Authors: Juan Pastor
“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.”
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.
John 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.
The giant is looking in the back flap to see how I’m
doing.
“Some of them say that three coyotes headed into
town to get gas.” The giant says. “Me. I’m betting they’re at
some bar now, getting drunk. I’m pretty sure they left these
poor bastards out here to fend for themselves.”
“Where is Sin?” I ask. “I could use his help. He does
claim to be a doctor.”
I look outside the rear flap.
“And where’s my Tahoe?” I ask.
“Sin’s got it.” John D says.
“That S.O.B. It’s got all my medical supplies in it.” I say.
“Would’ve been nice if he’d asked if I might need them before
he took off, ‘cause I do. Where does he think he’s going?”
“Says he’s gonna find the scumbags that were driving
this truck.” The giant says. “Says he’s gonna give them a piece
of his mind.”
“He’s only got a little piece of it left anyway, might as
well give it to someone.” I say. “Where did he say he was
going to find them?”
“Sin says there’s this place called Maria’s Bar & Grill.”
John D says. “He says you can get gas there too.”
“Sin’s more interested in putting a few beers away
while the rest of us clean up this mess.” I say.
“Smart boy!” The giant says.
“If he runs into the people, if you can call them people,
who had anything to do with this, they’re going to beat the
crap out of him.” I say.
“Should either Bo or I go after him?” John D asks.
“Are you kidding?” I say. "We can’t spare anyone, and
the only vehicle we have right now that we know will run is
the HumVee. If Sin is stupid enough to get in a fight, and I
know he is, let him handle it.”
“I’m just afraid he’s gonna get himself killed.” Bo says.
I’m noticing Bo is starting to sound less like a Mexican, and
more like an American good‐old‐boy. Maybe for John D’s
benefit.
“Maria’s Bar & Grill.” I say. “Why does that sound
familiar?”
“Maybe because of Maria? She’s a legend.” The giant
says. “She’s a little old white‐haired lady but you don’t want to
mess with her. I once saw a group of losers take a rattlesnake
out of a bag, and put it on the bar when she had her back
turned. When she turned around, all these jerks at the bar
started laughing. She picked up the rattlesnake by its rattling
tail and snapped it in the air right in front of the ringleader’s
face like a whip, and then threw the dead snake in the guy’s
face.”
“And how do you like her daughter?” John D asks.
“Rosie, I think her name is.”
“She’s quite a beauty, isn’t she?” Bo asks. “I think she’s
still a virgin.”
“I think she’s about sixteen years old.” John D says. “At
least she looks it.”
“They don’t ask for IDs in Mexico.” Bo says.
“But have you ever seen her eyes?” John D asks.
“Those fiery deep dark Latina eyes?”
“She looks at me with contempt.” John D says. “Prolly
because I’m a Gringo.”
“Prolly?” I think to myself. Now he’s trying to
redneckify the giant.
“It’s your imagination.” Bo says. “All these Latina girls
get hot when blue‐eyed‐blonde Americanos are around. Am I
right, Pequeña?”
Of course while these two grown men are having this
juvenile discussion to impress each other with how manly they
are, I am trying to nurse a baby with a bottle of warm water
with a nipple I’ve jury rigged onto it, so the baby’s mother can
get a drink herself, and maybe succeed at getting a granola
bar down.
I see the mother has been hemorrhaging. So much
pain. So much suffering because of ignorance. And there they
are in the middle of it all, two grown men talking about the
sex appeal of a virgin underage girl. One day, there will be a
revolution. Maybe I will lead it. Maybe my Latina sisters will
join me. It will be a “no tomar su mierda más (not taking your
shit anymore)” revolution. Right now though I have a baby to
nurse.
and
groan again. That seems to be the only vocabulary the old
cattle truck has.
“I sure hope it starts.” Bo says.
“You seemed pretty sure when you poured the last of
our reserve gas in the tank.” I say.
“Sputter, groan, sputter.” The truck says, which is old
truck language for, “I think I can.”
“Did you check to see if the truck had a gaso…?” I
begin to say.
But the truck interrupts. “Cough, wheeze, sputter,
sputter, wham, kablam!”
That’s truck language for, “I’m a diesel, you idiot.”
Parts of the truck engine have been blown through the
hood and lay on the desert floor. John D is laughing so hard
tears are in his eyes. I start to laugh. Bo the giant starts to
laugh. When the giant laughs, everyone else realizes it is okay
to laugh. And they laugh. It is the first time these people have
laughed in weeks. There is something about laughter. It is
medicine. Not only is it medicine but it is contagious medicine.
As the laughter starts to fade one old man says, “I think
we could push it into town.”
“Si.” One voice says. Then another. Then another. “We
could. We could push it into town!”
“Some of you are in no condition to push a huge truck
across the desert.” Bo says.
The woman who has been helping Pequeña says, “We
don’t all have to push. Those who can will push. Those who
can’t will walk. Those who can’t walk will ride.”
John D leaves the conversation to look in the HumVee.
Next thing, he backs it up to the front bumper of the cattle
truck. He steps out of the HumVee with a towstrap. He hooks
one end of it to one of the Hummer’s rear tow hooks. He
hooks the other end to the old cattle truck’s front bumper
mount.
“There.” He says.
“We can tow it?” I ask. "People won’t have to push?
You sure?”
“Even if we were on pavement, I doubt the Hummer
could tow it.” John D says. "On this siltysand, it’sgoing to be
next to impossible. If I dig myself in too far before the big
truck gets moving, we’ll be up shit crick.”
More redneck vocabulary, I think to myself. I’ve got to
remember that one. We’re in a desert, but if we don’t get the
old truck moving we’ll be up the creek, and not just any creek,
but a shit creek, and you’ve got to say it like you’re chewing on
tobacco. “Sheeeit Crick.” I say quietly, let the “i”s become
“e”s and the “e”s become “I”s, practicing the tongue and
mouth movements.
“So you pull, we push.” Bo says.
“Pequeña drives the Hummer. We push.” John D says.
“And there’s room for 3 more adults and a half dozen small
children in the HumVee. The heavier we make the HumVee,
and the lighter we make the cattle truck, the better. You…”
He points at the old woman who was helping me clean up the
mess in the truck, “You’re going to drive the old cattle truck.”
“But I’ve never driven before.” The old lady says.
“You won’t really be driving.” John D says. “All you
have to do is hang on to the steering wheel, keep the old thing
following me.”
“If I’m behind the wheel, there will be two old things
following you, the truck, and me.” The old lady says. “But
you’ll be the best thing I’ve followed anywhere.”
John D can’t help smiling. “Everyone take your
positions. You, you, you and you.” He says pointing at two
women and their children. “You get in the cab with cougar
lady.”
John D comes over to the HumVee, where I’m already
in the driver’s seat. “Start her up.” He says. “Pull forward until
you have tension on the towstrap, then wave to us to start
pushing. Once we’re moving, just keep it moving, no matter
how slow. And please, don’t start spinning the tires.”
“Dammit!” I say. “Why do men always say that?”