by Pastor, Juan
When they could, even the personnel that flew the unmanned surveillance drones passed information to us about what they were seeing, like now. I was kind of famous with these people, for being the “Niña Latina” that killed the quail that killed the drone. There will be more about this in the next chapter. The top brass didn’t find it very funny, I’ve been told, but then, that’s how you get to the top of the military, by lacking any sense of humor whatsoever.
We use the Citizen Band for the same reason truckers used to (and still do). It is free and it is reliable, and once all the yuppie a‐holes stopped using it, a relatively common‐sense intelligent person on this end could count on the person at the other end being relatively common‐sense intelligent.
A cowboy is driving my rescue truck. At least he looks like a cowboy. He likes my truck, anyway, and that’s always a good place for a cowboy to start. At least he seems to. He hasn’t made any derogative comment about it. It’s my rescue truck, it isn’t white and it doesn’t have a big red cross on each side to give someone a nice big target to aim at. It is black, and it is a Chevy Tahoe. It is a Chevy Tahoe because that’s what people who mean business in Mexico drive. Maybe a GMC Yukon Denali once in a while. It isn’t a Cadillac Escalade, and it isn’t a Lincoln Navigator because nothing in Mexico says “mess with me, I’m a wannabe” like an Escalade or a Navigator. Everything I just said is huffing and puffing. The Tahoe I now have was used as an “unmarked” by a police force just north of the border, and auctioned off when it was one year old and had had some of its glass shot out. I bought it, and had all the damaged glass replaced, except for one side window with a single bullet hole in it. Here’s the problem I have with the police. They’ll get a nice SUV like a Tahoe, nice and sleek and black, but the dealer will put on police‐ugly wheels as his special gift to the police. If she sees a $40,000 Tahoe with ugly black wheels that have the small lug nut cover in the middle, everyone and her brother knows it’s an “unmarked”. I kind of like the “badass” look. I always wanted to go for the drug kingpin look, but Sin recommended against it. “Sometimes it’s hip to be square.” Sin says, whatever that means.
And speaking of badass looks, that is how I see the cowboy, but in a good way. How shall I describe him? He is one of those cream of the crop blue‐eyed blondes with an athletic/military haircut. That is, it is cut short with the slight hint of an old‐time flat‐top. I can see his hair because his hat, which says John Deere on it, is laying in the seat next to him. He looks for all the world like he could be Sin’s son, for he resembles Sin as I picture Sin looking before his adventure with sustenance living, alcohol, tobacco, and drugs. It was Sin who had delegated (relegated?) rescue driving duties to him. I wanted to be my own driver, but Sin had asked me, “And how do you treat someone critical, who you’ve just picked up, if you are driving?” It was and still is a good point. My “cowboy” wears no hat, no sunglasses, and his blue eyes stay focused on the road. His focus on the road is almost too intense, as if he is expecting an armed attack or the detonation of an improvised explosive device in the road under our vehicle.
John Deere never talks unless asked a question, and
then he will answer with as few syllables as possible. I’ve always been a sucker for blue‐eyed men, but just looking at this guy with his chiseled features and ripped muscles makes me a little faint.
“Thanks for driving me.” I say, trying to use my feminine wiles to seduce him into at least talking to me. I’m starting to sound like a white woman. What are feminine “wiles” anyway? Some things a girl keeps in her purse until she needs to subdue a man?
“Yep.”
One syllable.
“Sin gave you this job?” I ask.
“Yep.”
Ditto on the single syllable.
“Did he see you drive somewhere before?” I ask.
“Uh‐huh.”
Two syllables. Much better. We’re gaining ground. Let’s see if we can keep this going. “Who did you drive for?”
“Lately?” He asks.
“Yes. Lately.”
“The Prez.”
“The U.S. President? I ask.
He nods his head. We’re going backward now. No syllables. “Which one?” I ask.
“The dead one.”
“You used to be a driver for the one that got assassinated?” I ask. “Abhorson?”
“Uh‐huh.” He says. “Feel a wee bit safer now?
“You don’t feel guilty do you?” I ask. I proceed putting my foot a little deeper in my mouth. “He wasn’t killed while you were driving him anywhere. He was killed at the Mexican President’s palace.”
“But I was S.S.”
Not the way I wanted him to open up. But I’m intrigued. “Will you ever drive for a President again?”
“Not a live one.” He answers.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I drove the dead one to the airport. Now I’m going to stay in Mexico.”
“Do your people know that?” I ask.
“They’ll figure it out soon enough.”
We both are silent for a long long time. I get the eeriest feeling that he may drive me on forever, we will never get where we are going. It is important that I break the trance, but cannot summon the power to do so.
“Why have you decided to stay in Mexico?” I ask.
“Why does anyone stay in Mexico?” He answers my question with a question.
