¿Còmo?

¿Cómo?

After several weeks of failed attempts to scour Clyde’s funk from every nook and cranny of the Handy Bus, the City Manager, in a moment of low blood sugar and caffeine overload, gave Don his walking papers. With a hearty slap on the back and a robust “Better luck next time,” Don found himself meandering through the town’s streets in his trusty ’74 Ford Pickup with rusted bumpers yet new tires anxiously scanning for any sign that hinted at employment. Main Street turned him down and so did 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and all of the avenues named after trees or dead Presidents. As each block passed, Don’s eyes sharpened their unemployed gaze to a hawk-like edge. Through his cool mirrored sunglasses, he could even read the titles of smutty magazines with quarter-baked stories about Hollywood’s newly crowned royalty as he rolled past the store front windows, but he didn’t see the sign he was searching for, “Help Wanted.”

An hour later, our nearly broke but always optimistic hero took a slow left onto the last street within city limits, Devil’s Ear Lane. He had never needed to come to this side of town since Boondog lake and the bowling alley were conveniently located by his beloved trailer court, so he was interested to see if there was anything good out this way.

Devil’s Ear Lane was a windy, narrow road that dipped and twisted joylessly through sufficiently cow pied pasture land. It had just been paved and was still powdered a yellowish clay color- the dusty remains of the old dirt farm road that had just been absorbed by Midwestern town sprawl. It’s not that the town needed another street, far from it. There were only two rickety old barns and Don’s rusty truck along the entire two mile length of Devil’ Ear Lane. However, Scott’s Town, Boondog’s evil arch enemy whose varsity football team hadn’t lost a game to Boondog in four decades, just acquired a new stoplight which brought their grand total to four. Boondog didn’t want to be left out of the community expansion pissing contest so the town council unanimously voted to annex two quarter sections and a feed lot from Rancher Jones in order to show those sons-of-bitches over in Scott’s Town just who the bigger town was.

Even the most avid of Boondog High’s football fans questioned the expansionist attitudes of the all-badly-toupeed town council. The hotly contested debate played itself out in every choice political spot in town with each locale firmly entrenched in the political ideologies dominant in their respective favorite places to do business. The good old geezers at the coffee shop as well as the freshly permed and primped lady retire-ettes at Kathy’s Perms and Stuff avidly supported the annex since they knew all too well that Scott’s Town had been one upping Boondog since the railroad decided to run a second set of tracks through there in the early ‘40’s. Everyone agreed that “it was high time to get ‘um back for it.” Granted, they all knew Rancher Jones and wished there were some other way to assert Boondog’s regional dominance, but they ultimately concluded that progress demands sacrifice, and it was about time Rancher Jones retired anyway. On the flip side of the political spectrum, the clientele at the newly opened Latte Lounge, which everyone at the donut shop knew was a leftist hotbed fueled by all the damn college educated liberals jonesing for over-priced espressos served in fancy cups, saw the land grab as an attempt at cow patty colonialism which could possibly create a devastating environmental backlash which, in turn, might annihilate all the cows and crops Boondog relied on for its survival and economic wherewithal and somehow contribute to some great global unraveling of air, earth, and sea.

Don counted himself among the few moderates in town. They tended to coalesce at Woodpecker Lanes, the local bowling alley bar and grill, since they felt heated political debates should be tempered by greasy food, cheap beer, and the ability to unleash all political tensions while throwing an eight pound bowling ball full flurry into ten, old white pins. The moderates agreed that Boondog needed to make a stand against Scott’s Town, but they couldn’t come to terms with a man’s land and livelihood being voted away from him by a group of guys who served the city just so they wouldn’t have to go home to their cranky wives. The left-leaning and right-leaning moderates batted the argument right by the heads of the non-leaning moderates. However, in the end no one could figure out a suitable solution or raise a viable alternative so they all ordered more half priced nachos and another pitcher of beer. J.D. and Don just kept bowling on.

Regardless of the town’s divided citizenry, the council unanimously voted to swipe Rancher Jones’ land.

The desolation of Devil’s Ear Lane didn’t seem as though it would be very conducive to Don’s search for gainful employment, but he didn’t have a damn thing to do and thought he would check it out anyway. He shifted into his favorite gear, third, and hammered down on the old Ford until it was pushing the far edge of 45 mph. About a mile later, Don came across a group of people standing around the only light pole in sight. For the life of him, Don couldn’t figure out what these people were waiting for or even how they came to be there, but he loved a good mystery, so he pulled up and inquired, “So, what ya’ll waitin’ for?”

