Author: Edmundo Barraza

Edmundo Barraza was born in Durango. He grew up in Torreon, Mexico. He now lives in Los Angeles, Ca. Even though he became an American Citizen in 1990, he still considers Torreon his hometown. He was seven when he saw his first movie. The screen was the exterior wall of a church at the top of a hill. A Spanish film about a baby left outside a church by his mother. He never stopped watching movies after that. He began writing short stories in 2009. His love for cinema pushed him to turn his own stories into scripts and then to film. In 2015 he shot his first short film, "The Corpse Is Alive," which won thirteen nominations at different film festivals worldwide. "Drugs And Chocolates" and "The Psychic" have also won numerous awards. Some of his favorite film directors include Luis Buñuel, Federico Fellini, Akira Kurosawa, Ingmar Bergman, Stanley Kubrick, Sam Peckinpah, Alfonso Cuarón, Alejandro González Iñárritu, and many others. His favorite music includes The Beatles, Stevie Wonder, Pink Floyd, The Clash, Temptations, The Doors, Led Zeppelin, Bob Dylan, and many others. "Playing pool, listening to rock music, and having a beer is great, but reading a book, writing a story, or watching a good film is even better. I hate guns and evil political leaders, racist people too. I love good people. Children are the most precious thing in the world. I aim to shoot a feature film based on one of my stories." Edmundo is married to Consuelo Barraza. They have a daughter and a son, Michelle Solano and Carlos Barraza.

DE TIJUANA A LOS ANGELES

Llegué al aeropuerto de Tijuana una fría mañana a finales de 1977. Había decidido cruzar ilegalmente la frontera de Estados Unidos. No tenía ni una pizca de miedo. Me sentía listo y capaz y estaba contento de hacerlo. Sabía que era el momento perfecto para hacerlo, excepto por una cosa: mi esposa estaba embarazada de siete meses de nuestro primer hijo. Tenía el presentimiento de que sería una niña. Incluso ya había escogido su nombre: Michelle.

Nunca había estado en esta ciudad. Los policías del aeropuerto me preguntaron qué hacía en su ciudad. Les dije que era turista. Supongo que les hacen la misma pregunta a todos los jóvenes que no son de la ciudad porque creen que intentarán cruzar la frontera ilegalmente. Me sentí un poco ofendido. Al fin y al cabo, soy mexicano. Podía viajar a cualquier parte de México. Quería responder: “No es asunto suyo”, pero sabía que no debía hacerlo.

Alquilé una habitación en un hotel de segunda categoría cerca del centro. Había docenas de bares por todas partes: de striptease, de salas de baile y de discotecas. Un billar me llamó la atención. Pensé que era el lugar perfecto para encontrar un ‘coyote’ (guía). Me sentí seguro al entrar porque había pasado mucho tiempo en sitios como ese. Estoy seguro de que, de alguna manera, pueden oler mis intenciones. Puede que sea por mi aspecto o por mi comportamiento, pero en menos de diez minutos alguien me preguntó si necesitaba ayuda para cruzar la frontera.

“Sí, voy a Los Ángeles. ¿Cuánto cobras?” Parecía tan joven como yo, de unos veinticinco años. Parecía desconfiado y no dejaba de mirar a su alrededor.

“Doscientos cincuenta dólares”, respondió.

“De acuerdo, ¿cuándo salimos? Estoy listo en cualquier momento.”

Llevaba meses planeando este viaje. Incluso intenté obtener una visa de turista, pero me rechazaron la solicitud. Las personas del consulado estadounidense deben estar muy bien entrenadas, ya que adivinaron con precisión mis intenciones.

“¿Llevas equipaje?”, me preguntó el reclutador.

“Sí, en mi hotel.” Soné como un turista con esa respuesta.

“Ve a buscarlas. Te espero aquí; date prisa.” Dentro de la maleta llevaba cuatro mudas de mi mejor ropa y un bonito par de botas italianas. (imitación, supongo) Cuando volví, mi nuevo ‘amigo’ me dijo que debíamos llevar mi maleta a un edificio de apartamentos cercano.

Allí ya tenían más de una docena de maletas y cajas. Mi nuevo amigo, el reclutador, me dijo que al día siguiente llevarían las maletas a Los Ángeles. Quedamos de vernos en la estación de autobuses a las ocho de la noche; desde allí tomaríamos un autobús a Tecate, un pequeño pueblo a pocos kilómetros.

Volví al hotel, confundido y arrepentido de lo que acababa de hacer. Había dejado todas mis pertenencias con un desconocido. Me sentía como un tonto, como si hubiera regalado mis cosas. Pensé que debía haber otra manera y sé que la hay. Se llama pasaporte o visa. En mi caso, tengo que aceptar lo que me ofrezcan. Mi precaria situación no me permite otras opciones.

Antes de tomar esta decisión drástica, trabajé en un banco durante seis años en Torreón. Era un trabajo decente, envidiado por muchos. Me había casado recientemente y mi mujer estaba embarazada de nuestro primer hijo. Algunos amigos no podían creer que quisiera dejar un trabajo semejante. El futuro incierto me llevó a tomar esta decisión. Algunos compañeros de trabajo ni siquiera tenían casa propia después de 15 años de leal servicio. El trabajo estaba bien, pero solo era adecuado para empleados jóvenes y solteros. Se necesitan muchos años para ascender y ganar un mejor salario.

Cuando llegué a la estación de autobuses, el coyote o guía había reunido a una docena más de personas. El autobús estaba abarrotado y había gente de pie en el pasillo central. Mi única preocupación era no perder de vista a mi ‘coyote’. Tenía que asegurarme de no perderlo; él era mi única conexión con mi maleta y con mi destino.

Después de media hora de viaje, el conductor del autobús se detuvo y mucha gente se bajó. El área donde se bajaron estaba completamente oscura. Solo se veía el contorno de las montañas cercanas. No sabía adónde iban esas personas, pero no me importaba. Mi guía seguía a bordo.

En la estación de autobuses de Tecate, seguí a mi guía. Me invadió una extraña sensación al verlo alejarse solo. Dudé un segundo, pero luego volví al autobús. Para entonces, el resto de los pasajeros había bajado y se había dispersado. Todos se fueron por caminos diferentes. Entré en pánico y volví al lugar donde había visto por última vez a mi ‘conexión’, pero no lo veía por ninguna parte.

Me di cuenta demasiado tarde de que debía haberme ido con todos los que se habían bajado en la oscuridad. Me sentí estúpido y perdido.

Tuve la suerte de encontrar una fila de taxis frente a la plaza, a menos de una manzana. Le conté mi historia al conductor y le pedí que me llevara a ese lugar oscuro en la montaña. Me sentía nervioso durante el trayecto porque recordé que no tenía dinero en efectivo. Tenía un cheque bancario por valor de 850 dólares, pero en un lugar oscuro como aquel, era un papel inservible. Encontré el lugar unos minutos más tarde, o eso creía.

Parecía más oscuro y aterrador que antes. Aunque fuera el lugar correcto, me llevaban al menos una hora de ventaja. El taxista me dijo: “Yo no me atrevería si fuera usted. No tienes ninguna posibilidad de encontrarlos.”

Un consejo sabio y amable de una persona a la que estaba a punto de estafar (no porque quisiera) en el camino de vuelta, y con los dedos cruzados, comencé a explicarle mi dilema con el dinero. Le mostré el cheque bancario. Le ofrecí mi suéter, que llevaba puesto, como garantía hasta que pudiera cobrar el cheque por la mañana. Me sentí aliviado cuando aceptó, porque había otros tres taxistas a su lado.

No me importaba el suéter; sabía que valía más que la tarifa del taxi, pero mis problemas no habían terminado. No podía volver a Tijuana porque los autobuses habían dejado de funcionar por la noche. Además, tenía que resolver el problema del dinero y, para colmo, no tenía dónde dormir y cada minuto que pasaba hacía más frío.

No habían pasado ni diez minutos y ya echaba de menos mi suéter. Ya casi era medianoche y el frío me impedía pensar. Lo único que tenía para cambiar era mi reloj. Un Citizen que había comprado en tiempos mejores. Los últimos acontecimientos habían puesto mi pesimismo en primer plano.

En poco tiempo, había perdido mi maleta, mi coyote y mi orgullo. Creía que yo era más listo que eso.

Entonces fui a buscar un lugar donde pasar la noche; cualquier motel barato serviría. El que encontré era probablemente el peor de la ciudad. Era oscuro, sucio y feo. El gerente parecía una persona amargada y hosca, pero cualquiera lo estaría trabajando en un lugar como ese. Le expliqué mi situación extrema y desesperada y le mostré mi cheque y mi reloj, pero no aceptó. Le dije que le pagaría en efectivo cuando abrieran los bancos por la mañana. El viejo testarudo no quiso aceptar mi proposición hasta que un joven que estaba detrás de él le dijo: “Vamos, papá, déjalo quedarse, no pasa nada”.

No era el Hilton, pero estaba cansado, sediento y hambriento, sobre todo cansado. Por la mañana, cobré el cheque y compré otro por un importe menor. Volví y recuperé mi reloj. Luego fui a buscar al taxista, recuperé mi suéter y tomé un autobús de vuelta a Tijuana con la esperanza de encontrar mi maleta y mis botas italianas. Y me prometí a mí mismo que nunca volvería a perderme.

Cuando regresé a Tijuana, me registré en el mismo hotel. Cuando el empleado me preguntó, “¿Esta vez sin maleta, amigo?” me sentí triste y derrotado.

Inmediatamente salí a buscar mi equipaje.

Llamé a la puerta del apartamento donde había dejado la maleta y me abrió una mujer. Mirando por encima de su hombro, vi que todas las maletas seguían allí.

Le conté lo que había pasado y ella me dijo: “No creo que así se hagan las cosas aquí. Tengo instrucciones de llevar todas estas maletas a Los Ángeles.”

“No me importa lo que pienses. Esa es mi maleta y yo sé lo que hay dentro. Me la voy a llevar y no quiero problemas.” Entonces la señora dijo: “Está bien.”

Hasta ese momento, había perdido un día, malgastado dinero y me había extraviado. Las cosas no me salían bien. Estaba nervioso y desesperado, pero la situación tenía solución. Había vuelto al punto de partida. A empezar de nuevo. Regresaré a mi lugar favorito de Tijuana, el billar.

Parece que llevo un cartel colgado al cuello, porque no habían pasado ni quince minutos cuando un tipo se me acercó y me preguntó: “¿Buscas un coyote?”

“Sí, 250 dólares, ¿verdad?”

“No, son 300 dólares,” me respondió.

“Pero ayer eran 250”, respondí, sin poder creer cómo la inflación se dispara tan rápido en la frontera.

“Eso era ayer, amigo. ¿Te interesa?”

“Sí, está bien.”

“¿Tienes maletas?”

Fuimos a un edificio de apartamentos cercano y, para mi sorpresa, era el mismo piso y la misma mujer que antes. Esta vez no me sentí como un idiota. Entonces, el coyote me dijo que nos reuniéramos afuera de los billares a las 5:30 de la mañana.

Salir y divertirme era tentador, pero estaba inquieto y sabía que solo pensaría en el viaje del día siguiente. Decidí descansar un poco. Mala suerte, porque en cuanto me acosté, oí ruidos. Camas golpeando contra las paredes, conversaciones sexuales habituales, como ‘Sí, sí, dame más’, ‘Oh, cariño, la tienes tan grande’. Y cosas así. Eso pasó toda la noche.

A primera hora de la mañana, me alegré de ver a mi coyote esperándome. Aunque intenté no mostrar lo contento que estoy de verlo.

“Hola”, le digo con naturalidad.

“¿Has comido algo?”

“No”, respondí.

“¿Ves ese camión de comida al otro lado de la calle? Ve a comprar la torta de pollo más grande y un galón de agua.”

“Pero no tengo hambre. Además, no me gustan las tortas de pollo.”

“¡Ve a comprarla, cabrón! Ya me lo agradecerás más tarde.”

Luego fuimos al apartamento donde guardaban las maletas y nos reunimos con una docena más de personas, entre ellas otro traficante, que podría ser el jefe. Nos dijeron que tomaríamos el autobús hasta las afueras de la ciudad.

Mientras atravesábamos la ciudad, llegué a la conclusión de que Tijuana debe estar entre las diez ciudades más feas de México. He decidido no volver a perderme, así que camino junto a mi guía y le pregunto su nombre; él responde: “No tenemos nombres.”

Ya no veo ninguna casa y nos dirigimos hacia las montañas. Aunque hace sol, sigue haciendo frío. Al amanecer, empezamos a caminar durante unas dos horas hasta llegar a las montañas. Nos dicen que debemos esperar allí hasta que llegue el momento adecuado. Me alegro de haber traído mis lentes de sol, otro lujo inútil. (Pagué quinientos pesos, el equivalente a cien dólares), que es el salario de tres días de un trabajador urbano decente.

Todos nos dispersamos bajo los árboles o los arbustos para escondernos de los agentes de inmigración o ‘la migra’. No puedo creer lo rápido que se duerme la mayoría del grupo en un momento como este. Aún estamos del lado mexicano, pero supongo que todos tenemos que estar alertas. Debemos ser capaces de escapar de la migra en cualquier momento. Bueno, yo también me tumbo en el suelo. Cierro los ojos y me pongo mis lentes de sol. A mi lado tengo mi galón de agua y mi torta de pollo. Parece un día en la playa.

Estoy casi en la cima de la colina. Puedo ver el valle abajo. Al otro lado del valle, frente a mí, veo una carretera que bordea la montaña y unos cuantos vehículos de la patrulla fronteriza. Vans y camionetas verdes que levantan polvo a su paso. Estoy seguro de que no pueden verme.