“Have you ever been anywhere else in Central America?” I ask.
“Guatemala.” He says it so casually.
“You’ve been to Guatemala?”
“I went to school there. For a short time.”
“Where did you live?”
“Antigua.” He says. “We attended classes there three days a week. Two days a week we went to the University of Guatemala in Guatemala City.”
“Did you like Guatemala?”
“Yes.” He says. “But I thought El Salvador was prettier.”
Quiet again for the longest time. I am overcome with feeling. Emotions stir in me that have remained dormant, it seems, since MY days in Guatemala. Could he be one of…?
“I see you don’t have a gun.” I say softly.
“No.”
“You were in the Secret Service?”
“Yes.”
“Were you in the military?”
“Yes.” He says. He hesitates. “Don’t ask me any more questions, about either the service or the Secret Service.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t have a gun because I don’t like guns.”
Quiet.
I watch in the rearview mirror on my side. What view I have shows dust billowing up, golden brown, behind our truck. In my mind is the saying, A fly sat on the chariot wheel, and said "what a dust I raise".
“When were you in Guatemala?” I ask.
“Why?”
“I am from Guatemala.”
“No. Really?” He says. “I thought you were Mexican.”
Time to be bold, or I’m going to lose him. A girl knows these things. “Qué coño te hace pensar eso? (What the fuck made you think that?)” I say with as straight a face as possible.
He lets a puff of air out the side of his smirking mouth in an abbreviated laugh. I’ve still got him, I think, putty in my hands.
“I don’t know.” He says. “I just thought you were.” He pauses. “I’ve got a question for you. Have you ever felt like your soul was dead? Or at least lost? NO matter what you do, you can’t find it anywhere?”
What the hell? I think to myself. Finally I find a guy who makes me hot, and he’s got to get all deep and dark on me.
I remember what my Mama told me. “If you want to get a man to talk, talk about what he wants to talk about. He surely is not going to talk about what YOU want to talk about.”
“My soul is the one thing I’ve never lost.” I say. “But I did lose my best friend once.”
Right after I say this I realize I am already doing wha
t my Mama told me not to. Fortunately for me, the cowboy decides to talk some more.
“I think someday all the world will be a desert.” John Deere says. “And only the things that have learned to survive in deserts will survive at all.”
“You seem to have an apocalyptic view of the future.” I say.
“Have you ever looked at the border wall on a map or satellite photo?” He asks.
“No.” I say.
“It looks like a snake.” He says. “Isn’t it weird that I grew up in upstate New York looking with pride at pictures of the Revolutionary Gadsden’s flag with the rattlesnake and the words ‘DON’T TREAD ON ME’? At least one redneck on every street had either a Confederate flag or a DON’T TREAD ON ME flag. I remember one jerk neighbor who used to sue people for a living and collected welfare and disability for injuries he didn’t have. He flew the American flag upside down at half mast, and right below it was the DTOM flag. He had Ron Paul for President signs in several streetside windows. To amuse myself, I used to think He better hope Ron Paul doesn’t find out, and He better hope Ron Paul doesn’t get elected or this gravy train will be soon pulling into the station.”
“You began with ‘isn’t it weird?’” I say. “And the wall ‘looks like a snake’.”
“C’mon. Don’t you think it a little coincidental that Our Lady of Guadalupe is really the Coātlaxopeuh, the One‐Who Crushes‐All‐Serpents, which the Virgin Mary addressed herself to Juan Diego as in 1531, two and a half centuries before the American Revolution? And don’t you find it interesting that the Virgin Mary keeps showing up in areas where people are being oppressed? Or at least that’s what the rumors to that effect seem to indicate.” He says. “And what about the flag of Mexico, with its pictogram showing an eagle eating a snake, which comes from the Aztec legend about the gods telling the Aztecs to build their city, Tenochtitlan, Mexico City, where they spot an eagle eating a serpent while perched on a cactus? Tenochtitlan was founded in 1325. The Spanish captured it in 1521.”
“The rumors give the people faith. That is what the rumors are for.” I say.
“So you think they are only rumors?” He asks.
John D unzips his black rucksack. I notice with some interest that the rucksack is an L. L. Bean. And it is not nylon. It appears to be heavy waxed cotton or canvas. John D just doesn’t strike me as an L.L. Bean guy. Maybe more of a Carhartt guy. He pulls out a bottle. Not just any bottle. A baby bottle. A baby bottle with a rubber nipple on it. He puts the nipple in his mouth, and tips his head back. Briefly. He is driving, after all. After he has taken a sip he looks over at me.
“I was never weaned off the bottle.” He says. “Don’t look at me this way. I learned it in the Special Forces. Convenient to fill and to carry. Hard to spill. Easy to drink from. Want one?”
“What’s in it?” I ask.
