're waiting for the wrong bus, right?"
She pointed over to another bus shelter across the driveway.
"There's the one you want. You want to get the number 81 downtown to Roosevelt Plaza."
"You mean Reagan Plaza?"
"Yeah, whatever they're calling it these days. Go to Reagan Plaza, cross over to
the north-side, then get the 18 up to East Poison Springs. It's the last stop. You can't miss it, but just in case you do, take a look."
She pointed to a tall white spire off in the distance on a bluff overlooking the city
"That's the First Presbyterian Church of East Poison Springs. It's the big blue house right next to the church."
The young woman started to smile. Avellanos held out the scarf.
"Wrap it around your neck," she said. "Your throat's going to swell up in the cold."
"Thanks."
"I'll keep an eye out for your double," she said, turning around. "Good luck."
"Goodbye."
The young woman walked briskly towards a large group of cars halfway out to Route 1081. The visibility was so poor by this time that she was out of sight before she had gone 50 yards. Avellanos crossed the street and looked at the map and schedule posted on the wall of the other shelter. For a brief moment, it appeared as if he regretted not running after her, but, after another bolt of lightning and crack of thunder, he ducked under the bus shelter, and sat down on the bench. He turned around and looked at his reflection in the glass. He raised the scarf slightly, and felt around, he realized that the blood was beginning to clot. There didn't seem to be any permanent damage. Korzeniowski had not hit him hard, the intent having been to humiliate, not injure, but she was right. The bruise was going to get ugly.
Avellanos looked at the initials monogrammed on the scarf, "RC." Why hadn't he asked her name? He put the scarf to his face. He laughed, the absurd horror of his predicament hitting him all at once.
"Cop broke Andy's arm right in front of me."
He noticed a line of metal newspaper boxes alongside the bus shelter. The Winterborn Daily Post was sold out, but he had enough for the Valley Times.
"Army of Student Volunteers Raises Money for Local Candidate," the title of one of the opinion pieces said.
When the number 81 bus pulled in, Avellanos paid his fare, and found a seat near the back. He opened the paper, and started to read. It was a positive, even fawning piece about his cousin and her father, his uncle. He had always known his mother's family was important in Poison Springs, but, since it always brought up painful memories of his childhood, he had always avoided thinking about it. Now lost, homeless in the middle of an early blizzard complete with "thunder snow," it felt comforting.
NOT AN AMERICAN Page 21