“¡Eh, idiotas, aquí! ¡Ja, ja! Estoy invadiendo su país, como ustedes dicen. O recuperándolo, como decimos nosotros.” Sonrío mientras sigo pensando tonterías.

También empiezo a pensar en esta región árida y escarpada, con sus árboles y sus hojas secas y pálidas cubiertas de tierra. No se ve ni una sola flor, solo hierbas altas y descoloridas, nada agradable a la vista. Dios se ha olvidado de esta zona. Se lleva sus nubes y su lluvia a otro lugar. Estoy seguro de que algunas personas encuentran belleza incluso en esta fealdad.

Me pregunto si los animales ven barreras o fronteras invisibles. Si el águila sabe que esto es México, si los pájaros cantan en español, si la serpiente preñada cruza la frontera invisible porque quiere tener crías estadounidenses. Y me consuelo pensando que Dios me quiere. Prefiere estar aquí conmigo que con mil ratas de iglesia. Y sigo pensando tonterías.

Para colmo, me quedé dormido y cuando abrí los ojos, miré a mi alrededor y no vi a nadie. Me levanté y me entró el pánico. Otra vez. Que pendejo, que idiota. La volviste a cagar, Mundito. ¡Estás perdido! Sé que solo quedan unos minutos de luz antes de que se haga completamente de noche.

No recuerdo haber tenido tanto miedo en mi vida. Sé que no voy a morir, pero en este momento me odio a mí mismo. Estoy temblando y a punto de gritar. Entonces, apenas percibo una fila de personas en la distancia, muy lejos. Deben de estar a unos 200 metros, allá abajo en el valle. Sabía que en un par de minutos ya no podría verlos. Estaba seguro.

Inmediatamente, empecé a correr como un loco. Mi vida se desvanecía con la última persona de esa fila. Seguí corriendo y corriendo, y de repente me detuve. ¡Mierda! Se me habían quedado mis lentes de sol, mi botella de agua y mi deliciosa torta de pollo.

Me volví para ver el árbol donde me había quedado dormido y miré hacia el otro lado para ver al resto del grupo. Dudé solo una fracción de segundo y luego seguí corriendo hacia mi coyote sin nombre y hacia mi hermoso grupo. Los alcancé después de unos minutos y, debo admitirlo, corría más rápido que nunca.

Me prometí a mí mismo no volver a perderme (otra vez) ni a hacerme el listo. Tengo que actuar, pensar y hacer lo que haga mi grupo. Y coger a mi coyote de la mano.

Ya es de noche. La luna se ve preciosa allá arriba. Empiezan a aparecer un millón de estrellas. Retiro lo que había dicho antes: Dios también debe de estar por aquí.Se nota que va a ser una noche fría. Llevo una camiseta debajo de una camisa de manga larga, de un suéter y de una chamarra. Sin embargo, después de caminar un par de horas, empecé a sudar y me quité la chamarra, el suéter y la camisa. Y cuando nos paramos a descansar, todo vuelve a su sitio. Una cosa tras otra. Después de un breve descanso, caminamos al menos dos horas más.

Tengo sed; estoy cansado y hambriento, pero, sobre todo, tengo sed. Algunas personas ya se habían quedado sin agua y otras empezaron a beber de los abrevaderos de las vacas. Yo no voy a hacer eso. Perdón, pero yo no.

Pasan unas horas más y ya no puedo resistir la sed, así que empiezo a beber un líquido que sale de una tubería sospechosa. Está oscuro y no veo nada. No huele ni sabe a nada, así que debe de ser agua.

El guía sin nombre dice que alguien vendrá a recogernos en un vehículo dentro de unas horas y que podemos descansar un rato. Estamos como a cien metros de la carretera, tumbados en la arena, y ahora hace más frío que antes. Un hombre empieza a cavar un hoyo en la arena y nos unimos a él. Nos mantenemos juntos como sardinas para evitar un poco el frío, para dormir o descansar, pero no es fácil con este frío. No dejo de pensar en mi torta de pollo y en la botella de agua, sobre todo en la torta.

Entonces alguien dice: “Órale, ya llegó el carro. Dense prisa, vámonos”. Me levanto y corro más rápido que nadie hasta que choco con algo invisible y caigo de espaldas. Me lleva la chingada, era una alambrada. Me levanto inmediatamente, salto la valla y sigo por delante de ellos. Al menos ahora saben que hay un alambre de púas.

Lo que me interesa más es sentarme en el asiento delantero. Pero cuando llego, el otro coyote me dice: “Ahí no, pendejo, aquí atrás, a los pies del asiento.” Tengo que hacer lo que me dice y los demás empiezan a amontonarse encima de mí. Algunos tienen que ir en el maletero. Es un Ford Galaxy 500.

Al menos ya no tengo frío.

Después de conducir un rato, paramos en un pequeño pueblo o en un rancho. Está oscuro y solo veo unas pocas casas. Todos entramos en una casa pequeña. Un sofá enorme y gastado es el único mueble de la habitación, que está sucia y desordenada. Pero el lugar es cálido y todos están contentos de estar dentro.

El coyote está hablando con dos mujeres. Creo que son madre e hija. La joven debe tener unos quince o dieciséis años, pero no puedo oír lo que dicen. Luego, se lleva solo a la joven a la habitación.

Nadie parece estar a cargo del lugar. Veo en el refrigerador y encuentro unos huevos, tortillas y medio litro de jugo de naranja. Antes de coger nada, el coyote sin nombre se acerca por detrás y me pregunta: “¿Tienes dinero?”

Con un billete de cinco dólares en la mano, empecé a hacer una colecta con los demás. Recaudé casi cuarenta dólares y el guía envió a alguien a comprar más huevos, tortillas y jugo. Esa noche disfrutamos de un gran banquete. Cuando terminamos, le volví a preguntar al coyote cómo se llamaba y me respondió: “Puedes llamarme Juan.”

Por la mañana, Juan anuncia: “Un día más y llegaremos a Los Ángeles. Tenemos que caminar un poco más.” Sabemos que ‘un poco más’ significa casi todo el día. Ahora, todo el mundo lleva agua, incluido yo.

La adolescente le sonríe a Juan, quien también luce feliz. Enseguida, la madre, la hija y Juan caminan uno al lado del otro. Supongo que lo que pasó entre ellos fue una especie de ‘violación voluntaria o semiconsentida’. No pasó nada, supongo. Me mantengo callado. Un delito dentro de otro delito, dentro de otro delito. El mundo sigue girando.

Allá vamos otra vez, de vuelta a la marcha. Después de cenar juntos anoche, ya no nos sentimos como extraños. La mayoría sonríen y hablan, dándose cuenta de que tienen mucho en común. Dejamos a nuestras familias y amigos para buscar algo mejor para nosotros. Esperemos que Dios lo permita.

El grupo está formado por quince personas: cuatro mujeres y once hombres. La más joven tiene probablemente quince años (y tal vez está embarazada) y el mayor es un hombre que tiene más de sesenta años.

Hoy es un buen día en muchos sentidos. No hace demasiado frío. No tenemos hambre ni sed. Somos un grupo amistoso que se acerca a su destino.

El terreno es irregular, con agujeros por todas partes. Parecen cráteres llenos de hojas secas. Sería difícil correr en la oscuridad. Pero el paisaje se vuelve más verde o menos árido.

Nuestra buena suerte se acaba cuando aparece un helicóptero sobre nuestras cabezas. Alguien grita sumamente asustado: “¡La migra, la migra!” De repente, nos dispersamos para escondernos entre los arbustos y detrás de los árboles. El anciano deja caer algo y yo lo recojo justo antes de esconderme en un profundo agujero del suelo. Cubro todo mi cuerpo con hojas secas. Oímos vehículos acercándose y perros ladrando. Me quedo quieto bajo las hojas en mi escondite.

Mi corazón late tan fuerte que temo que los agentes de Migración puedan oírlo. Me siento como un avestruz escondido bajo tierra con los ojos cerrados. Entonces oigo a dos agentes hablando entre sí. Están tan cerca de mí que su perro empieza a lamerme la nariz y estoy a punto de estornudar. Entonces alguien los llama y se marchan.

Cuando se calma el alboroto, soy el primero en aparecer. No veo a nadie más a mi alrededor y tengo que decidir qué hacer. No quiero que me arresten y acabar de nuevo en Tijuana. Me siento desesperado y, por un momento, incluso pienso en llamar a la migra para que vengan a buscarme. Estoy a punto de llorar, lleno de frustración, cuando oigo a alguien silbar. La felicidad vuelve a mi alma cuando vuelvo a ver a Juan. Vuelven a aparecer uno por uno. Al final, solo faltan seis personas.

Entonces, le di al viejito lo que se le había caído: un billete de quinientos pesos mexicanos. El salario de tres días de trabajo para un obrero urbano, o de quince días para él (probablemente un trabajador agrícola). Me sonríe y me abraza, mostrándome toda su gratitud.

El 15 de octubre de 1977 llegamos a Los Ángeles alrededor de la medianoche. Nos dejaron en North Hollywood, a solo unas cuadras de la casa de mi hermano.

Antes de irse con su futura suegra y su hija, Juan vino a despedirse y desearme buena suerte.

A veces los traficantes son capturados y enviados a prisión, acusados de secuestro, detención ilegal, tráfico de personas, etc. Estoy seguro de que algunos de ellos son unos cabrones sin escrúpulos. Pero nosotros hacemos un acuerdo verbal. Les pedimos un servicio y les pagamos por ello; cuando hacen bien su trabajo y no hay maltrato humano, en mi opinión, no están cometiendo ningún delito. (Excepto por lo que supongo que pasó entre Juan y la chica). En cualquier caso, algunos tenemos suerte y llegamos sanos y salvos.

Nunca volví a reclamar mi maleta ni mis botas, porque quería empezar de nuevo. Más tarde supe que el trayecto de Tijuana a Los Ángeles tarda tres horas. A mí me llevó tres días atravesar las montañas.

Mi hermano vino a recogerme a las 5:30 de la mañana. A las 6:30 ya estábamos trabajando duro en la construcción de un edificio de apartamentos. Alrededor del mediodía, mi hermano fue a traer comida. Mientras lo esperaba, un americano se acercó y empezó a hablarme, pero yo no entendía nada de lo que me decía. Le dije: “Lo siento, no hablo inglés” y se marchó.

Inmediatamente me arrepentí y me prometí no repetir esa frase.

A la semana siguiente, me matriculé en clases de inglés por la noche. También prometí trabajar duro y ahorrar dinero para traer a mi esposa y a mi bebé lo antes posible.

Pero bajo ninguna circunstancia cruzarán las montañas.

Edmundo Barraza

Visalia, CA.

Septiembre-2010

FROM TJ TO LA

I arrived at the Tijuana airport one cold morning in October 1977. I had decided to cross the US border illegally. I was young and fearless, and I was glad I was doing it. I knew it was the perfect time to do it—except for one thing: My wife was seven months pregnant with our first baby. I had a hunch she would be a girl. I even had a name for her already—Michelle.

I’ve never been to this city. The cops at the airport asked me what business I had in their town. I told them, “I’m a tourist.” They ask the same question to all young guys from out of town because they assume they’re trying to cross the border illegally. I felt a little offended. After all, I am Mexican. I could travel anywhere in Mexico. I wanted to answer, “That’s none of your business,” but I knew better.

I rented a room in a decrepit third-class hotel near Downtown. There were dozens of bars everywhere: topless bars, dance halls, and discotheques. A billiard hall caught my eye. I thought it was the perfect place to find a ‘coyote’ (smuggler). I felt safe when I entered the site because I’d spent much time in places like this. I’m sure they can smell my intentions somehow. It could be my appearance or demeanor, but within less than ten minutes, someone asked me if I needed help crossing the border.

“Yes, I’m going to Los Angeles. How much do you charge?” he seemed to be as young as I am, in his mid-twenties. He looks distrustful and keeps looking over his shoulder.

“Two hundred and fifty dollars,” he responded.

“Alright, when do we leave? I’m ready anytime.”

I’ve been planning this trip for months. I even tried to get a tourist visa, but they declined my application. Those individuals at the American Consulate must be very well trained, as they accurately guessed my intentions.

“Do you have any bags?” the recruiter asked.

“Yeah, in my hotel.” I sounded like a tourist with that response.

“Go get them. I’ll wait for you here; hurry up.” Inside the suitcase, I had four changes of my best clothes, and a nice pair of Italian dress boots (imitation, I guess). When I returned, my new ‘friend’ said we must take my bag to an apartment building nearby.

They already had more than a dozen bags and boxes there. My new friend, the recruiter, told me they’ll bring the bags to LA. The next day. We’ll meet at the bus depot at eight tonight. From there, we’ll take a bus to Tecate, a small town a few miles away.

I returned to the hotel, unhappy about what I had just done. I had left all my earthly possessions with a stranger. I felt like a fool, like I had given my stuff away. I thought there must be another way, and I know there is. It’s called a passport or visa. In my case, I have to accept whatever they offer me. My precarious situation wouldn’t allow for any other choices.

Before deciding on this drastic move, I was working in a bank. It was a decent job, better than average. I had recently married; my wife was pregnant with our first baby. Some friends couldn’t believe I would quit such a ‘good job’.

The uncertain future led me to make this drastic decision. Some co-workers didn’t even own a house after 15 years of loyal employment. The job was okay, but it was only suitable for young, single employees. It takes many years to climb the ladder and earn a better salary.

When I arrived at the bus station, the smuggler had gathered about a dozen more people. The packed bus had some people standing in the middle aisle. My only concern was to keep an eye on my ‘coyote’. I had to make sure not to lose him; he was my only connection to my suitcase and destiny.

