Dove Season (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) by Shaw Johnny Read Free Book Online Page B

Mexican nerd wasn’t that common in the Imperial Valley. When he was eight or nine, if you asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, he would’ve said a businessman. He even carried an old briefcase around. I don’t know where he found it, but he carried it everywhere. Home and school and church, always at his side. All he had in it was an old copy of the Wall Street Journal that someone had left at the bar, but it represented his dreams. The same way as when I painted my bike to look like Evel Knievel’s.
    I did my best to keep an eye on Tomás, knowing that the other kids picked on him. An eight-year-old with a briefcase better be prepared to catch some shit. I had gotten him out of some trouble here and there, but we went to different schools. He wasn’t much of a fighter, so he did the only thing he could. He learned how to take a beating. That can be as important a skill as learning to fight.
    Eventually, Mr. Morales sauntered to Bobby’s end of the bar. Mr. Morales said nothing. Bobby did some talking. Mr. Morales did some nodding, still silent. Bobby did some more talking, annotating his story with broad hand movements. Mr. Morales only nodded. Eventually, Bobby and Mr. Morales shook hands. Then, Bobby motioned for Mr. Morales to lean in. He whispered conspiratorially in his ear. Mr. Morales’s eyebrows rose more than once.
    At one point, Bobby pointed back at me, and Mr. Morales nodded. Mr. Morales said a few words, put another two beers on the counter, and walked back to the other end of the bar. Bobby put five dollars on the counter and walked back to our table with the beers. He stood over the table, smiling. I reached for my beer, but Bobby shook his head and motioned to the door.
    “Road beers. We’re going to Mexicali.”

The history of Southern California is the history of water rights. And the residents of the Imperial Valley know it. When you live and farm in the desert and get your water from the longest man-made canal in the U.S., you don’t need to be reminded of the importance of water. Many of the older farmers moved from the Owens Valley after the city stole their water. Back then, they only had guns to protect their land. Now, they had lawyers. And guns. Still the feeling remained among the farmers that it was only a matter of time before the city made a grab for its water. The city had the voice and votes. Historically, the city always won. But until they outlawed swimming pools in San Diego and LA, they could get their water somewhere else. Farming is hard enough that you have to deal with that kind of bullshit.
    To create an agricultural community in the middle of the desert, all of the fields in the Imperial Valley are irrigated by a series of canals from water that comes from the Colorado River forty miles away. To the disdain of the cities on the coast, the Imperial Valley has the California rights to the Colorado River water, and the district and subsequently the farmers are allotted a certain amount of acre feet at a reasonable rate based on acreage. The Colorado dumps into the All-American Canal, which then delivers the flow into secondary canals, then down to the individual ditches that line the fields.
    When it is time to irrigate one of the fields, the farmer orders the water from the IID, the Imperial Irrigation District. They fill the ditch, and then the irrigator lets it onto the field. However, you can’t let the water onto the field all at once. You’d immediately lose the water level, and the furthest part of the field wouldn’t get any water. So, the ditch has a number of gates that must be opened a few at a time. A night of irrigating consists of opening and closing gates every two or three hours, depending on the lengths of the rows. At its best, it’s boring as hell. But when something goes wrong, it’s just hell. And something always goes wrong—a gate gets busted or stuck, overflow, or the water spreads to another row. It could often be a night of muddy,