At first, the raggedy group of brown faced men and women took a good two steps in the opposite direction and then nervously held their ground. Since shyness could never be numbered among Don Trailer’s character flaws, he tried again but put a little more spunk on this one, “So, what ya’ll waitin’ for!?”

Slowly, a squarely built man separated himself from the crowd and shuffled a few feet forward.

“¿Es Usted el señor que busca trabajadores?” The man politely asked.

“Huh?” Don replied.

“¿Cómo?” was the answer.

The cautious immigrant worker decided to give the gringo in the beater Ford truck another go at it, “¿Es Usted el patrón que necesita trabajadores?”

Don scratched his head and decided to try another question, “You don’t speak no English do ya’ friend?”

Don looked at the dark skinned man before him. He was probably in his early forties but walked with the stiff cumbersome gait of a man twenty years older. He had a John Deer baseball cap pulled down tightly over his dense black and peppered grey hair. He wore a thick, faded blue excuse for a flannel shirt and thread bare denim jeans that had a half dozen layers of patches mended to each knee. Taken as a whole, he was a fairly pitiable sight, except for a certain reflection in his eyes that subtly alluded to the softly spoken intelligent man masked in the guise of a quasi-slave that he had to be. He had spent the better part of a life time projecting subservience, and it was an easy task given his poverty. But he guarded the greater part of his humanity in a very private place, out of the reach of drunken field bosses or double tongued “patrones.” Then Don glanced down at Juan’s shoes.

“Hey brother! You got on those steel toed all leather boots from the Feed Store! I got ‘um too. Damn fine shoes ain’t they?” Don flung open the door and showed a fairly confused Juan a wickedly scuffed and muddy pair of sun cracked boots that he even considered to be worn out. “Them’s some boots that’s seen a little work in their day, ain’t they?!” Don smiled.

Juan had no idea what this gringo was up to, but he looked friendly enough so he smiled back and pointed to his boots too. “Maybe people here really like worn out brown leather boots. At least this isn’t as bad as starting the work day at pinche 8 in the morning!” he thought to himself.

Since Don had made a bit of a break through with Juan, he thought he might just keep the conversation going, “Are ya’ll from Mexico?”

Juan understood. “Sí, sí, México. Somos de México y estamos aquí para…”

“Hold up right there friend. I ain’t got any idea what you’re all sayin.’” Trailer interrupted.

Juan had a feeling he was wasting his words so he stopped and took a long look at our gangly hero draped in his finest orange and green insulated flannel and sporting the pride and joy of his Lady Budweiser racing hats. Don was still smiling eagerly and pointing at his shoes. “I got a feeling this is a good guero.” Juan thought.

Don held out his hand, “I’m Don. Don Trailer…and you?”

Juan comprehended Don’s greeting and returned the hand shake, “Juan…Juan Florencio Sanchez Guerrero.”

“Damn man. That’s a mouthful. You said ‘Juan’ right? …Sí?” Don was totally impressed with his bilingual ability. And his teachers had always told him he hadn’t learned a thing in tenth grade, if they could only see him now.

Juan thought it a good idea to make sure he had the guero’s name down. Most of the gringo names were hard to pronounce but this one was simple enough, “Ud. es Don. ¿Sí?”

“Don. Sí, Don.” “What ya’ll doin’ out here?” Don asked again.

Juan still wasn’t sure what this guy wanted, but it might have something to do with the fact that Farmer Smith still hadn’t sent the morning truck to get them yet.

“Estamos para trabajar. Tra-ba-jar.” Juan thought the slow version might have a chance of sinking in. It didn’t.

“Man….I still don’t know what you’re sayin.’ As for myself, I’m just lookin’ for a little work.”

Juan’s command of English was wanting in every way, but he did understand one word very well, work. “Sí. Work. Estamos para work. We work señor.”

“No kiddin’. Me too.” The two lower class citizens of different countries and cultures had finally found a language that was mutually intelligible. “Ya’ll know where there’s some work, do ya?” Don asked.

“Sí. Work. Work.” Juan smiled and nodded yes. He thought Don was an alright dude, he just needed to learn a little Spanish. It turned out that one word and a lifestyle still lacked some necessary dimensions of expression. But they continued to struggle on. Juan tried again, “¿Dónde está el camión? ehhhh….el truck…¿Dónde está el truck señor?”