After we traveled for half an hour, the bus driver stopped, and many people got off. It was completely dark out there. The outline of the nearby mountains was all I could see. I couldn’t figure out where these people were going, but I didn’t care. My guide was still on board.

At the Tecate bus station, I followed my guide. I had a strange feeling when I saw him walking away by himself. I hesitated for a second, but then I got back on the bus. By then, all the passengers had disembarked and spread out. They all went their different ways. I panicked and returned to where I last saw my ‘connection,’ but I couldn’t find him.

I realized too late that I was supposed to go with everyone who got off in the dark. I felt stupid and lost.

I was lucky to find a line of taxicabs in front of the Plaza, less than a block away. I told the driver my story and asked him to take me to that dark mountain place. I felt nervous on our way there because I remembered I had no cash. I had a cashier’s check for $850.00, which was as good as trash in such a ‘dark place’. I found the place a few minutes later, or so I thought.

It looked darker and scarier than before. Even if that was the place, they had at least an hour ahead of me. The taxi driver said, “I wouldn’t dare if I were you. You don’t stand a chance.”

Wise, friendly advice from a person I was about to rip off (not because I wanted to) on our way back, and with my fingers crossed, I began to explain my money dilemma. I showed him the cashier’s check. I offered the sweater I wore as collateral until I could cash the check in the morning. I was relieved when he agreed because three more taxi drivers were beside him.

I didn’t care about the sweater; I knew it was worth more than the taxi fare, but my troubles were not over. I couldn’t return to Tijuana because the buses had stopped running for the night. Besides, I had to deal with the cash problem, and now, to add more issues to my crisis, I had no place to sleep, and it was getting colder by the minute.

Not even ten minutes had passed, and I was already missing my sweater. It was ten minutes before midnight, and the cold made it impossible to think. All I had to trade was my wristwatch— a Citizen watch I had bought during the good times. The recent events have pushed my pessimism to the forefront.

In a short time, I lost my suitcase, my guide, and my pride. I thought I was smarter than that.

Then I went to look for a place to spend the night; any cheap motel would do. The one I found was probably the worst in town. It was dark, dirty, and ugly. The manager seemed bitter and sullen, but anybody would seem that way working in such an environment. I explained my extreme, dire situation and showed him my check and watch, but he wouldn’t take them. I told him I would pay him cash when the banks were open in the morning. The stubborn old man wouldn’t take it until a young man behind him said, “Come on, Dad, let him stay. It’s okay.”

It wasn’t the Hilton, but I was tired, thirsty, and hungry, mostly tired. In the morning, I cashed the check and bought another one for a smaller amount. I went back and retrieved my watch. Then I went to find the taxi driver, retrieved my sweater, and took a bus back to Tijuana, hoping to find my suitcase and Italian boots. And I promised myself never to get lost again.

When I returned to Tijuana, I registered in the same hotel, and when the employee asked, “No suitcase this time, my friend?” I felt sad and defeated.

Immediately, I went out to retrieve my luggage.

I knocked on the door of the apartment unit where I had left my suitcase, and a woman answered. Looking over her shoulder, I saw that all the bags were still there.

I told her my story, and she said, “I don’t think that’s how we do things around here. My instructions are to take all these bags to LA.”

“I don’t care what you think. That is my bag, and I can tell you what’s inside. I will take it, and I don’t want any problems.” Then the lady said, ‘Okay.’

So far, I have lost a day, wasted some money, and gotten lost. I’m nervous and desperate, but it’s no big deal. I’m back to square one. Next, I returned to my favorite place in Tijuana, the pool hall.

I must have a sign hanging from my neck, because not even fifteen minutes had passed when a guy came up to me and asked, “Are you looking for a coyote?”

“Yes, $250.00, right?” I responded.

“No, it’s $300.00.”

“But yesterday was $250.00,” I replied, not believing how inflation inflates so rapidly at the border.

“That was yesterday, man. So, are you interested?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Do you have any bags?”

We went to an apartment building nearby, and to my surprise, it was the same unit and the same woman as earlier. This time, I didn’t feel like a big dummy. Then, the coyote tells me to meet him outside the pool hall at 5:30 in the morning.

Going out and having fun was tempting, but I’m restless and know I’ll only end up thinking about tomorrow’s trip. I decided to have some rest instead. Tough luck because as soon as I lie down, I hear noises. Headboards hitting against the walls, regular sex talk, like, “Yes, yes, give it to me,” or “Oh, honey, you’re so big.” And it went on for hours.

Early in the morning, I feel glad to see my ‘coyote’ waiting for me, but I try not to show how happy I am to see him.

“Hey,” I say casually.

“Did you eat something? He asks.

“No,” I replied.

“See that lunch truck across the street? Go buy their biggest chicken torta and get a gallon of water, too.”

“But I’m not hungry. Besides, I don’t like chicken tortas.”

“Just go fucking get it! You’ll thank me later.”

Then we went to the apartment where they stored the bags and met with a dozen more people, including another smuggler, who might be the boss. They told us that we would take the bus to the outskirts of town. As we travel through the city, I conclude that Tijuana must be in the top ten ugliest towns in Mexico. I’ve decided not to get lost again, so I walk next to my guide and ask for his name; he responds, “We have no names.”

I can’t see any more houses now, and we’re heading to the mountains. Although it’s sunny, it’s still cold. At the crack of dawn, we start to walk for about two hours until we reach the mountains. They told us we need to wait here for the right time. I’m glad I have my sunglasses, another useless luxury. (I paid five hundred pesos or a hundred dollars) which is about three days’ salary for a decent city worker.

We all spread out under the trees or bushes to hide from the Immigration Officers, or ‘la migra’. I can’t believe how fast most in the group fall asleep in a moment like this. I guess we all have to be alert. We must be able to outrun la migra at any moment. Oh well, I lie down on the ground too. I close my eyes, and I put my sunglasses on. Next to me is my gallon of water and my chicken torta. It feels like a day at the beach.

I’m almost at the top of the hill. I can see the valley below across the valley in front of me, a road hugging the mountain, and a few border patrol vehicles: green vans and pickup trucks lifting dust behind them. I’m sure they can’t see me.

“Hey, you fools over here, ha, ha! I’m invading your country, as you say. Or getting it back, as we say.” I smile as I keep thinking pure nonsense.

I also begin to think about this rugged, arid region, with its trees, their pale, green leaves covered in dirt. Not a single flower in sight, just tall, discolored weeds—nothing pleasant to see. God has forgotten about this area. He takes his clouds and rain somewhere else. I’m sure some people find beauty even in this ugliness.

I wonder if animals see invisible barriers or borders. If the eagle knows that this is Mexico, or if the birds sing in Spanish, or if the pregnant snake crosses the invisible border because she wants American baby snakes. And I comfort myself by thinking that God likes me. He’d rather be here with me than with a thousand church rats. And I continue thinking pure nonsense.

When I opened my eyes and looked around, I couldn’t find anybody around me. I stood up and panicked. Again. Oh fuck, you stupid ass, you did it again. You’re lost! I can tell there are only a few minutes of light left before it gets completely dark.

I can’t remember being as scared as I am now. I know I’m not going to die, but at the moment, I hate myself. I’m shaking, and I’m about to scream. Then, I barely notice a line of people in the distance, far away. It must be about 200 meters down in the valley. I knew I wouldn’t be able to see them a couple of minutes later. I’m sure of that.

Immediately, I began to run like hell. My life was disappearing with the last person in that line. I kept running and running, and then I suddenly stopped. Shit! I left my sunglasses, water bottle, and my delicious chicken torta.

I turned to see the tree where I had fallen asleep and looked the other way to see the rest of the group. I hesitated only for a fraction of a second, then continued running towards my ‘coyote’ without a name and my beautiful group. I caught up with them after a few minutes, and I must admit, I was running faster than ever before.

I promised myself never to get lost again (again) and not to be smart anymore. I need to act, think, and do whatever my group does. And grab my coyote by the hand.

It’s dark already. The moon looks beautiful hanging up there. A million stars start showing up. I take back what I said before; God must be around here, too.

I can tell it’s going to be a cold night. I’m wearing a T-shirt under a long-sleeve shirt, a sweater, and a jacket. However, after walking for a couple of hours, I began to sweat and removed my coat, sweater, and shirt. And when we stop to rest, everything goes back—one by one. After a little break, we walk for at least two more hours.

I’m thirsty, tired, and hungry, but mostly thirsty. Some people had already run out of water, and others began drinking from watering troughs. Excuse me? No way, not me. I’m not doing that. A few more hours pass, and I can’t resist my thirst anymore, and then I start drinking some liquid that’s coming out of a suspicious-looking pipe. It’s dark, and I can’t see. There’s no smell or taste, so it must be water.

The man with no name says that someone in a car will pick us up in a few hours and that we can rest for a while. We’re about a block from the road, lying on the sand, and now it’s colder than before. A man begins to dig a hole in the sand, and we join him. We stay close together, like sardines, to keep warm, but sleeping or resting isn’t easy in this cold. I keep thinking about my chicken torta and bottle of water, mostly about my torta.

Then somebody says, “órale, the car is here. Hurry up, let’s go.” I get up and run faster than anybody until I crash into something invisible and fall on my back. Fuck, it was a line of barbed wire. I got up immediately, jumped the wire fence, and was still ahead of them. At least they know there’s a wire now.

All I want now is to sit down in the front seat of the car. But when I get there, the other ‘coyote’ says, “Not there, pendejo, right here in the back, by the foot of the seat.” I have to do what he says, and the other guys start piling up on me. Some of them have to go in the trunk. It’s a Ford Galaxy 500. At least I’m not cold anymore.

After driving for a while, we stop in a little town or ranch. It’s dark, and I can only see a few houses. We all go into a small house. An oversized, worn-out couch is the only piece of furniture in the room, and it’s dirty and messy. But the place is warm, and everybody’s happy to be indoors.

The smuggler is discussing with two women. I think they’re mother and daughter. The young one must be around fifteen, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Then, he takes only the young girl into the room with him.

Nobody seems to be in charge of the place. I look in the fridge and find a few eggs, tortillas, and half a gallon of orange juice. Before I grab anything, the ‘coyote’ with no name comes from behind and asks, “Do you have any money?”

With a five-dollar bill in my hand, I began collecting money from others. I collected almost forty dollars, and the guide sent somebody to get more eggs, tortillas, and juice. That night, we had a great banquet. After we finished, I asked the coyote for his name again, and he said, “You can call me Juan.”

In the morning, Juan announces, “One more day, and we’ll be in Los Angeles. We need to walk a little more.” We know that a little more means most of the day. Now, everybody’s carrying water, including me.

The teenage girl smiles at Juan, who also appears happy. Soon, the mother, daughter, and Juan walk side by side. I guess what happened between them was some kind of ‘voluntary rape’ or ‘consensual rape’. No harm done, I think. I keep my mouth shut—a crime within a crime, within a crime. The world keeps turning.

Here we go again, back to walking. After eating together last night, we don’t feel like strangers. Most of us smile and talk, realizing we have a great deal in common. We left our families and friends to find something better for ourselves. Let’s hope God allows it.

The group consists of 15 people: 4 women and 11 men. The youngest is probably fifteen (and in the process of getting pregnant), and the oldest is a man in his early sixties.

Today’s a nice day in many ways. It’s not too cold. We’re not hungry or thirsty. We’re a friendly group getting close to our destination.

The ground is uneven, with holes everywhere. They seem like craters full of dry leaves. It’d be hard to run in the dark. But the landscape is getting greener.

Our good luck ends when a helicopter appears overhead. Suddenly, we scattered, hiding under bushes and behind trees. The old man drops something, and I catch it just before I hide in a deep hole in the ground and cover my entire body with dry leaves. We hear vehicles getting closer and dogs barking. I stay put under the leaves in my hiding place.

My heart beats so hard that I’m afraid INS agents can hear it. I feel like an ostrich hiding under the ground with my eyes closed. Then I hear two agents talking. They’re so close to me that their dog begins to lick my nose, and I’m about to sneeze. Then somebody calls them, and they leave.

When the commotion subsides, I’m the first to appear. I don’t see anyone else around me, and I need to decide what my next step is. I don’t want to get arrested and end up in Tijuana again. Feeling hopeless, for a second, I even consider calling la migra to come and get me. Full of frustration, I’m about to cry when I hear somebody whistling. Happiness returns to my soul when I see Juan again. They reappear one by one. In the end, we’re missing six people.

Then, I gave the old man what he dropped, a five-hundred-Mexican-peso bill. Worth three working days for a city worker, or fifteen for him. (probably a farm worker) He smiles and hugs me, showing me all his gratitude.

On October 15, 1977, we arrived in Los Angeles around midnight. They dropped us off in North Hollywood, only a few blocks away from my brother’s house. Before Juan left with his future mother-in-law and daughter, he came to say goodbye and wish me good luck.

Sometimes, smugglers are caught and sent to prison, accused of kidnapping, false imprisonment, human trafficking, etc. I’m sure some of them are mean bastards. But we made an oral agreement. We ask for a service and pay for it; when they do their job correctly, and no human abuse is involved, in my opinion, they are not committing a crime. (Except for what I guess happened between Juan and the girl.) In any case, some of us get lucky and arrive safe and sound.

I never returned to claim my suitcase and boots because I wanted to start anew. Sometime later, I learned that driving from Tijuana to Los Angeles takes three hours. It took me three days to travel through the mountains.

My brother went to get me at 5:30 in the morning. By 6:30, we were working hard on construction work at a new apartment building. Around noon, he went to get us lunch. As I was waiting for him, an American guy started talking to me, and, of course, I didn’t understand anything he said. I told him, “Sorry, I don’t speak English,” and he left. I immediately regretted it and promised myself not to use that phrase again.

