Coyotes: A Journey Across Borders with America's Mexican Migrants by Ted Conover Read Free Book Online Page B

“Well, you know, Mexico is where I just came back from. I can speak Spanish pretty good and—if you’re worried about having a white guy on the crew—I get along pretty good with Mexican guys. I really could use the work. Maybe I could help you ou——”
    This time Larry interrupted. “I’m sorry, I just don’t think it’d work out.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Positive,” said Larry, and hung up. Slowly I hung up too. Seeing I was upset, Alonso asked if it were bad news.
    “ Well, not for you. Larry says you can have a job.” Alonso was thrilled. He had already checked the Greyhound schedule, he said, and there was a bus leaving for Houston in just a few hours. If I could loan him ten dollars, he’d have enough for the ticket and could be there by morning. He wasn’t quite sure where the street Larry mentioned was, but he thought ...
    Alonso went on. I had stopped listening. Slowly I was growing angry. For the first time I began to understand the frustration of a blue-collar American who really needs work. The work was there—at a living wage—but the Mexicans had it, Mexicans with no legal right to be in the country. A white on the crew could be disruptive—if he got upset about something, he could mess things up by notifying Immigration of the situation. But I thought about Larry. Did the guy feel no guilt? Probably he rationalized it by reasoning, “All the other contractors do it. If I didn’t, I’d go out of business.” And probably there was some truth to that. But that didn’t mean it was right ...
    Alonso was looking at me worriedly. “What’s wrong?”
    “ Oh, it's just that Larry wouldn’t give me a job too.” I didn’t want to ruin Alonso’s happiness by going into why not.
    “ It’s only because he doesn’t know you. If he knew you, he’d give you the job for sure. Why don’t you come along? I can introduce you.”
    At first I said no, but then slowly I reconsidered. He had been a good traveling partner, and I would miss Alonso. And maybe, I thought, there was something to be gained by seeing how he settled into life in Houston, how he found a place to live and who his friends were. Maybe this adventure was just beginning. I’d give it a try. I told Alonso, and his smile returned.
    We boarded the Greyhound around 9:30 P.M. Though there was no sign of Immigration anywhere, Alonso and I boarded separately and took seats a couple of rows apart. You never knew if there might be an inspection along the highway, or in the next town down the road. A couple of minutes later, Alonso quietly got up and walked back to the lavatory. To create the illusion that no one was inside, he would not shut the door. Rather, he would stand quietly behind it until the bus had pulled out—just a precaution against a last-minute check.
    I heard the station’s final call for the bus to Houston, and saw the driver climb in. Right behind him was the Immigration officer. He strode unostentatiously down the aisle, glancing to his left and his right, and asked two people for their papers. Both apparently had them. With my racing pulse and the lump in my throat, one might have thought he was looking for me. But quietly he walked ... to the empty back of the bus, to the lavatory. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him push open the door ...
    I didn’t turn around to watch my friend leave the bus; he did me the favor of not looking over as he followed the officer down the aisle. The bus door groaned shut as they stepped out, and the Greyhound shifted into gear. Alonso was crossing the street to an Immigration van as the coach lumbered out of the station and away to Houston.
     

Chapter 2
     
Deep into the Orchard
     
    SPRAWLING PHOENIX is a city wrested from the desert. Its existence is made possible by dams, canals, some very deep wells, and the refusal of its inhabitants to accept that Nature made the land for jackrabbits and Gila monsters. Air conditioning has also played a part; only in cold, northern