Mile
Marker 1
Perched on a crumbling old outcrop of
limestone the Roadrunner’s obsidian eye glittered as he surveyed the sun
drenched state highway 67, looking for the next lizard. Luxuriant South Texas
desert flowers brought on by spring rains lingered in the warm early morning
glow as the Roadrunner’s eyes ran up and down the lonely stretch of highway.
The low thrum of tires slowly grew to the north and east, piquing the mottled
bird’s attention. A ’67 Chevy pickup crested the low ridge, picking up speed as
it trundled down the highway. A short, narrow bed truck with robin’s egg blue
paint faded by relentless Texas summers, its straight-six engine hummed like a
mad Singer sewing machine. The Roadrunner tracked the truck as it scuttled,
beetle like, down the road disappearing into the bright morning light.
Blinking, the Roadrunner returned to scanning.
Mike reached over and adjusted the small
portable tape deck, seeking a position for the loudest sound possible out of
the tinny speaker. Stiff springs thumping from one asphalt strip to the next
tended to shift the tape deck around on the dash, requiring continual
adjustment. The Police’s “One World (Not Three)” bounced off the buggy
windshield and back at Mike before glancing around the steel interior of the
cab. Leaning forward to rectify the tape-deck position exposed the sweat stain
on the back of the old kaki shirt. Mike reached over and fiddled with the
driver’s side wing window. Devoid of air-conditioning the cab of the pickup
heated up rather quickly; even in the cool spring morning. Properly positioned the wing window directed
a cooling jet of air up the sleeve of Mike’s shirt and onto his chest. The
windy cab of the truck tousled Mike’s longish brown hair sticking out from
underneath a decrepit felt Stetson. The sweat stained hat once belonged Mike’s
grandfather. Now, festooned with a faded blue bandana, it perched on the back
of Mike’s head giving him a rakish look; at least in his mind. Glancing down at
the bulging backpack, Mike thought of the hours of interviews, data, and photos
carefully packaged in the scruffy old A.L.I.C.E. pack.
Mile
Marker 2
Dr. Moreland leaned back in his office
chair, looking over at Mike, “Well, this is a pretty ambitious project for a
freshman journalism major. Do you really think you can complete it on time?”
“Yessir, I do,” replied Mike, “I think
it’s important.”
“Why do you think it’s important?”
Mike thought of the Immigration and
Naturalization Service raid on the El Torro restaurant where he worked. The
panic, frenzied bolting, and cries of, “Migra! Migra!” still remained fresh in
his mind. He’d lost several casual friends to deportation that day. Unable to
produce the required ID on the spot, one of the cooks had spent a couple of
days in detention while his family frantically searched for the required
documentation.
“Well, sir,” it seems very important for
me to understand why we send, otherwise peaceful and productive people back
against their will. Also, during the process, we detain people who’ve done
nothing wrong simply because they are brown, have dark hair, speak with an
accent and do not have enough ID in their possession. That seems a bit unfair
to me.”
“Well,” began Dr. Moreland through
steepled fingers, “if you’re willing to put in the necessary background
research. I suppose I’ll let you do the project. It could be fun and
instructive at that. You’ll need to produce a good feature length article once
you gather all the material. Perhaps, if it’s good enough, we can run it in the
campus newspaper.”
“Thank you sir! I’ll certainly do my
best,” Mike replied as he gathered his things, stood up and reached for the
door.
“One more thing,”
“Yessir?”
“Sketch out a plan for what you intend to
do, listing all the different people you plan on talking to and then drop it by
my office Monday. I don’t want you to spend several weeks working off a plan
that is fundamentally flawed or beyond your abilities to execute,” said the now
smiling Dr. Moreland.
“Will do, sir,” replied Mike as he stepped
out of the office into the quiet corridor and walked off grinning and humming
to himself.
Mile
Marker 3
And so this journey which had led him to
Del Rio, South Texas began. Mike enjoyed the background research in the
library, roaming the stacks and reading various periodicals, building up a base
of knowledge about illegal aliens, or as many preferred undocumented persons.
He’d dropped off his plan with Dr. Moreland; who insisted upon sitting down and
going over it. He’d made relatively few changes, most of which made sense. He’d
required Mike to make contact with all the people and institutions he planned
on talking to, securing their tacit approval for an interview.
Surprisingly his boss at the El Toro
refused to be interviewed on record; however, he did find a welcome at Gridley’s
Meat Packing. In fact, Mr. Gridley himself offered to be interviewed and to
take him on a personal tour of the factory. He’d come away from that interview
a bit shocked. Mr. Gridley had met him in a dark paneled office, replete with a
massive oak desk, brass accouterments, and comfortable squeaky ox-blood leather
chairs. They’d chatted amiably with Mr. Gridley answering all his questions
frankly. Mike had thought Mr. Gridley would squirm when queried about his use
of undocumented migrant labor; instead he clearly articulated his position,
claiming that he could not hire U.S. citizens to do the work. After the
interview, Mr. Gridley offered to show Mike around the factory. An offer he
readily accepted.