The following week, I enrolled in English classes at night. I also promised to work hard and save some money to bring my wife and baby to join me as soon as possible.

But under no circumstances will they come through the mountains.

Edmundo Barraza

Visalia, CA.

Sept-2010

FOREIGN VIOLENCE

INTRODUCTION

An unfortunate accident forces Pablo to flee Mexico for the United States, where he begins to adapt to and fall in love with his new country. Things get more entertaining and complicated when his cousin Julian immigrates and joins him.

*****

I’m an exile.

I fled from Mexico in a hurry. The reason was just a tragic, unexpected accident. I didn’t have time to pack anything. Straight from the accident, I ran away to the US. I couldn’t say goodbye to anyone, not even to my mom.

I was riding a crowded bus with my girlfriend. We were standing in the middle aisle when a man started groping my girl from behind. He was near the exit with his back close to the door. When I saw him touching my girl, I pushed him so hard that the doors opened, and he fell out of the moving bus. Then a truck ran over his head when he hit the pavement. It was an awful sight, his brains scattered all over. I can still hear the cracking sound of his cranial bones.

My first reaction was to escape the scene, the town, and even the country.

I moved to the US without any chance to return to my family. It’s been a few years since then, but it feels like an eternity. Years later, I discovered that my girlfriend had gotten married and had two children. I bet she doesn’t even remember my face.

My name is Pablo. I live in the Central Valley, in Visalia, CA., near Fresno. I’m not a legal citizen in the country. I shouldn’t be sharing this information because they charge over $2,000 to help you cross the border.

I live on the second floor of a twelve-unit apartment building on Houston Street in a run-down neighborhood. I’ve been working at the Rescue Mission for the last three years. I drive a forklift, separate donated items, and put price tags on them. I used to live in LA, but rent and expenses were too high for my budget.

Recently, my cousin Julian called from Mexico to let me know he wanted to join me. He’s four years younger than I. I’ll pick him up at a McDonald’s in San Isidro, on this side of the border. He’s twenty-four years old. He’ll hire a smuggler to help him cross the border.

When my neighbor Mark heard I was going to Tijuana, he asked me for a favor: to get some weed from a friend in LA. Being a nice guy, I agreed.

I brought Pink Floyd, The Beatles, Bob Marley, and The Doors for the six-hour trip.

In a way, the bus incident pushed me to reach my goal of moving to LA. Having lost Mexico forever made it easy to adopt LA. Now, I love LA even more than Randy Newman does.

The freeway was an ocean of cars. You could see lots of beautiful girls everywhere. Magic Mountain to my right, Universal Studios, the Hollywood Hills, Griffith Park, the Observatory, the Zoo, and the cemetery on the hill. What a great trip. Even the San Onofre nuclear plant seemed friendly.

Julian has gained weight and developed muscle since I last saw him. His skin was dark, not the burnt kind, but the tanned kind. He was close to six feet tall, and his eyebrows were heavy. He said he crossed on his first attempt. Did I mention he was lucky, too?

We still had to go through another checkpoint in San Clemente. I told him we needed to stop behind a warehouse or somewhere in a dark place so I could hide him in the trunk.

The immigration checkpoint was closed, so I kept driving. I thought about playing a little joke on my cousin. I left the freeway at a rest area and searched for a secluded spot where no one could see us.

I parked the car and got out, I went to the rear and slammed the trunk, I yelled out loud in Spanish, ‘No señor oficial, no hay nadie en la cajuela se lo aseguro por favor déjeme pasar soy ciudadano americano.” (“No, officer, there’s nobody in the trunk. I assure you, please, let me go. I’m an American Citizen.”) When I opened the trunk, Julian looked terrified. He was shaking. His pants were wet.

“Eso no es nada gracioso.” Julian said, “That’s not even funny.” I kept laughing until my jaw hurt.

To get Mark’s weed, I had to drive through Topanga Canyon, from the valley to the ocean—a few miles of beautiful curves, mountains, deep green canyons, and precipices. The weather gets cooler as you get closer to the sea. The area was famous for its laid-back, hippie-style community and its marijuana crops.

Mark’s friend, Pete, was already a little high when we arrived. He met us with a friendly smile and two beers. He rolled a fat one while inquiring about our mutual friend.

I figured Pete would look like a Cheech and Chong-type of guy, but I was wrong. He was a short white guy with eyeglasses and long hair. He was very friendly and funny.

He said Mark used to live there until one day when he burned the weed patch. Mark was so high that he accidentally knocked over the barbecue grill, setting it on fire.

That day, Pete was making a delivery in Van Nuys. When he came back, the firefighters had the fire under control. Pete thought they would call the cops, but they told him never to leave the barbecue grill unattended. He mentioned that one said, “Sorry about your loss.” Pete said they were high and in a good mood. That was the last time Pete saw Mark.

We were also high and in a good mood when he finished the story. I commented on his marijuana, ‘Powerful shit, man, powerful shit.’ Julian asked me, ‘qué quiere decir eso?’ (What does that mean?) And I told him in a mellow way, ‘Caca poderosa, hombre, caca poderosa,’ and we started to laugh.

When I told Pete the story about the fictitious Immigration officer, he laughed so hard he dropped the joint he was rolling.

After three more joints and three more beers, we took off.

It was getting dark, and I was high as a kite. My mouth was dry, and I couldn’t stop smiling. Julian was smiling, too, and that made me smile. I was happy.

But I couldn’t concentrate on the road. My eyes were squinting. I had my face close to the steering wheel like an old lady. Instead of watching the road ahead, I followed the line in the middle of the road with so many curves. I was concentrating on the double yellow line rather than on the traffic.

What a strange trip it’s been. I felt comfortably numb. I was driving on the long and winding road. I smoked two joints before I smoked two joints. Wait a minute, is that music coming from the radio or inside my brain?

Wow, I needed my normal brain back. I just wanted to get out of those curves. I was thirsty.

I wished we were in Visalia, at the Green Olive, with a beer in hand and my normal brain, but we were at the Top of Topanga, the highest point between the ocean and the valley.

I thought my fears would disappear once we reached the city streets, but I encountered a different fear—a million red lights.

Not all red lights were traffic lights. Confused, I wanted to use the breaks constantly.

Panicked and desperate, I pulled over at a liquor store to get snacks and a six-pack of sodas. After a while, I felt brave enough to continue, and I said to myself, “I’ll be fine once I get on the freeway.” Julian was talking to himself, too.

I felt much better when we reached the freeway, but a new problem emerged immediately. The car was not moving. The freeway was! We were floating in the car! The earth was circling fast. I kept the car in the center of the lane, watching the world come at us.

It was the weirdest feeling. I was hallucinating. Fuck! Potent shit, indeed. Julian couldn’t notice the kind of trip I was having.

After what seemed like an eternity, we reached the Frazier Park mountains, another fantastic area at the other end of the valley. We could see the San Joaquin Valley, two straight lanes of black asphalt as far as I could see.

The effects of “la caca poderosa” were fading away. My brain began to function again. Gaining control of my tiny shitty cerebellum was good.

For the first time since Topanga Canyon, I heard Julian’s voice saying, “And that’s how they got my partner and put him in jail.”

“Oh, that’s very interesting,” I replied.

We still had time for a couple of beers. So we went to my favorite bar, the Green Olive.

We ordered two beers and sat at the end of the bar. I noticed a beautiful white girl. She wore gray, skintight gym pants that accentuated her slender figure. You could see the delicate curves of her ass. Anybody could tell she wasn’t wearing any panties.

After our third beer, Julian asked me how to say “me gusta como se te ve tú pantalón” in English (I like how you look in those pants), but instead of the correct translation, I told him, “You have a lovely camel toe.”

He practiced the sentence a few times, and after gulping the rest of his beer, he gathered all his courage and approached her.

I couldn’t hear Julian’s voice from the end of the bar, but I saw her slapping Julian on the face.

I was still laughing when he sat on his stool.

When I translated what he had just told her, he said, “pinche cabrón pendejo.” Then he returned to her and said, “Sorry, amiga.” I’m sure she knew Julian was just an innocent victim.

While smoking outside, in a dark corner, I saw some guys coming out of the bar, too. I recognized one of them from my apartment building. He lived right below my unit. We’ve seen each other, but we have never spoken.

I didn’t like him and was sure the feeling was mutual. He had a swastika tattooed on his neck. The other guy looked like his replica: baggy black pants, boots, and a white tank top—typical of big, muscular guys.

They were half drunk, and they stumbled a little. Before crossing the street, they pushed a black guy with a shopping cart into the path of an oncoming car without an apparent reason. The car ran over him, and the driver never stopped.

My downstairs neighbor saw me before he ran away. They both stopped and stared at me for a couple of seconds. I knew I was in trouble.

I went inside to tell Julian we needed to leave right away. I didn’t tell him what I had just witnessed.

I was in deep shit. I was sure I’d be the next victim no matter what unless I got him first.

I drove around my apartment building twice to check for signs of danger. We went in until everything was safe and quiet.

His apartment was dark. I assumed he wasn’t back yet.

When we went inside my apartment, the first thing I did was get a small jigsaw and make a round hole in the wood floor under my couch, as well as another hole in the ceiling of my downstairs neighbor’s apartment.

“What are you doing?” asked Julian.

“I’ll tell you later. Let’s go to sleep. We need to find you a job tomorrow.” I replied.

In the morning, after I pushed the playback button in my brain, I got a blurry vision of past events. Julian was lying on the floor next to the couch where I slept.

I felt a cold sweat when I remembered the supremacist piece of shit downstairs.

I looked through the little hole I had made the night before. The spot was about the size of a quarter. When I looked through it, a sudden shiver ran through my body.

My downstairs neighbor was inside the little hole. He was sitting on his couch, looking up at me. Drywall dust was on his hair, and his eyes were squinting, full of curiosity.

My immediate reaction was to get the gun I kept under the sofa cushion. I put the barrel in the hole and pulled the trigger. When I looked back, my neighbor was motionless and had blood in his left eye.

My cousin woke up with a look of terror.

“¿Qué pasa?” “¿Qué pasa?” (¿What’s going on?) He said.

I told him to look through the hole, then I covered it with a sock. I told him what I had witnessed the night before in the bar and all about my neighbor.

“Good, it was either you or him,” he said in Spanish.

Julian was like one of those friends you can call at three in the morning to get you out of jail, take you to the hospital, or even at more critical times when you need help to kill your worst enemy. He would never question your motives. If you’re lucky, you will only get a friend like that in your entire life. At the same time, you wouldn’t like guys like him as your enemies.

When he was a teenager, a stray dog bit his ankle right above his shoe. He was bleeding and in pain, but he followed the dog and kept going for miles relentlessly until the dog couldn’t go on any longer. The dog was so exhausted that he just gave up and accepted his fate with resignation. Then Julian knelt, grabbed the dog by its mouth, and forced it open until it broke its jaws.

The dog continued to wander around the neighborhood for days. Unable to control its mouth, the dog died of thirst and starvation in less than a week.

Half an hour after I shot my neighbor, someone knocked on the door. Two cops were investigating a shooting downstairs and asked if we had heard or seen anything. I told them I heard a gunshot and saw a guy running from the building. I described the skinhead’s friend.

“Thank you, guys, you’re good citizens. Thanks for your cooperation and your valuable information,” they said.

After the cops left, I said, “I’m glad I killed that mother fucker.”

Julian liked the sound of my words because he kept repeating, “Maaddaa faackaa, maddaa faackaa.” I knew he’d be saying those words all day.

After we left the apartment, we stopped next door to give the weed to Mark. He asked us if we wanted some, and we declined.

Just thinking about it made me shiver. “Caca poderosa, hombre, caca poderosa.” Julian kept saying as we left.

*****

One day, after I came back from work, Julian gave me a big surprise.

He had a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills. He was fanning his face with them.

“Where did you get that money?” I anticipated an incredible story.

“Robé un banco.” “I robbed a bank,” he said.

“What?” I replied.

“I went to this bank—I think it’s called Bank of the Sierra—and I gave a note to one of the tellers. But she couldn’t understand it because I wrote it in Spanish, so I called a Mexican-looking guy waiting in line to come and translate it. Then, she gave me almost $7,000. I gave the guy who helped me three hundred dollars and left,” he said in Spanish.

“What did the note say?” I asked him in complete disbelief, and he gave me a crumpled note.

The note said: “Este es un robo, dame todo tu dinero o exploto toda la dinamita que llevo bajo mi ropa.” [translation] “This is a robbery; give me all your money, or I’ll explode all the dynamite under my clothing.”

“You crazy mother fucker! We need to do something right away.” I said.

After a long lecture (possibly in vain), I made him wear sunglasses and a baseball cap and gave him another shirt. I burned the note, threw away the T-shirt, and took him to the barbershop.

When the barber finished, Julian looked in the mirror and said, “I like it, I like it.”

He was completely bald and unrecognizable, but still handsome.

At work, I asked the trash collector driver if he could find a job for Julian.

“Yes, they need another driver,” he said.

“But my cousin doesn’t have a driver’s license,” I replied.

“No problem, neither do I,” he said.

“And he has no papers or a work permit,” I answered.

“No problem, neither do I,” he said.

Julian insisted I take half the money he ‘collected’ from the bank.

“I didn’t participate in the robbery. I wouldn’t have, even if you asked me.”

“While living here, half of what I make is yours,” he said.

It was useless. Julian would get mad if I refused.

While having breakfast at Denny’s, I was reading the paper and came across an article about a black homeless man hit by a car. ‘A hit and run,’ they claimed.