“Truck? Oh, ya’ like my truck? Ya, I bought it a couple of years ago and been tryin’ ta fix her up. How ya’ like them tires. Got them off e-bay for ten bucks a piece and didn’t have to pay shipping ‘cause they still owed me for a snow blower I rebuilt for ‘um. Not bad, eh!?” Don continued to ramble on as Juan’s eyes glazed over.

Juan wondered whether this gringo would ever figure out he didn’t speak English. But he thought it was nice to meet someone who didn’t want to put him on a plane and send him back to his little tin shack on the edge of Mexico City. He had to work seven days a week, but at least he knew his wife and three kids no longer had to go to bed hungry every night or worry about what despicable acts Chavez and his hooligan gang would inflict on them if they couldn’t pay their “taxes.” So, having to put up with this overly friendly gringo was alright.

Suddenly, the much anticipated roar of a badly tuned diesel drowned out the two friends’ attempt at a cross-cultural connection. Juan smiled and tapped Don on the shoulder, “Allí está el camión…el truck…work…sí?”

Just as suddenly, Don finally got it. “O.K. I got it man. That truck’l take ya’ll to work. Hey, ya’ mind if I tag along? I could use a couple of bucks.”

Juan didn’t have a clue as to what the good gringo was after, but he knew he had better high tail it over to the rest of the group so he wouldn’t be left behind. Don liked his new bud, and this was the closest thing to a job he had found anywhere in town, so he slammed the Ford’s door shut and followed Juan and the others toward the massive rust bucket smoking its way down Devil’s Ear Lane.

Farmer Smith’s truck had once been a spit polished red ’49 International with white leather-knock-off seats and an actual radio, but since his son had taken over the family business, the glory days of the independent Midwestern farmer had morphed into a piecemeal conglomeration of big Government subsidies and bigger international businesses. The senior Smith had worked this land for nearly half a century after he inherited the family homestead from his father. But age and arthritis had fused the old man’s spine into the rigid arch of a badly bent crow bar, so his only choice was to let his only son, Bart, try his hand at keeping their half section financially afloat. And it was Bart who was tearing up Devil’s Ear Lane to pick up the field hands he would need that day.

Don took up a spot at the back of the shivering group of Mexicans. It was fairly chilly that morning so the fifteen or so workers huddled closely together. However, the realization that there would be work that day seemed to warm everyone up and their rapid chatter continued to get louder and reminded Don of a tree full of excited birds on a spring morning.

Bart whipped the metallic nightmare of spare parts, bond-o, and bailing wire into the small clearing where everyone was waiting. It wasn’t long before they were all choked by the dark yellow cloud of dirt and half spent diesel fuel that Bart and the truck pulled along a few seconds behind them. He lurched to a stop and in a fairly athletic move, leapt straight from the cab into the rear of the truck. His tall muscular frame and four or five days of stubble gave him a fairly imposing aura. He slammed the truck’s gait down and stared at the pathetic humans standing below him. The largest men among them were half of Bart’s size, and he couldn’t stand their round brown faces. He pulled his flask out of his front pocket and took a swig of whiskey. The group fell silent as they looked up at the behemoth of a white man standing above them. Juan thought Bart looked very strong, but his opaque brown eyes were just a little too close together.

“Now listen up, I need all of ya’ today so everybody get in the truck. Necesita to-dos. Ven.” Bart’s Spanish was almost as bad as his English, but the field hands scrambled into the back of the truck nonetheless. Then Bart saw Don.

“What we got here? A skinny white Mexican?” Bart laughed at his joke.

Don looked up and replied, “Naw man. I’m Don…Don Trailer. I was a few years ahead of ya’ in school. Saw that pass you threw against Wilcox in the fourth quarter your senior year…hell of a toss.”

Bart smiled and a spark of excitement animated his features. “Ya’…I chucked that damned near 50 yards and Jason Spadey made a one handed grab! Couldn’t f-in believe it! What the hell ya’ doin’ out here with a bunch of dirty Mexicans?”

Don sloughed off the ethnic slur and responded, “I’m a little short on work right now. Mind if I tag along?”

“I don’t know why ya’ want ta’ do this crappy shit. But I don’t care. I’m behind on the beet field and haven’t even touched the spuds yet. Ya’ wanna ride up front with me?”

Don thought Bart’s invitation over for the better part of a second and then declined. “Naw man…I need a little fresh air ta’ wake up. I’ll just ride back here.”

“With THESE people! Oh well, suit yourself.”