He found the tour appalling and
intriguing. Man and automated machine
combined to make astonishingly rapid work of the large carcasses that streamed
off the killing floor. Intensely focused men wielded vicious looking saws as
they quickly disassembled cattle into the component pieces of Chuck-Roast,
Ribs, and T-Bones. The dangerous equipment rapidly and expertly handled took
Mike’s breath away. The rank gore that used to be a cow was carted and washed away,
leaving only bits and pieces for packaging. It was the killing floor that
stunned.
As required by law all cattle were stunned
into unconsciousness prior to killing. Once rendered unconscious machinery and
men with knives moved in. Block, tackle, and chains hoisted the senseless
cattle and men with knives eviscerated them, sluicing the gore into the deeper
bowls of the factory for differing uses, some small portion eventually
discarded as useless. The process astonished with its quickness and precision.
The men and machines wasted very little as profit required complete
utilization. But still the killing floor shocked.
The relentless rendering of living animals
into carcasses remained a vivid memory. All the bellowing and men sloshing
through the entrails from one animal to the next left Mike quiet. Mr. Gridley
noticed Mike’s pensive stare, “Hard to take isn’t it?”
Mike mumbled agreement.
“Men can’t stay there very long. This is
why I have to hire illegals,” Mr. Gridley shouted over the hideous noise. “No
one can take this for very long. Most Americans refuse and find other work.
Illegals need a starting place and even they don’t stay for long. As soon as
they get their bearings, they find other work and move on.” Mike was glad to
turn in the white coat and loaner hard-hat, but the noises and smells had
stayed with him as he worked on the project.
Mile
Marker 4
A few days and several hundred miles
later found himself walking into the Border-Patrol station in Del Rio, Texas. A
pleasant looking man, clad in a dark green uniform, examined his credentials, a
couple of letters, driver’s license, and student ID, carefully before ushering
him into a cool office where he met Captain Jim Anderson, commander of the Del
Rio station. Anderson, a grizzled man who occupied a nice office with a view of
the sun-backed scrub east of Del Rio, sat and chatted with Mike for a few
minutes, feeling him out. Mike glanced around the office noting the “I Love Me”
wall common in all governmental offices. Pictures of Anderson shaking hands
with numerous officials, including a couple of presidents, competed with
citations and other mementos of a successful career. After a few minutes,
Anderson walked Mike into a break area and introduced him to Agent De Zavala.
Agent De Zavala shook Mike’s hand in
friendly greeting, waving him toward a seat at a table covered in paperwork.
Jaime, De Zavala’s first name, strode over to a counter where a large silver
bullet (tall chromed coffee pot) steamed. Pausing as he poured a large mug, he
asked, “Want some?”
“Yes, pleas,” Mike responded.
“Cream, sugar?”
“No, black is fine.”
“Good, I can’t stand foo-foo coffee,”
Jaime grinned. He returned to the table, depositing a hot cup of strong
smelling coffee in front of Mike. “So what’re you doing that requires you to
ride around with me for a couple of days?” And so, the questioning began. While
CPT Anderson’s were perfunctory, designed to ensure Mike was who he said he
was, Jaime’s were detailed and conversational, drawing Mike and his story out.
After a few minutes of pleasant interrogation, Mike found himself in a green
Dodge rumbling down Gibbs Street through Del Rio, past businesses and a
residential area to the south. Eventually they turned onto Cinegas Road, which
followed a railroad as it passed west. Residential areas and consumer
businesses gave way to warehouses and small manufacturing complexes. The
crackling radios provided a backdrop as Jaime explained his work to Mike.
“Basically, I play cowboys and Indians with the illegals. They come across and
I spend my days trying to catch them before they move north. I’ll catch a guy
two or three times and then never see him again. And I know that they don’t go
back.”
Cinegas Road turned into a small dirt track
which still followed the railroad. “This is Vega Verde. It runs along or near
the railroad for several miles west of town,” Jaime said over the rumble of a
caliche road and radios.
“Why are we out here,” Mike asked?
“Well, a freight-train is leaving about now and I want to check it out,” Jaime replied as he wheeled the, now dusty, Dodge onto the side of the road and parked.
“Well, a freight-train is leaving about now and I want to check it out,” Jaime replied as he wheeled the, now dusty, Dodge onto the side of the road and parked.
“You see, as the trains leave Del Rio they
travel slowly and men will climb on board, hoping to catch a ride north. If I
catch them before they pick up speed I can get any illegals off. Wait too long
and they pick up speed making it hard to get on and get them off. Look here
comes one now!”