There was another article about the shooting in my building and the killing of my neighbor. Next to it was a picture of the ‘killer’ (his friend) and a picture of the detectives receiving a medal from the Mayor for their excellent investigation leading to his arrest.

Another article mentioned a bank robbery, including a blurry picture of Julian taken by the surveillance cameras. It stated that they had arrested one of the robbers.

A lot of shit has happened since my cousin arrived.

Across from our table, a woman, probably in her early 40s, kept staring at us. She was attractive and elegant. After a while, she approached our table. I thought she was rude for sitting at our table without our permission.

Pointing her finger at Julian, she said.

“I know you! I know it’s you. Even without hair, I know it’s you.”

“Excuse me, lady, what are you talking about? I’m sure you’re mistaken,” I said, not knowing what she was talking about. “My friend doesn’t even speak English,” I continued.

“I knew I was right! I just knew it!” she said.

Then, with her index finger straight up against her mouth and nose in a softer voice and looking at me, she said, “Shh, don’t worry, I’m not going to say anything to anybody, but this guy just robbed my bank last week.” She continued, “I’m the manager. Listen, I want to make a deal with you guys. I need you to rob the bank again, but this time, there’s $25,000.00 involved.” She grabbed the newspaper, pointed to Julian’s picture, and said, “That’s him.”

“Okay, let’s say for a moment that you’re right,” I said, knowing there was no use denying it. “What’s your proposition?”

“Okay, here’s the deal. I have a gambling habit. I gamble with our customers’ money. I visit a casino in Lemoore frequently. I’m in deep shit now. Sooner or later, they’ll find out I’m swindling money from the bank. I keep going back to the casino, hoping to win back the money, but I keep losing. I swear if I get even, I’ll quit for good,” she leaned closer to the table and continued.

“You both show up at the bank and use the same method, and no one gets hurt. I’ll make sure everything goes smoothly. I’ll make sure the teller has $25,000.00 ready for you. You’ll come with your little note. But this time you must write it in English. I’ll report a higher amount, and we all win. My name’s Linda. I don’t even need to know your names.”

Her plan sounded safe, and I agreed with it. We exchanged numbers, and she said she’d get in touch. When I translated everything for Julian, he got excited and said, “I like it.”

*****

Julian started working for a waste management company in Dinuba, collecting trash around a rural area. Julian had always had enormous self-esteem. He would often get any job he applied for, and he could even apply for astronaut jobs.

Anything was better than passing notes to bank tellers saying he wanted to blow up their banks.

Linda called to give me some instructions.

“Okay, everything is ready for tomorrow at 5:55 P.M. Make sure you’re our last customer. I’ll be working on register number four, so don’t worry. It’ll be fast and easy,” she added, “we’ll meet after the operation, and I’ll give you your part.”

We showed up as city workers. We wore brown boots, yellow helmets, yellow safety vests, and dark sunglasses.

We left the car half a block away from the bank. I was a little nervous, but I didn’t let it show. There was no need to carry guns.

I heard it was easier to rob a bank than a 7-Eleven store. They were right. It was a piece of cake—in and out in two minutes. Linda was at the cash register. We just gave her the note, and she gave us a white canvas bag with a lock. It must have been the easiest bank robbery ever.

Boom, just like that, we were out of there. A second after I started the car, I heard an alarm.

The next day, we met with Linda and gave her the canvas bag; she then gave us $25,000 in cash. Sweet!

A few days later, I grabbed a hamburger from Carl’s Jr. on my lunch break and went to the Green Olive for a beer to celebrate my growing bank account.

When I drove out of the driveway, I watched a patrol car pass by. The cop turned around and followed me. He turned on his lights and pulled me over.

A tall, bald, white guy with a menacing look came out of the patrol car.

“Driver’s license and registration, please,” he said.

He walked back to his car and checked my record.

I wasn’t worried. I knew I was clean.

“Are you drunk?”

“No,” I replied.

“Well, I just saw you coming out of that bar. I know you weren’t drinking milk. I’ll ask you again: Are you drunk?

“I just told you I’m not drunk!” I replied.

Damn! I raised my voice a little, and that’s a no, no. I regretted it right away. And I interrupted him, too. I knew that was rule number one. ‘Never interrupt a cop if you don’t want to end up in jail.’

“Step out of the car motherfucker. I think you’re drunk,” he was insanely pissed off.

“Officer, I just told you I’m not drunk. I only had one beer with my lunch.”

“Shut the fuck up motherfucker. You’re going to be drunk in fifteen minutes,” he said while handcuffing and pushing me to the back of his cruiser.

He drove behind a boarded-up warehouse with a vacant parking lot. He parked, went to the trunk, and returned with a bottle of whiskey.

“Drink it, you piece of shit, or I’ll kick the shit out of you,” he said while putting his baton against my neck. Knowing I had lost the battle, I obeyed him and drank.

“Look all around you, not a soul in sight to save you.” Then he pushed the play button on his radio, and Freddy Mercury started singing, “Thum, thum, thum, another one bites the dust, another one bites the dust, and another one gone and another one gone.”

Mother fucker! He just ruined one of my favorite songs.

I told Julian the whole story when he came to bail me out the next day.

“Maaddaa faackaa, we need to find this maadda faackaa,” and added, “We’ll get him ‘primo,’ I swear, we’ll get him.”

The next day, I found the stupid cop on the front page of the newspaper. Some ladies from MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Driving) were honoring him. The Visalia chapter was giving him a medal for the most drunk driver arrests in Tulare County. I felt my blood boiling inside my veins; his name was everywhere. Good.

Another article in the paper caught my eye: “Another bank robbery, this time they escaped with $125,000.00.” Oh, Linda, you’re such an intelligent woman.

*****

It was easy to find the cop’s address online.

In the morning, we drove by his house. He lived near Farmersville in a newly developed housing area. We found him mowing his lawn, and his patrol car was in the driveway.

With his broken English, I sent Julian to tell the cop that he had witnessed a drunk driver crashing his car into a tree.

Nearby, in a secluded, empty field, I had the front end of my car leaning against a tree as if I had just crashed. I was still in the driver’s seat, my chest pressed against the steering wheel. I had my gun hidden between my legs.

When the cop arrived, Julian was already behind him.

“Are you okay? The cop asked.

Gun in hand, I exited the car and pushed him to the back seat.

“If you don’t do as I say, you’re dead in a second, motherfucker.”

We tied him up and covered his mouth with duct tape. As I drove away, Julian kept him down with the gun against his head.

“If he moves, even a little bit, shoot him in the head, Julian.”

The cop knew I meant it because he stood still. Then, we headed for Dinuba, where Julian worked.

We didn’t go through city streets. Instead, we took a longer route through the fields. We drove across cornfields and orange trees on a two-way highway. When we arrived, the sweet taste of revenge filled all my senses.

The enclosed yard with a chain-link fence had several trash trucks parked neatly inside. Julian had the key to the locked yard.

“Look all around you. There’s not a soul in sight to save you.” I proudly told the cop when we got him out of the car.

He wrestled and complained when we put him in a residential trash container. He calmed down a bit after Julian hit him on the head. His body barely fit inside.

I gave Julian the signal to operate the controls. The cop looked terrified when the thick metal arms slowly approached the container.

His muffled screams and expressions seemed like they were from a silent film. I especially enjoyed it when the container was horizontal just before he went down.

A heavy, muted sound was barely audible when his body hit the truck’s metal floor. When Julian turned the compactor on, I put my ear close to the vehicle to hear the cracking sound of his bones.

The sound must be similar to the sound you hear when you step on a cockroach, only a million times louder.

Julian needed to make many more stops to fill the truck with three tons of garbage. I envied his job, which must be highly satisfactory.

One slow weekend, Mark showed up while I listened to classic rock and had a few beers. I offered him a beer, and he offered me a toke. He accepted my beer, and I declined his offer of a toke. As I was narrating my trip to Tijuana, including my out-of-body experience while driving back, Julian stepped into the apartment with none other than ‘Miss Camel Toe’ herself.

We introduced ourselves. Kim was her name. After a while, I blinked an eye at Mark, and we moved to his apartment. I was sure those lovebirds wanted to be alone.

Mark was amazed at Julian’s progress. He wondered how he had already secured a job, a car, and dated gorgeous girls after only a few months in the country.

*****

A few days later, Kim showed up with a bloody nose. Her upper lip was split open and swollen, and she had a black eye. She said her ex-husband beat her.

“The fucking bastard can’t leave me alone. It’s not the first time he hit me, but it sure was the worst,” she said while looking at herself in the bathroom mirror.

“If I call the cops, he’s gone by the time they come,” she sobbed. “He lives in Madera, but every time he comes to Visalia to visit his buddies, he gets drunk and ends up in my house. And then he begs me, ‘Come on, honey; take me back. I know I can make you happy. You know you need me.’ Stupid asshole, I need him like I need a dead rat in my ass,” she said.

We all laughed, but she immediately complained, “Ouch,” cupping her jaw.

“I’ve seen many movies about abused women, and most end up dead. If I try to defend myself, he hits me harder. I don’t know what to do anymore,” she said.

“You’ll be okay, Kim. We’re going to help you. He’ll be out of your life soon. You’ll see,” I said.

Julian was mad as hell but kept quiet. After we fixed her up a little, we gave her two shots of tequila and four aspirin. Then, we left her to rest.

“I think we can plan something around these foggy conditions we’re having, like, for example…”

In ten minutes, Julian found three ways to get rid of him.

In the morning, I explained our plan to Kim.

“Call him and say that you’ll give him another chance. Tell him to come to your house to celebrate the reunion. But just get him drunk and bring him to us.”

“Okay, that shouldn’t be so hard, and then what?”

“Just get him drunk and bring him to us. But he needs to be all fucked up drunk, okay? It’ll be foggy tonight. Bring him around midnight, when the fog is at its heaviest.”

After she left, I saw Mark and asked him if we could use his van.

Sure enough, Kim showed up at midnight. “Okay, guys, I got my ex in the car. He’s all fucked up. Now what?” she said, full of satisfaction.

Julian and I carried the son of a bitch to the rear of the van. Kim was driving, and we headed to Delano, a small town thirty miles south of Visalia.

The fog was so thick that we could only see about 100 feet ahead. Julian and I were in the back of the van, keeping an eye on the stupid guy.

A couple of miles past Delano, I told Kim to pull in front of an eighteen-wheeler, and then, we just pushed the guy out of the van.

As simple as that, the motherfucker won’t be hitting any defenseless girls anymore.

When I closed the van’s back door, I saw Kim’s eyes in the rearview mirror. She didn’t seem surprised by what we had just done.

During breakfast, I commented on a story I read in the paper. It was a funny story—sad, yet also amusing.

“A basketball player from a local high school team was surfing in Australia. He was floating on his surfboard, face down, pushing the water with his hands. And then, a shark bit off his left hand. Somehow, he managed to swim back to the beach and survived.

After spending a week in an Australian hospital, he returned to his hometown.

Hundreds of students welcomed him on the baseball field, where they brought him from the airport in a helicopter. When he came out, he saluted the crowd with his right hand and got his hand chopped off by the helicopter blades.”

Then Julian made one of his typical silly comments.

“Man, how is he supposed to wipe his ass now?”

Edmundo Barraza

Visalia, CA.

May-2011

SOLEDAD

(A bilingual poem—4 decades in LA)

Solo, al principio, a la mitad y al final
Alone, at all stages in my life
Prestando siempre atención a todo lo irrelevante
Ignoring always the most essential
Persiguiendo siempre a la siempre elusiva felicidad
Tomando caminos equivocados, desviados, perdidos y escondidos
Finding friends anywhere, everywhere, hundreds of them
Different colors, levels, religions, good and bad, smart and not
Sueños olvidados, abandonados, desdeñados e ignorados
Sacrificados e injustificadamente eliminados de mi mente
Procrastinados por la ceguera de la eterna juventud
Friends, real, false, provisional, a few remain, some disappeared, most are gone
Others are forgotten, some I miss, some sincerely
Alone remains, alone is loyal. What did I find, while looking for nothing?
Mi rompecabezas está ahora incompleto,
Por buscar no sé qué, perdí no sé qué tanto
Triste tristeza, infeliz felicidad, en los escombros solo encuentro mi soledad
But the only precious thing I’ve ever had was my mind,
Uneducated, unspoiled, uncontaminated, uncorrupted
Always loyal and faithful
My only true friend,
My beautiful mind.
Beautiful to me
Anyway

Edmundo Barraza

Visalia, CA.

Mar-2012

UN BULTITO

Me acuerdo muy bien de ese día. Me acuerdo muy claramente porque era mi cumpleaños. Estoy cien por ciento seguro de que ese día yo cumplía quince años. O dieciséis.

Inmediatamente después de ponerme los zapatos, sentí un pequeño bulto dentro del zapato derecho. No era duro como una piedra, era algo entre duro y suave, no sé cómo describirlo exactamente, tampoco era muy pequeño. No me molestaba demasiado, así que no me preocupó mucho, además ya no tenía tiempo de quitarme el zapato para investigar qué era. Mi mamá ya me esperaba en la cocina con mi desayuno listo. Tenía que estar en la escuela a las ocho de la mañana.

En lo más recóndito de mi cerebro, o como quien dice en mi subconsciente, no dejaba de pensar en el pequeño bulto dentro de mi zapato derecho. Mientras comía en la mesa de la cocina, me tallaba la suela del zapato contra la silla que tenía frente a mí. Comí de prisa y me despedí de mi mamá; para esas fechas ya no me despedía con un beso.

El recorrido de mi casa a la parada del autobús era largo, algo así como doce cuadras. Si cada cuadra son cien metros, entonces serían como mil doscientos metros; si cada paso de un adulto es como un metro, entonces deberían de ser como mil doscientos pasos, más el espacio entre las cuadras, y considerando que mis pasos eran más chicos que los de un adulto, calculo que por lo menos fueron tres mil pasos los que di en ese recorrido.