“Gin and tonic?” He answers as if with a question.
“In all of them?”
“Just mine.” He says. “OK, no It’s a mix of green tea and lemonade.”
I notice his is already beading with moisture as it sits in the holder, and the running beads of condensation trigger the thirst mechanism in me. I’m more inclined to believe it’s a G&T rather than GT&L.
“Ever heard of Arnold Palmer?” John D asks.
“Yes.”
“Long before sports drinks and vitamin water, he used to drink a mixture of ice tea and lemonade.” John D says.
“Yes.” I say. But he was a golfer, wasn’t he? It’s not like he was a real athlete who exerted himself.”
“Anyway.” John D says, ignoring my putdown, “People who tried it, liked it, and suggested he should market it. I’ve just substituted green tea for the black tea. I also have some switchel, but I don’t think you’d like it.”
“What is switchel?” I ask.
“It’s a homemade drink.” He says. “We used to drink it on the farm.”
“Yes, but what is it?” I ask. “How is it made?”
“It’s mostly water, but mixed with vinegar and usually seasoned with ginger.” John D says. “In the Caribbean, where switchel originated, they used molasses to sweeten the drink. New England colonists used honey, brown sugar, or maple syrup to sweeten it. Nowadays, usually just white sugar is used, unless you can get honey or maple syrup locally.”
“You’re expecting me to make a face, aren’t you?” I ask. “But my Grandmother used to make something like this which she called agua de jengibre.”
“Ginger water.” He says. “Where I’m from they used to call it haymaker’s punch, because they used to serve it to people helping a farmer get his hay in on a hot day. And often people would volunteer solely because they knew there would be some alcohol in it as a fringe benefit – why it was called punch.”
“But you’re wrong about where it originated.” I say. “There was a similar drink called Posca in ancient Greece, then Rome. It was made by mixing sour wine or vinegar with water and flavoring it with herbs. It was drunk by the lower classes and soldiers. But it made those two groups healthier than the upper classes because it provided calories and vitamin C, which helped prevent scurvy. It’s acidity killed bacteria and the flavoring overcame the bad taste of local water. Did you know that the sour wine flavored with hyssop that was offered Jesus was offered as an act of mercy? The soldiers all knew what it was like to be hurt and thirsty.”
“And so was the spear in the heart, I bet.” John D says.
“Strangely enough yes.” I say. “Can you imagine being wounded, and out in the hot sun, and your skin is getting burned and peeling, and you can’t relieve yourself, and the flies keep landing on your wounds, and you can’t brush them away, and it might take days for you to die?”
Only the “strangely enough yes” comes out. The rest is formed in my brain, and the words never escape.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐<>{}<>‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
“How did you lose…?” John D starts to say. Then he points to a speck on the heat‐shimmered horizon. “There’s the cattle truck.”
Cantina Latina
Mirages can be tricky. At least that’s what Sin
always says. Even though John D saw a people hauler didn’t mean there really was one there. Til we get there. And there is really one there.
As we approach we notice there is also a camo‐painted Hummer there. And the giant is there. And Sin is there. His injured arm is bandaged but he seems capable of using it.
The giant gets a can of fuel out of the back of the Hummer. How he got to the cattle truck first I don’t know. Where he got the Hummer I don’t know. How he knew there was one of those military fuel cans secured to the inside back of the Hummer I don’t know.
He empties the fuel can into the side of the cattle truck while John D hands out bottles of water and granola bars to the people in the truck, the back of the truck that is.
“These drinks are pretty warm.” Someone says.
“Sorry,” John D says. “Would you like me to get you
some ice?”
John D doesn’t get an answer to his question.
“Drinking cold water when you are hot and dehydrated
can make you sick.” John D says.
I tend to the unfortunates who are already sick, or have
passed out from the heat.
Anyone who can get out of the cattle truck gets out,
even though it is still quite hot out, and the sun is still high. In the midday haze the sun looks like it has swollen to four times its normal size. The vultures circling above us look more like dragons than birds.
When I climb into the back of the truck, I am greeted to the gifts that doctors and nurses always get from the practice of their professions. People have vomited, peed, or defecated in a majority part of the surfaces of the truck, the smell is overwhelming, and the proverbial fifty million flies who are never wrong have already found their daily buffet.
Bo the giant seems unfazed, says he’s seen worse. Joh
n D begs him not to elaborate, and continues with his gagging.
I, and some of the women, tend to the people who can’t make it out of the truck, and some of the women take clothes out of bags, try to clean up messes, and either put the dirty fabrics back in bags and seal them, or just toss them outside to be buried. You can’t appreciate this gesture until you consider that these clothes now being used for rags were the last of precious small wardrobes these women brought with them.
“So, where are the clowns that were driving this truck?” I ask, not really addressing anyone in particular.