Mike looked down the track where Jaime
pointed and sure enough, a freight train slowly grumbled down the track toward
them. Instinctively Mike shrunk back as the locomotives thundered past and the
ground quaked. The engineer waved as they roared by.
“Watch the hopper cars,” Jaime yelled,
“They get in the spaces where the car slants up and get some shelter from the
elements.” The two of them watched as the train ground past slowly picking up
speed. “There are some! Wait here!”
Mike watched bemused as Jaime ran up to
the moving freight, swung on board, and soon three illegals tumbled out onto
the coarse gravel followed by Jaime. Very quickly the four dusty men joined
Mike. Obviously pleased with himself, Jaime spent a few moments dusting himself
off while the three illegals stood there, blinking in the bright afternoon sun.
Mike wondered why he did not hand-cuff the three men and asked.
Jaime smiled as the three detainees
crowded into the back seat of the Dodge, “Normally once they are apprehended
they become very compliant. They understand that we will take them, process
them, put them on a bus, and drive them over. If they’re caught near meal-time
they get hot chow.” Mike listened as his guide chatted with the three men,
impressed at the casual nature of the interrogation. Very quickly Jaime earned
the trust of the men, extracting such items as time and date of crossing, home
town, and reason for coming across the border. The process seemed very
collegial; not at all what Mike had expected. These and other memories gleamed
in Mike’s mind as he drove down the highway toward Del Rio and the border
crossing.
Slowly, piece by colorful piece, a picture
grew in Mike’s mind. The mosaic revealed a complex issue with various actors
driven by diverse needs and wants all converging on a sliver of ground marked
by an itinerant river. Modern political sensibilities did not take into account
the centuries of human experience driving periodic migration. Mike ruminated as
he downshifted coming out of Del Rio; the engine whining as what little speed
he’d developed bled away. Highway 239 curved heading south to the border. Off
to the east houses slowly faded into a patchwork of fields. Just past the curve
he spotted a hitch-hiker.
Mile
Marker 5
The hitch-hiker stood, thumb out, with a
rather dusty back-pack leaned against his jeans clad leg. Next to the pack a
guitar case collected dust on the ground. Like Mike he sported a beard with
longish brown hair. A worn “gimmie” hat leaned back on his head revealing an
open smiling face. He appeared to be that indiscriminate “college age.” Mike
downshifted again, stood on the breaks, scrunching to a stop as swirling dust
caught up with him. “Where are you headed,” he asked the panting young man?
“Well, I thought I’d go across the border
and check things out.”
“That’s where I’m headed. Toss your pack
in the back.” The young man smiled, hefted his ruck into the bed of the truck,
got in, slammed the door shut, and offered his hand.
“My name’s Jerry. What’s yours?”
“Mike, glad to know you.” The small blue
truck lurched a bit as Mike wheeled it back on to 239. “I thought I’d head
across the border to Ciudad Acuna and check things out; maybe get something to
eat and wander around the market.”
“Sounds great, do you mind if I tag
along?”
Mile
Marker 6
“Not at all,” and so they day wound on. Crossing
over into Mexico proved very easy a goodbye wave to the U.S. border guards
followed by a casual examination of drivers licenses and they were across. New
sounds and smells greeted them. Driving aimlessly they wandered the streets of
Ciudad Acuna. The old truck thumped across rumble strips as they passed
schools; eventually locating a market area. They stuffed baggage into the cab
and locked the doors, setting out on foot.
Passing store front haberdasheries, they
turned down a narrow street whose shops spilled their goods out across the
sidewalk, tempting passersby with such items as leather hats, jackets, and
boots. They enjoyed the loose logic of the stores. A few stores offering leather goods slowly
faded into stores peddling pottery. Very shortly they wandered among stalls
hawking embroidered shirts, dresses, and blankets. All along the way salesmen
urged them to carefully examine the offered wares. They shouldered past women
trundling recent purchases home in wire two-wheeled carts. Children ran in
between them all chasing a tattered soccer ball. The sun slanted through
plastic awnings; the bright primary colored light lent a festive air to the
boisterous scene. Eventually Mike stopped at a stall with shelves full of
brightly colored blankets. He and the owner engaged in a few minutes of barter,
a few pesos changed hands, and they moved on with a crinkly bundle. Eventually
their wanderings led them past a stall with row upon row of gleaming glass
bottles filled with amber liquid. The warm late morning sun cast amber blotches
on the floor. A helper languidly packed bottles in a box lined with clumps of
straw colored packing material. Again after a few minutes of discussion and
sniffs of an uncorked bottle they left with a gurgling package emanating faint
whiffs of vanilla. Soon other aromas crossed their path.
Somewhere nearby meat sizzled on a grill.
