Almost Deported

ALMOST DEPORTED

He was stabbed just above his eye outside of LAX.

Gamil awoke, everything foggy, his head heavy; he leaned against the wall. The last thing he remembered was getting off the plane, walking the passenger boarding bridge into the airport terminal. Anxious, he had looked for someone from the university picking him up, a sign with his name on it, but there was no one. Finally, he sat on a bench outside a café, nervous and excited, still continually watching for someone who might be looking for an unknown foreign college student. He stood and paced, afraid to go too far from the gate; this is where they would look for him. Three long hours passed. He had made it this far; he could get to the university in the same city. He used his papers and the little English he knew to get some directions.

He stepped out of the airport building into the bright, sunny California air. It was going to be wonderful here. He started walking to the university. As he crossed the meridian outside LAX, three guys approached him and asked him for the time. He responded, but they just looked at him in confusion, then grabbed his suitcase. He yelled out, but they continued their work. No one came to his aid. He fought them off as best he could, but they were taking his suit, his wallet—his passport, and his money. Gamil struggled harder, but one of the men pulled a switchblade; he heard the click of the blade as it locked into place. He felt a heavy pressure over his eye, something wet on his face . . .

He must have blacked out. Now he was sitting in a jail cell, in nothing but his underwear. Part of the knife blade was still in his head. His left eye was swollen beyond recognition. All the other prisoners looked quite a bit like him—dark skin, dark eyes, and hair—but they seemed to be staying away. He was still strong from his years of swimming and looked a formidable foe. Gamil pulled the broken blade out of his head and looked down; his face and body were covered in blood. He tried to ask where he was, what had happened, but as a result of the head trauma, he was unable to recall the little English he had learned. In Arabic, he told them he was supposed to be at the university, he had just come from Egypt. Blank stares were his only answers.

The next day—he figured it had been three days since his arrival in Los Angeles—an officer brought him a dirty yellowed shirt. He could tell they were getting ready to go somewhere.

A new officer came to the cell and motioned him to follow. They walked through the locked doors into an office and the officer handed him the phone. Am I supposed to call someone? I do not know anyone’s number. Then he heard a voice he could understand. Tears of joy streamed from his eyes. He was so overwhelmed he could not speak, but he soon realized he may never have another chance.

The woman, Sharon, spoke fluent Arabic. When he had finished telling her his story, she said, “Oh, my God, you poor thing. Put my husband back on the phone.”

Gamil handed the phone to the officer, crying and beaming with joy and relief.

“He what? . . . No. I—I can’t believe it.”

Officer Brown called the LA police. “He came into LAX and waited for someone from the university to pick him up. When no one came, he started walking and got mugged just outside the airport. Can you have someone go over and see if his passport and papers are still there? I know it’s a long shot, but we have to check. This poor kid’s been through a lot.”

Sharon called the university; they would send someone to pick him up. The university was not aware Gamil was missing. The date on his paperwork was 09/08/1969: in Egypt that meant August 9, but in the US it meant September 8. They hadn’t been expecting him for another month.

His passport and papers were found, but his wallet was gone. The officers, feeling guilty for detaining him, took a collection to give him some money. He still keeps in touch with Officer Brown and Mrs. Brown, and they joke about how he almost got deported back to Mexico.

In the middle of his first semester at the University of Southern California, Gamil got called down to the office. He was handed a letter; it notified him that his scholarship was canceled, effective immediately. Relations between Egypt and the US had broken down and all scholarships were eliminated.

Gamil found himself, at twenty-four years old, 7,575 miles from home with nothing but $42.00 and a phone number from one of his swim students, Magde, whose uncle, Dr. Attula, lived in San Dimas.

Dr. Attula had just purchased the Garcia ranch. It was twenty acres and had avocado, mango, lemon, and apricot trees. Dr. Attula knew Gamil had a way with orchards from his family’s farm back in Egypt, and he told Gamil that if he could get to San Dimas, he could trade working on the ranch for living quarters. Gamil jumped at the chance. It was only forty miles from the university.

It was growing dark when he arrived. “Well, Gamil, as you can see, the ranch needs a lot of help,” said Dr. Attula. “I know your family has a knack for growing tree crops, I am hoping you can bring that finesse to this ranch.”

“Dr. Attalu, I will try.” Gamil looked around in despair. Even with a team of trained workers, it would take a miracle to bring this ranch back to life.

“You’ll find two helpers in the cabin out back. You can bunk with them. Tomorrow they can show you around.”

“Okay, Dr. Attalu, thank you very much.”

Things looked even worse in the daylight. Gamil walked around the property, surveying the health of the trees. He kept looking for the two helpers, but they never came out of the cabin. The sky was clear and blue; the breeze felt good on his face. This must have been a beautiful ranch in its heyday. He could see past all the dead branches, grass, and dropped fruit; he could visualize the blooming, well-manicured trees full of healthy beautiful produce. Workers were loading boxes full of carefully wrapped avocados and mangos onto trucks ready for market. He smiled to himself; it felt like home. He found the barn and looked for some equipment to start pruning the trees. All the tools he found needed repair, so he began gathering the necessary parts. He was headed to the cabin, to take a break for lunch, when he saw an old man standing on the front porch of the main house.

The man waved as Gamil walked over. “Hello,” he said. “Dr. Attula said he got some help for the ranch. This used to be a beautiful place.”

“Oh? Do you know about it?” Gamil asked.