Don climbed into the rear of the truck and helped Bart secure the rusty gate. Then Bart leapt down and strutted to the front. The slamming driver’s side door vibrated through everyone. Don took a seat next to Juan as Bart fired up the old International and headed out to the fields.

There are instances when families seem to deteriorate with each subsequent generation, somewhat like the fading and blurry progeny of cheap office copiers. Unfortunately for the elder Smith, his son was a bad copy of the original. At one time, Bart had been the captain of the Boondog Indian’s football team and the prom king. He had slung his letter jacket over the soft, tanned shoulders of all the good looking cheerleaders in the county, and his rebuilt ’69 Camero with a bored out 350, posi-track back end, and glass packs that could rumble poorly hung pictures clean off the wall if he were screaming down the street made him the envy of every zit popping 15 year old boy in three towns. But after Bart graduated from High School, his legend began to fade like the red leather sleeves of his letterman’s jacket. Each year he had to remind more people of his game winning touchdown pass in the final seconds of the State Playoff Championship game and each year more of his innate acrid nature bubbled to the surface through forties of Old Milwaukee Light and cheap whisky. Truthfully, Bart never was a nice kid. He locked band geeks into small gym lockers, drove several overly sensitive adolescents into innumerable sessions with the school counselor, and liked to feed his ego by stealing other guy’s girlfriends. But as is often the case in small towns, the mantle of football glory elevated him to the unquestioned status of a Roman Caesar. Whatever mischief, lies, or borderline criminal acts he committed, they were always excused by the town’s folk as the unfortunate byproducts of a passionate and finally tuned athlete. “It’ll pass.” They all said. But Bart’s nature never passed, it only became more intense and more aggressive.

On the lighter side, Don quickly made friends with the rest of the immigrant workers. Juan introduced him to Maria, Pedro, Ignacio (Nacho for short), Ana, Juan number dos, Jose, Fernando, and several other friends whose names Don had no hope of remembering. As the truck loudly bounced along, the whole bunch started to mold their emphatic hand gestures, smiles, winks, groans, and laughter into a somewhat mutually intelligible language. Don learned that two guys out of the group were actually from Guatemala, or Gato-malo as Don referred to it, and Maria and Pedro had just gotten married and were expecting their first child in a few months. Don taught them the first few lines of “Achy Breaky Heart,” and they were able to get him to howl out a couple of impressive verses of their favorite Mariachi number “Guadalajara.” And just like that, they had reached Smith’s potato field.

Bart sprang out of the truck with several dozen burlap sacks and a few small shovels. “Alright, get out and get ta’ work! Here’s the stuff. Trabaa-ho ahora! Rápido!” he ordered. The back gait swung open. Everyone piled out, grabbed a few sacks and a shovel, and assumed the requisite ninety degree angle of every field worker.

“Ya’ know what to do Trailer?” Bart asked doubtfully.

“Sure do. I used to help my cousins out weedin’ the beet fields when I was a kid.”

“Ya, that’s when white people used to work in the fields. We got Mexicans for that now…well, except you. Have fun!” Bart’s sardonic laughter echoed off the piece of shit truck and out into the beet field. He took another long swig from his shiny flask and slapped Don hard on the back. “Get to it boy!”

Our good natured hero was always slow to pass judgment and even slower to rile up, but there was something about the former football hero that just didn’t sit well in Don’s gut. He picked up several sacks, a dirty shovel whose handle looked more like a cactus than a handle, and started down a long, long row of beets.

“Damn Trailer, you’re almost done!” Bart guffawed. For Bart, Don’s friendliness towards the Mexican laborers and their easy acceptance of him was a personal affront. He couldn’t help but be pissed that Trailer didn’t have more pride in himself than to mix up with a bunch of dirty immigrants. But Bart did have more pressing issues. There was nearly a full fifth of vodka in the front seat and the greater part of the day left to enjoy it. He reached behind the seat and pulled the clear plastic bottle out, unscrewed the top, and toasted the quickly melting frost. “Bottom’s up amigo,” he muttered as he took a long draw from the bottle.

Don decided to make the most out of the day and not let one crummy asshole get him down, so he tore into the potato row with almost the same fervor as he used to rip into a family-size bag of potato chips. Juan was working in the row to Don’s right and Pedro was to the left, so if nothing else, Don knew he’d have someone to chat with. For the next several hours, they worked their way south digging, pulling, cussing, singing, and trying to think about anything other than the back pain. Don was amazed at how quickly the others worked and found himself constantly trying to distract them so he could catch up.