Hunger, aroused by odors wafting on the breeze, steered their wandering feet.
Very quickly they found themselves seated at the El Tapatio Grill with plates
of well-seasoned meat, rice and beans. They dined on copious helpings of
grilled goat washed down with refrescos to dampen the spice ignited flames.
Well sated, stomachs distended, they sat, watching the world swirl past their
table. Eventually they paid their bill, collected their bundles, and headed
back to the truck where they found things as they had left them.
In the heat of middle of the afternoon
they loaded up the truck and pointed her in the direction of the border
crossing. Slowing, wending their way through the dusty hazy crowded streets,
they approached the border crossing. Mike silently steered the old Chevy
through the clogged street; patiently rowing through the three speed. Mentally
reviewing the day’s activities he stumbled upon a problem; who was the man
sitting next to him? He’d only known Jerry for a few hours. He knew almost
nothing about him; nothing of substance, nothing that mattered. A sense of doom
and paranoia settled over Mike like a heavy wet blanket.
Mile
Marker 7
Paranoia, an old friend, had lived with
Mike the past couple of years. He’d engaged in a variety of questionable and
illegal activities. Due to certain changes in his life, he’d left such things
behind, embracing a better future; one that involved education. In his past
he’d learned to fear the authorities, turning away from possible encounters.
Now, in the cab of his truck amid the honking, jerking traffic the old dread
returned with a vengeance. After discussion with the Border-Patrol, he knew
what was coming. He and Jerry fit the profile of miscreants, long hair, loud
music, beards, and an old truck. These salient facts would elicit a more
thorough inspection upon their return. No polite hand wave of admittance waited
for them at the border. Instead, he expected a careful examination of papers
and a possible search with dogs. The bright red, white, and blue waved from
across the bridge, beckoning him forward. He had a short distance to make up
his mind and do something to ensure a quiet crossing. He considered asking
Jerry to hop and walk across the border on his own. But his sense of
hospitality rebelled. How could he just kick someone who he’d offered a ride to
out in a foreign country? It seemed so callous and unfriendly. Desperate he
decided to try a different plan.
“Hey Jerry, I know this is none of my
business, but do you use drugs,” he stammered? Jerrys blank look did nothing to
ease his inner turmoil. Plunging ahead he went on in what he hoped was a
friendly tone, “I mean, I’m not passing judgement, you know, just checking
before we cross the border.”
Jerry’s shocked reply of, “No man, I
don’t,” did little to ease his fears.
“I mean, if you do, no judgement from me,
just toss it out the window now, before we get to the border. They will check
us and we don’t want to go to jail, do we,” he rushed out, ending in a nervous
titter.
“Dude, I don’t use!”
Jerry seemed honestly shocked that Mike
would think this of him. He looked pained, astonished, and a bit desperate.
Mike’s mind whirled. How could he verify this? What if Jerry was not telling
the truth? He had no idea of what to do next so he plunged on, “I mean if you
do have something, just throw it out the window. I won’t say a thing. I just
don’t want to go to jail man!”
The early bonhomie which had so marked their
day evaporated in the blaze of mistrust and paranoia. The cab of the old truck filled
with tension. The sweat of fear stood out on both brows. Mike feared
apprehension and Jerry feared Mike’s sudden swerve into dark accusations.
The bright flag waved them ever closer.
The moment of reckoning pressed in sorely. Mind and heart racing, Mike
desperately sought some leverage to wring out what he believed was an honest
answer, “Seriously man, I don’t want to go to jail. So, if you have anything,
anything at all that might cause problems, even so much as a roach-clip, just
toss it out the window and we’ll be okay.”
Desperation now colored Jerry'
Caught up in the swirling chaos of fear
and suspicion, knuckles white on the old steering wheel, Mike chocked out,
“Dude, I am serious, I don’t want to go to jail so just let me know and I’ll
slow down and let you deal with whatever you’ve got.”
Nearly yelling, eyes wide with fear, Jerry
choked out, “I’m so serious man. I don’t have anything on me! What can I do to
make you believe me?”
The line of traffic inched forward their
turn would arrive soon. Desperately Mike sought for words strong enough to
convey his deadly seriousness. He looked over at Jerry and hissed, “Dude, this
is your last chance to get rid of what you may have. I want you to understand
that I’m not going to jail for you. If you have something on you and they find
it and arrest us, when they’re not looking, I will kill you. I want you to
understand that.”
White and panic stricken, Jerry croaked
out, “For the last time, I don’t have anything on me.”
Mile
Marker 8
The Roadrunner watched the scrub next to
the highway for possible prey. Its obsidian eyes
“Hey man, I’m sorry. I don’t know what
came over me.”
“Yah, right. Good luck dude.” The old
truck accelerated off in a small cloud of blue smoke as the roadrunner watched.
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