Yo vivía en la colonia Moderna, que en realidad de moderna, pues no tenía nada, ni asfalto, ni cemento, ni aceras. Caminaba por la Valdez Carrillo hasta la Juárez.

Bueno, pues en cada paso que daba, buscaba cómo restregar la suela de mi zapato contra algo duro. Ya tenía mucha comezón, iba concentrado solo en eso. Ya ni me acordaba que no había hecho la tarea de taquigrafía, la materia que más odiaba; lo único que me gustaba de esa materia era la maestra. Bueno, pues, solo la planta del pie tenía en mi mente.

Todo esto lo hacía inconscientemente. Ahora es que recuerdo eso claramente.

Al llegar a la Juárez, en la Plaza de Armas, pensé: ahora si me quito el zapato, pero en eso llegó el camión.

En el autobús hice lo mismo, raspaba mi pie contra el tubo de metal de descanso del asiento de adelante. Ahí sí tenía tiempo de quitarme el zapato y remover lo que me molestaba, pero como no era una molestia exagerada, no lo hice. Al bajar del autobús pegué un brinco, tratando de comprimir con mi peso lo que sea que estaba dentro de mi zapato.

Sin ningún éxito. Lo que estaba ahí aún lo sentía, apachurrado o no.

Ya en la escuela, durante la primera clase, seguí dándole con el zapato, ahora contra el pupitre de mi compañero de adelante. Pensé quitarme el zapato entonces, pero me parecía un poco ridículo, además la maestra de esa clase era muy estricta y exigía mucha concentración. Decidí que en la siguiente clase sí lo haría.

Tampoco lo pude hacer. Teníamos examen en esa clase, y yo no necesitaba ninguna clase de distracción. Al entregar mi examen terminado ya me latía que la calificación no sería muy buena, pues me la pasé muy distraído.

Lo que estaba en lo más recóndito de mi cerebro ya estaba en mero enfrente: el triste bultito.

Solo faltaba una clase, y después tendríamos un receso, o descanso, o recreo, ya no me acuerdo cómo es que le llamábamos al intermedio de media hora que tomábamos después de la tercera clase. Entonces, yo pensé que sin ninguna excusa revisaría lo que tanto me molestaba en el zapato. Ahora sí pensé que me molestaba. No tanto por lo que traía dentro del zapato, sino la molestia mental y la curiosidad por saber que era ese triste bultito.

Pero tampoco pude, pues mis amigos me eligieron para jugar un juego rápido de voleibol. No me negué, pues pensé que con tanto brinco aplastaría lo que sea que traía dentro de mi viejo zapato.

No funcionó.

Cuando se terminó el partido, que perdimos porque yo me la pasé brincando sin ton ni son en lugar de atacar al otro equipo y defender el mío, por fin decidí quitarme el zapato, pero cuando estaba tratando de desabrocharme la cinta, alguien detrás de mí me dio un coscorrón. Era el director, quien me decía: “Apúrate, chamaco, ¿que no oíste el timbre?”

Bueno, ahora solo faltaban dos clases y nos podríamos ir a casa. Esas dos clases se me hicieron muy largas y aburridas. Durante esas dos clases continué rascando mi pie en el pupitre de mi compañero, hasta que ya un poco enfadado, pero con cortesía, él me dijo que dejara de joder.

Sin más remedio, tuve que esperarme hasta el final de la última clase.

Pero tampoco pude. Pues al salir de la escuela, mi amiguita favorita me estaba esperando, y me preguntó que si la acompañaba a su casa. “Por supuesto que sí”, le dije muy entusiasmado, sabiendo que siempre me despedía con un beso en la mejilla después de que la dejaba en su casa.

Al llegar a su casa, me preguntó qué pasaba con mi pie derecho, y si me había lastimado jugando al voleibol. Luego de que le expliqué detalladamente lo del bultito en mi zapato, se sonrió, y me invitó a pasar a su sala a sentarme al sillón y quitarme el zapato, pues ella también tenía curiosidad de ver que era.

Ahora pienso que habría sido mejor no haber aceptado.

Ya sentía yo una satisfacción anticipada al estar desabrochándome la cinta del zapato. A pesar de que no tenía ni la menor idea de lo que encontraría, me imaginé que ambos terminaríamos con una sonrisa.

Finalmente me quité el zapato, metí la mano y saqué lo que estaba ahí, y enseguida, como un tonto, abrí la mano frente a ella. Al escuchar el grito de mi amiga comprendí que esta vez no habría beso de despedida. Tal vez, sólo la despedida, y tal vez para siempre.

Jamás había visto yo una cucaracha de semejante tamaño.

Esto sucedió hace muchos años. Ella, entonces, era mi novia; ahora es mi esposa. Hoy nos estábamos acordando de ese episodio. Y hoy, después de tantos años mi esposa dijo:

“Jamás había visto yo a una cucaracha de semejante tamaño y que apestara tanto a pies.”

Edmundo Barraza

Lancaster, CA.

Aug-2014

ANCHOR BABY

Jose was an excellent craftsman. He made hand-spinning tops, caps, balls, puppets, and other wooden toys. The quality of the toys didn’t match the low selling price. The toys accounted for a significant portion of his profits. Pancho was a vital part of the business. Pancho was an alcoholic and Jose’s partner, best friend, and, most importantly, a crucial element of his show. The donkey carried a sign hanging from its neck that said, “Pancho,” and all the tourists at the beach loved to see it drink beer.

The donkey had been loyal to Jose for years; he carried the merchandise and entertained the crowds. Beachgoers knew Pancho loved beer, so they gave him beer. Most days, it appeared that Pancho was too willing to go to work, but Jose knew that, in reality, Pancho had a hangover, and all he had in mind was to go to the beach and get drunk again. The happy appearance of Pancho was misleading; Jose knew he was exploiting Pancho, even though the donkey had a constant smile on his face, but his addiction was what provoked the smile.

Jose’s wife was in the last days of her pregnancy, and for the previous two weeks, she couldn’t join him and stayed home. They made a decent living in Tijuana. Their modest house had barely the essentials for a happy life. Despite their humble circumstances, their determination to improve their child’s prospects was unwavering. The decision was final: the child would be born in the United States.

Most people in Mexico blamed the US for their eternal misery from Tijuana to Central America and beyond. The graffiti on the poorest slums proclaimed: “Yankees go home,” in contrast to racist signs near San Diego showing immigrant parents with a girl in ponytails running and crossing the freeway, and alluding to illegal aliens crossing the border.

Indeed, the US had been robbing them of all their natural resources, including silver, gold, oil, lumber, and cheap labor. They were taking all the country’s resources and leaving it with increasing debt.

Mexico had survived centuries of Spanish pillaging and exploitation. At present, the US has replaced Spain, but the love for their country remains steadfast.

In most cases, the only solution they could find was to flee to the US. The US had nothing to recriminate against. It was just a vicious circle initiated by a greedy villain. Talk about poetic justice.

Jose and Pancho had been a permanent fixture at the beach, and tourists had taken thousands of pictures and videos of Pancho and his drinking habits for many years at the Mexico-USA border on the beach. They were never bothered by immigration officers while going back and forth across the border, temporarily invading the US side for a few hundred yards.

However, the following day, they had planned to venture further into US territory.

Maria was ready to give birth. She wasn’t too glad her first baby would be American-born. She was proud of her heritage, with its brown and Aztec roots. She even imagined that by giving birth in America, her child would be a white boy or a blond girl, just like that, automatically by crossing an invisible border, even if the other side used to be part of Mexico. Jose and Maria had decided it was best for the child. Their child would have access to better education, medical care, job opportunities, and everything else. He could be a professional athlete, an astronaut, or even the President of the United States. Yes, it was best for the child, and they clung to this hope for a better future.

Maria was riding the donkey; it had all kinds of trinkets hanging from its neck, not cheap, but inexpensive wooden toys that mainly appealed to poor kids on the Mexican side. Cheap meant low quality, but these toys were good quality, so they were ‘inexpensive.’ Pancho was having a hard time carrying the extra weight. He was sweating off a hangover from the day before, and he was anxious to have his first beer. But Jose was making fewer stops than usual. They hadn’t walked a mile on the US side when an Immigration Officer stopped them and asked them for their papers. A second officer appeared and said it was okay, that Jose and Pancho were allowed to come and go just a couple of miles into US territory, and that Pancho had been entertaining tourists from both sides for years. So they left them alone.

And they continued their trip.

They didn’t plan to give any shows or sell anything; their only goal was to reach a community hospital in Chula Vista. But along the way, they made a few stops to avoid suspicion. Their journey was not easy, and every step was a struggle.

The first stop was unplanned. Pancho decided to stop with a group of teenagers. He needed a beer. The kids were drinking beer from red plastic cups because drinking alcohol was not allowed on California beaches. Jose couldn’t understand how Pancho noticed the teens were drinking beer. Pancho came to a standstill in front of them and stubbornly refused to continue. He deserved a break, thought Jose.

Maria dismounted the thirsty, alcoholic donkey. Pancho looked a little pathetic, but soon, with some luck, he would change that look into a smile. The teens couldn’t believe Jose when he told them the truth: the donkey had a terrible hangover. Ultimately, they had a lot of fun with Pancho; they even bought puppets and spinning tops. Pancho drank five beers, and before they left, Pancho brayed rather noisily. He was happy again. The teens rioted when a naive girl asked Jose if she could kiss his ass. Maria didn’t like that.

And they continued their journey.

Along the beach, there were showers, restrooms, and other facilities, including lifeguard posts and free public parking spaces. The ocean water, the wind, and the sunshine were the same, but somehow, the American side seemed more serene, pure, and less polluted. How can that be possible?

Pancho had decided to be in charge of the rest stops and breaks they would take. This time, he took refuge in the shade next to a restroom. And while Maria used the facilities, Jose fed Pancho and gave him some water.

They weren’t dirty or messy, but seemed odd and out of place. Maria wore a long dress, a headscarf, and a straw hat. Nobody could deny she was beautiful. Jose was wearing a pair of white loose cotton pants, a white guayabera, and brown sandals. He was handsome, too. However, they looked out of place; neither did they resemble tourists nor natives.

Before Maria exited the restroom, a lady blabbered in a fastidious tone, aiming her venom at Maria, while her husband waited just outside the door, “I can’t believe it! These Mexicans are invading us. It seems like the borderline is getting closer to San Diego; I can’t even use the restroom without tripping over one of them! Oh, my God, we need to move to Canada!” “Yes!” answered her husband, “and look at this, they’re even bringing their burros!” They continued to complain as they walked away. Maria came out of the restroom sad and confused.

“I don’t know what happened, Jose. I didn’t do anything, but that lady was offended by my presence. I don’t understand why,” Maria said, exiting the restroom.

“It’s okay, Maria. Don’t worry. You’re not to blame. Some people are just intolerant of other races. Please, darling, don’t be upset. Just ignore them,” Jose said as he helped her climb up Pancho.

Jose couldn’t understand it either since all the American tourists they encountered in Tijuana were highly polite and gracious, always respectful and well-mannered. They’d never seen such mean people before.

And they continued their trek.

Maria was still sobbing quietly when a short, skinny guy appeared, jogging next to them. He suddenly stopped and asked Jose in Spanish if he could ride his donkey for a little bit. Such a request was common among kids, but since Jose couldn’t find a reason to refuse, he agreed. While Jose and Maria sat on the sand to rest, the little guy went up and down the beach, riding Pancho, who was full of joy. Even Pancho appeared to be having fun. They looked a little comical, too.

When they came back, the man sat next to them. And while still laughing, the man mentioned that he started riding donkeys when he was five years old, back in a little town in Oaxaca, where he was from. It turned out he was a jockey. He said he would run a race at the Del Mar racetrack the following day. He said he missed Mexico and often felt lonely and nostalgic. Jose told him their story, why they had crossed the border, and their intentions to give the baby a better future.

After Jose finished their story, the short man offered them three hundred dollars to help with the medical bills, which Jose accepted with sincere modesty.

Even though Jose had all their life savings, he was worried he didn’t have enough money for the hospital. Now, Jose was glad nobody would call him a freeloader. Even Pancho disliked being a burden.

And they continued their expedition.

They were near their destination. Maria’s contractions were getting intense and persistent. She told Jose it was time. While she rested next to a lifeguard’s tower, Jose went to get a taxi.

To the right, the waves were crashing violently against the rocks. To the left, and as far as you could see, the high tide kept delivering surfers to the beach. One of them saw Maria trying to stretch and relax, but nothing seemed remotely relaxing on the sand, not even a towel. The surfer offered his surfing board for her to lie down on. Other young people brought more surfboards and built two walls around her. Then, the lifeguard brought a stretcher and some sheets. Maria couldn’t wait for an ambulance to arrive.

The beach sure looked like paradise. The place where the ocean waters enveloped and caressed this beautiful planet was ideal for delivering a baby.

The lifeguard and the surfers were good enough to deliver the baby. The healthy boy didn’t need doctors, nurses, or emergency rooms. Many surfers offered their arms to hold the smiling baby.

When Jose returned, he held the baby and kissed Maria, and the crowd erupted in cheers.

And, of course, they named the baby Jesus.

And thirty-three years later, he would have to experience his own journey.

Edmundo Barraza

Lancaster, CA.

Feb-2020

QUIERO

Quiero volver a nacer.

Quiero ser niño otra vez.

Quiero ser adolescente otra vez.

Quiero montar una motocicleta o un caballo.

Quiero ser ciudadano universal. Sin color ni bandera.