The man chuckled. “I sold it to Dr. Attula—my family owned it for four generations, but I never had any children. I had no help and no one to pass it to. I’m Jorge Garcia.” He extended a shaking, aged hand. Gamil reached over and shook it gently. “Yes, it’s a twenty-acre ranch, been here my whole eighty-year life.”

“Wow, Mr. Garcia, you know about raising crops.”

“Si. We have ninety-nine avocado, four apricot, forty mango, and some lemon trees,” said Mr. Garcia. Gamil thought he saw him stand a little straighter as he spoke.

“Would you guide me, show me which trees are the healthiest, and help me locate the equipment?”

“Si, si.” Mr. Garcia was deep in thought.

Gamil waited patiently for him to come back.

The man smiled at a memory. “I would start by the house, trees are always full of fruit.”

“Thanks, Mr. Garcia. What about the equipment? I found some in the barn, but—”

“No, no, the equipment is broken. It has been a long time since anyone cultivated this ranch.”

Gamil went back to the shed and found the helpers, Howard and Bill, still sleeping. He started making a list of what equipment he needed, which items needed repair. Then he listed what was to be accomplished: cleaning, pruning, repairing the water system. No tractor was available, so they had to use a wheelbarrow to transport equipment. It took the three of them a month to get things in shape, but the trees started producing fruit. Gamil set up a small farm stand, selling three avocados for $1.00. He took the avocados to 7-Eleven and traded the fruit for food since Dr. Attula never paid his workers.

Another month went by. Gamil started making wooden boxes to pack the avocados and mangos. He took them to grocery stores—Safeway and Harvester.

“No,” said the manager, “we get them from Mexico.”

“I will match the price from Mexico, but they will be fresher. I brought them from the Garcia ranch.”

“The Garcia ranch is operating again?”

“We are bringing it back, slowly.”

“Okay, I’ll take whatever you have.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Now that Gamil had some money, he started buying what he needed for tool repair and building boxes. He kept track of all the money he earned and all the money he spent.

Magde had arrived from Egypt and started spending a lot of time at the ranch, helping Gamil and the others.

Dr. Attula found out that Gamil was making money.

“What is this? I hear you are making money from my produce?”

“Yes, Dr. Attula. Here is the accounting: all of the income and expenses. Here is the cash.”

“Give me my money! How dare you keep my money!” He seized the coffee can and emptied it onto the table, grabbing the bills and coins.

“But, Dr. Attula, we need to have money to keep repairing and building.”

“No! You can’t keep my money!”

“What about the money you owe Howard, Bill, and me for working on the ranch?”

“You have a place to live—that is how you get paid.”

Gamil needed money to purchase wood for the boxes to continue to sell the produce.

Getting the boxes of produce to the stores was not easy without a car. He went to town and stopped at the Shell gas station and asked in the office if he could set up a small avocado stand by the oil. The owner’s son got his dad to consent.

A few weeks later, as Gamil was stocking the avocados for the third time, the owner introduced himself. “My name is Gene Russell. You are a very polite young man.”

“Thank you, sir. I brought you some apricots from the ranch to try. Do you mind if I add some mango to the basket of produce?”

“Yeah, that would be okay. Your baskets make a nice display. Gamil, I can see you are a very industrious and committed worker. Would you like to work at the gas station?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” He was getting tired of eating avocados for three meals a day.

Back in 1969, all the gas stations were full service: when a car pulled up to the island, the attendant came out and pumped the gas, cleaned the windshield, and if you asked, checked your oil and windshield washer fluid. The gas was twenty-three cents a gallon. People would tell Gamil to keep the change. He took all of the money into the office and gave it to Mr. Russell. Mr. Russell would hand it back.

“No, sir, that was the money the customer gave for the gas.”

“Yes, but they left you the change, and that is a tip for you to keep.”

“A tip?”

“Yes—when you do a good job, people appreciate it and they leave you a little something for your service.”

Gamil liked to hear the words “keep the change.”

“Magde, I want to go to the café and be like the Americans,” Gamil said. “What should I ask for that is American?”

“Apple pie and coffee.”

Gamil walked into Anderson’s restaurant and sat at the counter.

“What can I get for you?” the waitress asked.

“Apple pie and coffee.”

After a couple of months, Gamil asked, “Magde, what else do Americans eat?”

“They have ham and cheese.”

“What can I get you?” asked the waitress.

“Ham and cheese.”

“White, wheat, or rye?”

“Ham and cheese.”

“White, wheat, or rye?”

“Ham and cheese?”

“White, wheat, or rye?

“Apple pie and coffee.”

He worked for Dr. Attula for three more months. When Dr. Attula refused to pay him for all the time he had worked on the ranch, he left.

At that point, he had saved enough money from the gas station to buy a 1964 Valiant.

He got a second job at the Hilton Hotel in LA as a room clerk; he was already working for a car dealership, selling Chrysler cars. They had a lot of used cars piling up. Gamil rented a lot in Pomona for $100, and they took all 150 cars there. He put an ad in the paper, and in two weeks, he had sold a hundred cars. Other dealerships started sending their used cars to him, and so began his first used car lot.

One of the university advisors, Marilyn Jensen, had told him when he moved to San Dimas that, when he got a chance, she would help him go over his credits from Egypt, get his classes evaluated, and determine what it would take for him to finish his degree in the US. Six months had now passed since he left the university. He found Mrs. Jensen and got his evaluation done. She helped him get into California State University, Long Beach.

Still working two jobs, Gamil went back to college.