Bart noticed Don falling behind too, so he decided to motivate him a little. It was almost high noon, and Bart was totally shit canned, so he decided to pay tribute to the B Westerns of yesteryear and have himself a little shooting contest. He and a couple of drinking buddies had been gearing up for the annual potato launching contest at the County Fair, and he had just gone to the local driving range to sight in his most powerful spud gun ever. He reached under the passenger seat and pulled out the Super Shooter 5,000. This waste of American ingenuity had a range of nearly a quarter mile and was rumored to have knocked an unsuspecting cow clean out. Bart and his friends put their engineering talents to no use at all and jacked up the Super Shooter’s feet per second to the point it could almost put a hearty tuber in orbit. Bart hooked his pride and joy up to his gas powered air compressor, grabbed a twenty pound bag of field fresh potatoes and took aim at Don.

No one knew what to make of the first or second booms. Don and the other sore laborers just thought some bored farmer was out for a bit of mid-day target practice. The third boom didn’t necessarily catch their attention either until they were covered with dirt. Don stood as erect as he could and turned in the direction of the previous blasts just in time to hear the fourth boom and get another dirt shower. A smoking potato rolled into Don’s right foot, and he realized the pressing nature of the situation. “That’s a tater gun!” Don yelled. The other field workers didn’t care to get involved in whatever conundrum the gringo was fixing on getting in, so they just kept plugging along down their respective rows. However, Juan sensed Don’s anxiety and walked over to him.

“¿Qué pasa amigo?” Juan inquired.

“Huh? No time to explain friend. Hand me yer shovel.” Don took Juan’s shovel since it was a little bigger than his. Don assumed his much heralded batting cage stance. “We got incoming! Take cover!” Don warned the others. The fifth boom sounded, and Don saw the starchy missile take flight and judged its trajectory. Bart had finally gotten the distance zeroed in, so Don knew he was their only line of defense. He had been training for this moment in batting cages across the state since he was eight, and he was ready. Don swung hard and with a mighty slap of the shovel the potato was no more. Bart was impressed with Don’s batting ability so he maxed out the air compressor and decided to give Don a real test. Boom six came and potato six exploded into its constituent parts. Then boom seven and eight and two more tubers sent to oblivion. Juan gave Don a high five and then heard boom nine. Don turned and took aim. However, a slight breeze blew the spud two degrees east. Don missed and the potatoe landed smack in the middle of his forehead. Bart said it all, “Light’s out Trailer.” He smiled and started to dismantle the Super Shooter 5000.

“Amigo, ¿Está bien?” Juan shook our unconscious hero, but Don Trailer was out cold.

“Terminado!” Bart shouted. “Get in the truck. We’re done here!” Bart wanted to add insult to injury, so he started to round the immigrants up before Don woke. “If you want dinero get in the damn truck. Vamos!”

Juan tried to wake Don, “Amigo, despiértate…tenemos que irnos…Don!”

It was no use. All of the other workers had managed to clamber into the rusty excuse for fine farmer transportation except Juan. Bart started to walk towards him, “Get in the f-in truck! Vamos shit head!” Bart screamed at him. Juan looked down at Trailer and decided not to leave his new friend behind. Bart charged up to him and with one hand, he drug Juan toward the truck. Juan tried to struggle, but even drunk, Bart had an iron grip. Juan glanced back at Trailer and tried again to get free, but Bart had no intention of letting him go. Bart dragged the poor Mexican field laborer 50 feet and then threw him into the back with the others.

“See what happens when ya’ mess with me assholes!” Bart warned them. His face had turned a wild crimson color, and he spit as he yelled. “Bunch of damn dumb Mexicans. Ya’ ain’t worth nothin!!!”

Suddenly, Bart’s thoughts on the finer points of the United States’ immigration policy were choked out by the din of the old diesel International as it was fired to life.

“What the F!!” another of Bart’s philosophical ponderings was cut short by the grinding gears as the old International girl jumped into first and rolled like it hadn’t in years. Bart could only watch as the truck circled back and then roared past him. The realization that he had to walk ten miles just to get to the edge of no-where hadn’t hit him yet.

As Don passed the forty five year old drunk in the middle of a two year old tantrum, he hung his head out the window, tipped his hat, and cheerily sang out, “Have a nice day asshole!” Don threw the beat up International into his favorite gear, third, and hammered her to the local liquor store. He bought two bottles of their finest tequila, and later that evening, next to a bonfire in a country field, he learned the rest of the words to “Guadalajara.”