Quiero noches turbulentas y días acelerados.

Quiero defender a las injusticias y ofender a los injustos.

Quiero vivir sin morir.

Quiero a Diego (sin derramar una lágrima).

Quiero derramar muchas lágrimas sin sentirme triste.

Quiero ahuyentar las tristezas e invitar emociones.

Quiero nadar en el Amazonas y en el Nilo.

Quiero nadar hasta la luna.

Quiero más poesía, más libros y más música.

Quiero vicios sin adicción.

Quiero experimentar contigo y sin ti.

Quiero alas y volar al centro de la Tierra.

Quiero conocer el cielo y el infierno y luego decidir qué es lo que quiero.

Quiero una eternidad efímera que dure un segundo y continuar viviendo un siglo más.

Quiero el abrazo de un niño.

Quiero necesitar amor.

Quiero que me echen de menos, pero antes de morir, no después.

Quiero conjugar todos los verbos, pero con acciones.

Quiero que Dios exista y que la maldad desaparezca.

Quiero que Dios sea mujer y nos guíe mejor.

Quiero amor en todos los corazones.

Quiero que el amor sea la moneda de cambio.

Quiero lanzarme en paracaídas y nunca caer.

Quiero descubrir héroes reales.

Quiero ser el héroe y el villano de tu película.

Quiero correr un maratón alrededor del mundo.

Quiero ser vampiro y morderte el cuello.

Quiero cancelar el odio, la envidia y el rencor.

Quiero escenas bonitas y noticias buenas.

Quiero mil cosas para ti y nada para mí.

Quiero que los niños sean inmunes al dolor y al sufrimiento.

Quiero repartir mi amor y compartir tu dolor.

Quiero donar mi corazón para que siga creciendo.

Quiero pedir perdón sin mencionar mis pecados.

Quiero que el futuro esté presente cuando mi pasado sea juzgado.

Y aunque parezca difícil.

Quiero ser bueno.

The End

Edmundo Barraza

Lancaster, CA.

Aug-2015

(In the photograph: My wife and I.)

SE RENTAN NUBES

INTRODUCCION

Un niño sueña con una vida mejor para sus padres y su hermana menor cuando una grave sequía afecta a su pequeño campo y amenaza el modo de vida de la familia. El padre está al borde de la desesperación, pero sus hijos tienen influencias más allá de las nubes y su fe es inquebrantable.

*****

El paisaje no podía ser más horrendo ni más devastador. La tierra se veía triste y gris, y su aridez era muy profunda.

Así era la tierra de mi padre en esos tiempos. Seguía siendo tierra fértil, sólo que esa fertilidad necesitaba agua, agua que venía escaseando desde que yo nací. Hace once años que no llovía. La tristeza era visible en el rostro de mi padre y se comenzaba a parecer a su propia tierra, pues ya se le notaban surcos áridos en la frente y alrededor de sus ojos.

Cualquier desierto podría tener más vida. De seguro había desiertos en el mundo con más alegría, tierras áridas, pero llenas de orgullo y acostumbradas a vivir sin agua. Tierras desintegradas y convertidas por el extremo calor en granos de arena, imposibles de crear vida y alimento.

Me daba mucho gusto ver a mi padre feliz, pero su felicidad era cada vez más escasa y paulatina. A veces, antes de irnos a dormir, salía de la casa y veía al cielo, esperanzado de que las nubes fueran más sociables y amistosas y que al fin se reunieran a festejar algún milagro. El milagro de la lluvia. Pero al día siguiente, la tristeza de mi padre se intensificaba al ver sus tierras desoladas y secas. El agua comunal ya no existía; el río sólo parecía una vena vacía y seca, por la cual ya no corría ni una gota de sangre. Estaba tan muerto como la esperanza misma de las gentes de los alrededores; algunos vecinos ya se empezaban a ir a las ciudades.

Y yo le rogaba a Dios, le rezaba y le imploraba que mandara agua, porque me dolía mucho en el corazón ver a mi padre cada vez más triste. Él no se daba cuenta de que yo notaba todo; tampoco se fijaba en que yo veía que el vaso de agua que tomaba para apagar su insaciable sed no se lo terminaba, y le iba a echar el último trago a la plantita de la maceta que teníamos en mi ventana.

Y yo veía en las noticias cómo en otras partes del mundo había inundaciones, huracanes y lluvias torrenciales que arrasaban todo a su paso. Y yo le preguntaba a Dios por qué era tan injusto y no repartía sus exageraciones, y por qué no traía un poco de los excesos de allá a las escaseces de acá. Y porque la gente más pobre era siempre la más afectada por todas las miserias que el mundo padecía.

Pensando en eso, se me ocurrió que debería haber una forma de juntar las nubes y forzarlas, de alguna manera, a que soltaran sus aguas en algún lugar específico, no para el placer de sólo ver llover, sino para satisfacer el hambre y las necesidades más elementales de la gente del campo. Además, mi hermanita de tres años nunca había visto llover. Y así me fui a dormir una noche, pensando en cómo lograr traer las lluvias y devolverle la felicidad a mi papá.

Y esa noche soñé con “Nube Mojada”, el jefe apache de la tribu “sinsolnisombra” que me enseñaba la danza de la lluvia. Su poder sobrenatural de atraer las nubes ya había rebasado fronteras. Las inmensas tierras de su tribu las envidiaba el mismo paraíso celestial. No sé cómo, pero en mi mismo sueño me daba cuenta de que estaba soñando, aunque todo se veía auténtico; me daba cuenta de que todo era irreal. Y eso me obligaba a poner más atención para aprenderme al cien por ciento la danza de la lluvia, para aplicarla al día siguiente en las tierras de mi papá.

Pues sí, me la aprendí y en la mañana, antes de irme a la escuela, antes de bañarme y antes de desayunar, ejecuté el baile tan auténtico como pude. Con una olla y una cuchara traté de imitar el ritmo de los tambores. Todo estaba bien hasta que mi mamá me agarró de la oreja y me metió a casa, diciendo que me iba a llevar al manicomio si no me comportaba como una persona normal.

Por el río no había corrido agua desde hacía tres años; tampoco mi hermanita sabía qué era un río. Me imagino que si soltaban agua de la presa o del lago, o de donde salía el agua del río, solo alcanzaría a humedecer por unos segundos la tierra tan muerta de sed por tantos años. Estoy seguro de que nosotros estábamos a muchos kilómetros de donde naciera el agua. Y cada vez que pasaba por el río vacío, desquebrajado y seco, me acordaba de mi papá y de su corazón.

Un día vi a mi papá con una vara en forma de “Y” caminando incansablemente por todo el rancho. Según él, buscando agua subterránea, lo único que encontró fue una sed inmensa en su garganta. Decepcionado, se fue a sentar a la sombra flaca del último árbol vivo que nos quedaba. Tal vez necesitaba una vara más grande, mucho más grande.

La preocupación de mi papá se me había contagiado; ya solo pensaba en nuestra gran escasez de agua, día y noche. Antes de dormir, mi mente le daba vueltas a mis pensamientos y, durante horas, solo veía agua en mi mente. Una mañana desperté con buenas noticias en la televisión. Habían encontrado la forma de hacer llover, según esto habían inventado un imán de nubes. Este imán reunía nubes en un par de horas y luego le lanzaban cañonazos o misiles desde la tierra, que explotaban sobre las nubes, obligándolas a soltar el agua del susto. Pero todo esto acabó repentinamente cuando empezaron las guerras civiles entre pueblos vecinos, pues reclamaban que les habían robado sus nubes. Y aun así, cada vez aparecían imanes más grandes y poderosos. Hasta que el gobierno los prohibió.

Y por supuesto, yo despertaba de mis sueños fantásticos cada vez más decepcionado. Aunque eso de los imanes me parecía una buena idea.

Nuestra preocupación creció cuando el agua para bañarnos ya se consideraba un desperdicio. En la casa ya no había macetas con plantas vivas, los perros ya no sacaban la lengua para no sudar, y así ahorraban vueltas a sus recipientes secos.

Por las noches yo ya no rezaba ni conversaba con Dios, en lugar de eso, le reclamaba y le reprochaba sin ningún temor o respeto que se bajara de su nube y nos la prestara por tan solo un rato, y le recriminaba lo que había aprendido en la escuela: setenta y uno por ciento de la superficie de la tierra contiene noventa y siete por ciento del agua en el planeta.

Y le preguntaba porque no la distribuía equitativamente, o aunque sea que le quite la sal al agua del mar y haga un millón de ríos nuevos, y luego el calor del sol podría evaporar parte de esta agua y luego esta evaporación convertirse en nubes y luego en lluvia y luego la lluvia regresaría a los ríos y así sucesivamente, un ciclo bonito e interminable. Y así, con tanta agua de lluvia, el mundo entero se convertiría en un paraíso terrenal y ya nadie le pediría nada, y él estaría en paz descansando por toda la eternidad, o podría irse a otros universos a crear vida nueva con otro Adán y otra Eva. No creo que sea tan complicado para Dios.

Viéndolo bien, podríamos mudarnos a donde haya muchas inundaciones y, por lo menos, nos desaburriríamos de esta sequedad tan terrible. Mi papá dice que eso está muy complicado y que necesitaríamos, al menos, diez años para adaptarnos a un cambio tan drástico. Y yo digo que me gustaría haber nacido en medio del agua, y que dentro de diez años vamos a seguir sin agua ni lluvia. Y él dice que me calle y que no eche la sal.

Ya no quiero dormir, ya no quiero soñar. O bueno, siempre si, si quiero soñar, quiero soñar que amanezco ahogado en un inmenso lago de agua dulce y fresca, bueno no ahogado, quiero disfrutar más mi felicidad y ver la cara de mi papá sin arrugas y sin surcos, quiero ver su cara con una sonrisa eterna, que salga a brincar junto conmigo en la lluvia, mirando al cielo con nuestras bocas abiertas, y recibir el agua dentro de nuestras almas y corazones y dejar que corra por todas nuestras venas. Eso es lo que quiero. Soñar y ya no despertar.

Pero vuelvo a despertar. Y creo que estoy escuchando que llueve. Pero no me entusiasmo porque sé que estoy soñando. Pero escucho a mi padre y a mi hermanita gritar afuera, brincando y riendo bajo la lluvia. Y luego mi madre se acerca a mi cama y me pide la mano y me dice que me levante y vaya a ver cuánta lluvia está cayendo. Y le contesto que no quiero porque estoy dormido y soñando. Hasta que regresa con una cubeta llena de agua y me la vacía en la cara. Y entonces sí despierto y me levanto y voy a festejar el milagro de la lluvia. Y brincamos todos juntos, agarrados de la mano, y nos cansamos, pero ya no nos da sed.

Y me voy a dormir y vuelvo a despertar y sigue lloviendo.

Y sigue lloviendo.

Edmundo Barraza

Lancaster, CA.

Sept-2014

A GHOST IN VISALIA

INTRODUCTION

Visalia is a small city in central California.

In this particular story, some of the events were real. When my wife and I moved into this house, a few strange things began to happen: noises, such as slamming doors and music coming from nowhere, along with other mysterious little details. Still, the most terrifying thing happened when my wife was in the kitchen and I was in my room. While listening to a soft rock radio station, the music became louder and louder. It was very spooky. After that, it happened a couple more times.

The part about my daughter and my grandson was real, too.

But it’s not a horror story. It’s a funny one.

*****

Before I signed the rental contract, the landlady told me that an eighty-six-year-old man had died in the first bedroom. She said she needed to disclose it before I moved in, so I wouldn’t quit suddenly without signing a thirty-day notice.

At the time, I didn’t pay any attention and disregarded the comment as useless and unimportant. Later, through the neighbors, I learned that the man had lived there for 15 years. After that, three new tenants moved in and out in rapid succession.

The house was old and unattractive, with a garage attached to the kitchen and living room. The family room was next to the dining room, with a narrow hallway and three bedrooms. The floor plan could have been better. The kitchen and dining room featured dark brown paint, carpet, and vinyl flooring. The house could be the ugliest house on the block. I couldn’t find anything attractive or pleasant about that house, but I’ve never been a person with many demands. Therefore, I signed the contract.

After a few weeks, the house was finally home. I didn’t care about how ugly it was.

One day, I was alone in the house, watching TV in the living room. The volume was low, and it was early at night when, suddenly, I heard the radio turn on in one of the back rooms.

I heard a male voice for a couple of seconds. I turned the lights on and went to investigate. I checked in my bedroom, where I had an alarm clock, but it was off. I had another radio, but it was unplugged. I thought it was bizarre, but I returned to watch television.

As the days passed, my wife and I continued to hear normal household noises, such as wood creaking and expanding or wind slamming doors.

Another day, I was reading in bed around 2:00 am when I heard the patio sliding door vibrating for a few seconds. I thought it was an earthquake, but nothing else shook. I convinced myself that my dog, Diego, was pushing the glass door. I wanted to avoid entering the hallway and passing the older man’s room at 2:00 am.

One morning, my wife was cooking in the kitchen and listening to music on the radio. I was in my room when the music suddenly became too loud. I jumped and ran straight to the kitchen. My wife had a look of terror. From there, we both could see the stereo system in the living room—the volume knob turning up by itself as far as it could go.

When my daughter and ten-month-old grandson, Damian, visited for a week, I put them in the old man’s bedroom. At first, she said it was warm and comfortable, and she had no complaints. They were happy, and I was pleased.

My grandson was handsome and intelligent, just like his grandpa.

But one night, my daughter came into our room carrying her son.

“Dad, somebody’s moving the bed. Even Damian woke up. We’re staying in your room now.” Then, she asked me to bring our inflatable mattress from the living room to our room. I stood bravely and confidently, but my knees shook when I passed that room.

The following day, I knew I had to confront the old man. I needed to show I wasn’t afraid of him and wouldn’t run away like the other tenants. After all, he wasn’t the one paying the rent. I moved my computer from the garage to his room. That way, I would have to spend more time in that room.

After my wife left for work, I asked him why he was still in the house. I kept talking to him for a few more days, sometimes even in Spanish, but it appeared he was gone. Or maybe I scared him off, or perhaps he never existed at all.

When I had almost forgotten about him, that’s when I saw him.

A mirror hung on the bathroom door; when closed, I could see that mirror and the one above the cabinet sink. So I could see my body, front and back, simultaneously.

That’s when I saw him. I was in shock but not afraid. It took me by surprise; I jumped back, and in the blink of an eye, he wasn’t there anymore. I saw him, but I wasn’t sure whether he was inside the mirror or behind me. He was wearing a light blue suit and a tie. He looked harmless.

“So you’re here after all.” I said, “I hope you’re not shy.” What’s your name? Come on, man, I know you already know my name. Tell me yours.”

“My name’s Peter Shelby,” he answered softly, in a hollow, tired voice. Instead of getting scared, I got genuinely excited. “Tell me, are you with God? Have you seen Him?” I asked him.

“Ha! I was eighty-six when I died. I was baptized and received my First Communion. I gave the church a small fortune in donations. But God was nowhere to be seen. I have tried my whole life to avoid breaking the Ten Commandments. And it was all for nothing. I still hope He shows up.”

“You might be in Purgatory, and God could be undecided on what to do with you. Maybe you’re paying for some pending sins. Who knows?” I said.

“I hope you’re right because it’s boring here. That’s why I was making noises and trying to manifest my disappointment. I wasn’t satisfied with this situation.”

“But why did you have to scare my daughter?”

“You were not paying attention, and that was frustrating. Being alone, bored, and ignored, I couldn’t take it anymore. Tell your daughter I’m sorry.”

“No, you tell her yourself. No, wait, leave her alone. Never mind. But answer me this: what’s your purpose in life? I mean, in death?”

“I have no idea. I think I need to do something, but I’m not sure what. My wife died three years before me. We were happy in this house. We spent our best years here.”

“And where do you think your wife is?”

“She must be in heaven, I guess. She was a much better person than I was. I wish I could communicate with her, be with her, and maybe I can ‘die’ in peace.”

I started to feel relaxed, almost as if I were in a normal situation.

“Okay, next question, do you eat, sleep, take showers, brush your teeth, or go to the bathroom?”

“No, no, no, no, and no.”

“Can you cross walls or doors? Can you touch me or hit me? Do you touch the floor when you walk?”

Yes, I can cross anything. No, I cannot hit you, although I tried a few times, ha, ha. I float a couple of inches above the surface; I don’t need to sit or rest because I don’t need any energy. I’m dead.”

“I just need to tell you something; you cannot appear or manifest yourself in any way while my wife is here. Otherwise, she’ll bring the priest with his holy water and won’t rest until she makes you disappear.”

“But she seems to be such a nice lady.”

“Well, just consider yourself warned. Oh, one more thing: How should I call you, Peter, Mr. Shelby, Poltergeist, Mr. Ghost, or what?”

“I don’t care. Let’s be friends and make the best of it, okay?”

“Is there anything I can do for you? You know, to help you do something, find something. Talking to a ghost is so weird. No one would believe me.”

“If you tell everybody you can talk to a ghost, they’ll put you in a mental hospital. Oh, and yes, you can do something for me. I want to go to the cemetery and see what kind of grave my family bought for me.”

“Okay, it’s a done deal; we’ll go tomorrow morning. What time do you want me to wake you up?”

“No need for that. I’ll be ready anytime.”

“Alright, see you tomorrow, Peter.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

In the morning, when I went out of the front door, I left it open for a few seconds, then I softly whispered, “Are you out, Peter?”

Then I opened the passenger door and, after a few seconds, asked, “Are you in, Peter?”

“Yes, I am. Thank you.”

“Okay, now, shut the door,” I said.

“How?” he replied.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” Then, I went around and closed the passenger door.

“Okay, Peter, put your seat belt on.”

“Oh, you’re so funny!”

“Peter, do you want to drive?”

Then, ignoring my last question, he said, “Man, you need to replace this old piece of junk.”

“Do you want to walk? Do you want me to call you a taxicab, or do you want a limousine?”

“Sorry, sorry, can we just go already?”

As I started driving, I asked him, “Hey, Peter, do you go out of the house to walk or float around town?”

“I tried a couple of times, but I think the dogs can see me. They bark at me, and I can’t stand it. It isn’t charming. They want to bite me, and I want to kick them. Your little dog, what’s her name? Yes, Frida, when I go to the backyard, she won’t leave me alone. She follows me around and keeps barking all the time. It’s so annoying. I don’t go to the patio anymore, but Diego, the other dog, doesn’t know I exist. And he’s right.”

We had to look for his grave at the cemetery because he couldn’t remember where they buried him. When we found it, he said, “Those cheap bastards! Look at my wife’s grave site, top-of-the-line! Now, look at mine. The headstone looks secondhand, so small and ordinary. But at least someone brought me flowers, and they look fresh. There’s a note in them. Can you please read it for me?”

“Yes, Peter. It says, I miss you, Uncle Peter. I hope you’re happy wherever you are. I will always love you.” Signed by Nancy Shelby.

“Oh, my dear Nancy. My favorite niece.”

Back at the house, he asked me to write a letter to her.

“My dearest Anais Neess:

I’m still at my house. I’m stuck somehow. I made friends with the new tenant, and he’s helping me deliver this note to you. Please, believe me, this is not a joke. And please don’t be afraid. I left some money for you. You’re the only beneficiary. He will provide you with more details on how to obtain this money. I didn’t put this in my will because I didn’t want the rest of the family to know about it.

I will keep you in my heart forever. I love you, Nancy.

Peter Shelby”

After searching for a few minutes on my computer, I found a government site for unclaimed money—a Savings account under Peter Shelby’s name for $45,000. I wrote down some account numbers and other details, added a separate note to the letter, and sent it to Nancy’s address.

He said Nancy was a nice girl, and she might give me a commission for helping her get this money. I said I didn’t care. Then, I asked if he could show himself again as he did in the bathroom mirror, and he said, “I have no idea how that happened, but one time, while I was watching TV with your wife, I saw my reflection on the TV screen.”

“You watch TV with my wife?”

“Yes, all the time. I sit next to your wife all morning, but I disappear when she changes the channel to her Mexican soap operas. I like it when she listens to her music while cooking. We like the same kind of music except for her mariachi songs.”

“And how can you move things around or make noises if you say you can’t touch anything?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I might have telekinetic powers when I’m desperate or frustrated, but I’m not sure.”

I wanted to try another experiment with Peter, so I asked him to come out to the backyard with me.

“Okay, Peter. I want to paint your body, soul, or spirit with your permission. You stand right here in the middle of the patio. I’ll bring my spray paint gun and some white paint and see what happens, okay?”

“Okay, that sounds like fun,” he answered.

After I gathered all the necessary items, I asked if he wanted a mask, and he said, “What for?” Then I said, “Okay, close your eyes,” and he repeated, “What for?”

“Okay, just stand still,” I said and began to paint him. Then, my little dog Frida came and started barking around him. We couldn’t stop laughing out loud.

That’s when my neighbor’s head appeared above the fence and asked, “Hey, why are you painting your dog? Are you crazy or something?” Then, I realized he was right. Frida had white paint all over, and I didn’t know where Peter was, so I couldn’t stop laughing.

Before my wife returned home from work, I asked Peter if he wanted to do something the next day. “Yes, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to church and talk with God because I don’t think he’s in this house.”

The following morning, after a long absence, I returned to church. I had been busy doing nothing. But I knew I didn’t need intermediaries, priests, or churches to talk to God.

When Peter finished with God, he whispered in my ear, “Let’s go. I’m ready.”

On our way home, he said, “I have a feeling that we won’t be able to be together or communicate anymore. I appreciate your friendship and your companionship very much. I hope to see you in my ‘other’ house someday.”

We found a woman knocking at the front door when we returned home.

“Hi, I live in this house. What can I do for you?” I asked. She seemed to be in her thirties; she had a quiet and tender beauty. She seemed a little shy.

“Hi, my name is Nancy Shelby. I believe I received a letter from you. At first, I thought it was a tasteless joke, so absurd and incredible. However, when I checked the account, I confirmed it was indeed true. I need to tell you how fortunate you are to be able to communicate with my Uncle Peter. He was such a good person. At his funeral, my mother told me my uncle Peter had paid my college tuition. I knew my mom didn’t have the means to afford it.”

“But who’s Anais Neess?” I asked her.

She smiled, “It’s a game of words, Anais Neess, or ‘a nice niece.’ I always loved it when he called me that.”

After that day, Peter disappeared from the house. I went crazy talking to him in every room, to no avail. There were no signs of him anywhere. I missed him a lot. Then, one day, I received a letter from Nancy, a note with a few words, a check for $5,000 made out to me, and, most importantly, a picture of Peter.

I keep that photograph on my desk, next to my computer, in his room.

THE END

Edmundo Barraza

Visalia, CA.

Nov-2010

PROSA PROSAICA

Amor leal y promiscuo hacia el barrio de mi juventud.

La colonia Moderna, un nombre perfectamente inadecuado. Mi vecina, la Plaza de Toros Torreón, coloso de cemento, infernal y abominable, pero a mí me parecía perfecta y con una capacidad inverosímil. (Ojos neófitos e infantiles). Las corridas de toros y la lucha libre, espectáculos al alcance de todos, entrada a los niños: un peso. Siempre deseando ver a los dos el mismo día, en la misma arena y al mismo tiempo.

El Canal del Coyote, río en miniatura, escaso y sucio, para mis ojos de niño aventurero, el tajo era el río Nilo y el Amazonas juntos; ahí aprendí a nadar (esquivando perros muertos).

Cada cuadra era un potencial campo de fútbol; mi felicidad era desmesurada: cada día, un nuevo aprendizaje, nuevos juegos, nuevos trucos. El trompo, el Yo-Yo, el valero, la resortera, el velit y muchos más, todos accesibles y baratos. Juegos para niños de barrios pobres. Los de la colonia Torreón Jardín nunca supe a qué jugaban.

El juego del bote, el pozito matón, el quinceado, el chinchilagua y el del tacón empujando una moneda. Si no estuviste ahí, no me has entendido, pero si fuiste pobre, lo sabes todo. Tal vez solo con nombres diferentes. Si fuiste pobre, fuiste afortunado.

Los domingos sin un veinte en la bolsa, con lágrimas en los ojos y la panza llena de hambre. Me acostumbré a esa hambre; ahora no me molesta ni me preocupa y hasta la disfruto. Para los niños pobres, la respuesta a sus peticiones siempre era después, siempre después. Debo afirmar que esto no fue constante.

Después, fui empujado a la iglesia, a la religión y a la aburrición. Eso nunca me benefició en nada. Nomás era entrar a la iglesia y me entraba un letargo insoportable. Renuncié y me rebelé, nunca jamás asistí, y seguí siendo bueno.

Caminar a la escuela veinte cuadras solo para ahorrarme veinte centavos del autobús y así comprarme una gordita del Mercado Juárez de regreso a casa. Caminando también. Y si no era la gordita, tal vez podía escuchar una canción en la rockola de la Plaza de Armas.

En la escuela, todas las niñas eran inalcanzables y mi timidez era inmensa. Mi corazón deambulaba solitario y abandonado.

Luego descubrí la música, los Beatles, los Monkees, Creedence. Cosa rara, para mí sólo inglés y nada más. El rock and roll se metió en mis entrañas y allí permanecería hasta que yaciera en mi frío féretro. Luego, lo inherente al rock, a los conciertos, a los experimentos, a la convivencia, eso nunca llegó. Ni en sueños. No por mucho tiempo.

Escuela, libros, cine, fútbol, todo esto sí me gustó. La vagancia me agradó aún más; el billar y mis amigos lo cambiaba por todo. Luego, una cerveza, un cigarro y todo se veía mejor (qué percepción tan absurda). El cine me gustó desde el principio. (Otra frustración de falso pueblo puritano.) Yo, deseando ver Vaquero de Medianoche (Midnight Cowboy), ni siquiera me permitían entrar a ver las de James Bond. Podía comprar tequila, emborracharme, fumar y hacer otras cosas peores, pero no podía ni ver al 007.

Luego, mis años de calentura, siempre deseando inventar un aparato que me permitiera ver a las muchachas en toda su gloria, algo así como unos lentes con los que pudiera verlas sin tanta ropa. Curiosidad diaria e insaciable. Luego aprendí a usar la imaginación para satisfacer esa curiosidad.

Mi primer encuentro sexual, nada vale la pena mencionar. Irrelevante, frío y olvidable. Después aprendí, practiqué y combiné el amor y el placer y todo mejoró.

Mi padre, lejano, ajeno, bueno, siempre bueno, él deseando ser admirado y yo deseando ser considerado. Mi buen padre, con sus sueños dormidos y anhelados. Suena familiar.

Mi madre, siempre ocupada y preocupada, convidando amor, cuidados y dulzura, nunca egoísta, con su corazón desbordado de cariño hacia el prójimo y repartiendo su sabiduría escasa y excusada.

Aun así, con todas las carencias y privaciones, mi vida en Torreón fue increíblemente feliz. Amo a mi familia, a mi barrio y a mi juventud.

Y si tuviera otra oportunidad, regresaría y haría todo igual.

(Tenía diecisiete años en esa foto.)

Edmundo Barraza

Visalia, CA.

Mar-2012