A soldier with newly posted Sargent’s chevrons barks out orders. In a jumble, passengers disembark. Kids clutch their mothers. Younger children, weepy or wide eyed, are held in their mother’s arms. Facing the uneven line of travelers the Sargent demands the destinations of each male. Another soldier follows holding Christopher’s wanted poster. Unbelievable!
Sweat begins a thin trickle down the mid-line of his back. The blue dragonfly flies at his eye level. Velocity faster than Christopher’s anxiety ridden mind can comprehend the dragonfly circles Pepe. The young man in festive clothes covered by a drab serape relaxed watches the proceedings with interest. The dragonfly returns back to Christopher’s eye level. A florescent blur repeats the pattern three times. Christopher pauses, what is the dragonfly telling me?
Soldiers are working down the line toward him and he squeezes his eyes shut. Taking his cue from the dragonfly, Christopher whispers to Pepe, “I have never traveled for the picking season. I don’t know what to do or say.”
Pepe says, “Permitame hable, let me talk.”
Christopher nods gratefully.
The Sargent glares. Up come the peacock feathers, a dazzling display. Full of confidence and excitement, throwing his arm over Christopher’s shoulder his new friend says, “Mi hermano and I go to pick almonds.”
Nodding agreement Christopher smiles broadly. Tension radiates off him. The dragonfly dances. The peacock feathers are undulating. Christopher’s grinding his teeth. Eternity in the space of three heart beats. The Sargent is satisfied. Adjusting his nightstick he turns to the bus driver. He says, “Vaya ahora.”
The interlude has passenger’s adrenalin pumping. Returning to the bus conversation is loud. The driver is speeding. The bus sways groaning on an old frame. Christopher links eyes with Pepe and says, “Gracias amigo. Gracias. This is my first time to cross the border. I did not know how to find the bus, talk to strangers or find a Coyote.” He crosses his arms against a chill. “I thought I would find an abandoned road leading across the border.”
Pushing his hair out of his eyes Pepe says, “I have gone for the picking seasons since I was young.” He is wrapped again in his wool coat, content. Christopher thinks I need to buy a coat. Reading his mind Pepe says, “You can buy a blanket or serape when we stop in Mulege.”
Nodding Christopher says, “Pepe, you have been a good friend, sharing your knowledge. You showed me how to deal with scary men who wear new Sargent stripes.”
They both laugh. They talk easily. Pepe shares his adventures in previous picking seasons until the bus stops in the seaside town of Mulege. A crowded truck stop offers gas for the bus. Bathrooms are available for the travelers. Food and drinks are a welcome break in their journey. Christopher uses loose change to buy a lukewarm egg burrito and an ice-cold soda. Leaving the store he stops at the window. Another freakin poster!
Pepe materializes at his side. Glancing at the picture of Christopher from the Tijuana jail, he says, “This hombre is a gringo.” He shakes his head. “Gringo” is self-explanatory.
Below the poster is a stack of cotton blankets. Christopher reaches for a blanket and turns toward the cashier. He shrugs disinterest.
Back on the bus wrapped up in the blanket Christopher feels good. He enjoys the simple freedom of paying for a meal and purchasing a blanket. Chilly night air, stings. The warmth of a blanket, a blanket free of the odors of Islas Tres Marias, is a luxury.
A new driver replaces the first. Eight hours or so to go, he thinks.
Passengers settle in. Mother’s hum lullabies. Whispers replace loud conversations. Drowsy and full of food Christopher walks the twilight land. In the boundary between sleeping and waking Christopher wanders in conversation with Juanita. “La Currandera taught me walking the line between sleep and waking builds personal power.” She explained, “Learning to ‘dream the dream awake’ is a lifelong quest.” Seeing Juanita even if only in the dream Christopher wants to soak in everything. The way her face catches the light, the effervescent sparkles, “Juanita!” he calls.
Air brakes screech. The bus jerks to a stop. “Banditos!” shouts the driver. Christopher rolls off the bench seat crashing into Pepe’s seat. He ricochets and tumbles to the floor. Juanita! Where am I? Prisoner’s sleeping quarters? Falling off my cot? Did someone say Banditos?
A full moon outlines a jeep blocking the highway. He jerks upright. This bus is full of migrant workers who saved all year to pay a Coyote to get them across the border for the picking season.
Again his adrenalin kicks into high gear. Women scream. Children are crying. Men tight lipped with fear and anger. The Bandito climbs steep bus steps wearing crisscrossed ammunition belts covering a big belly. A cartoonish Bandito. His sight shifts. An infinitesimal shift transported he remembers the first time he felt this sensation. Waves of light, flexible and forged pour through him. Millions of diamonds reflect in the path of the moon’s light. Starlight’s flames surround and protect him. A force of nature, appearing as a miniature goddess saying, “I am the Divine Transmuting Flame. I hold the Cosmic Balance. You are mine, Redemption’s Warrior.”
Suddenly clear to him, filled with determination, he will not hand over money he made selling eggs, barbequed chicken and fish. It was too much work. He needs the money for a Coyote.
Waving his rifle, Bandito shouts “Everyone off the bus. Pronto.”
Children have advanced to sobbing. Mothers weep and beg for mercy. The night of high desert has dropped into the low sixties. The group shakes with cold and fear. Sobbing, weeping, praying, begging; a cacophony of noise. Jewel toned colors in ribbons of light are whipping and turning, swirling and leaping.
In the midst of the chaos Christopher is beginning to shine. A light of palpable force the shining calms and soothes everyone in its perimeter. As light continues growing more passengers become silent. A golden silence, filled with love, and for the first time since Christopher’s car was stolen, a peace. Bigger than his mind, a peace his soul recognizes. He opens to receive and within this growing radiance Christopher stands quietly.
The Bandito moves toward him. Aggressively the man shoves his gun and face inches from where Christopher is standing calmly. Christopher has been waiting for this moment. The Bandito leers. Christopher stomps on his foot. The Bandito howls in surprise and pain. Stepping forward Christopher’s palm shoves into the Bandito’s nose. The strike has him arching back in surprise. Blood is streaming down his face.
Christopher steps even closer. He grabs the Bandito’s shoulders. Holding him steady he gathers his force and slams his knee into the man’s groin. Around him passengers are cheering. The Bandito drops to the ground. He rolls on his side, knees tightly held into his chest, the fetal position.
The bus driver arrives with rope. Christopher kicks the gun away. Pepe picks it up for safe keeping. Christopher walks over to the jeep. Popping the hood he pulls the distributor cap. Pulling it out, he hands it to Pepe, “A souvenir for you.”
Pepe laughs, white teeth flashing. “Gracias mi hermano!”
Men slap Christopher on the back. Women with tear stained faces, radiant with relief, thank him. The mood is festive. On the bus again, food and drink are brought out to celebrate. Christopher eats so many tamales I haven’t been this stuffed with food for years.
Children run the aisle and climb the seats. Men shake his hand. Pepe stands nearby protectively. Occasionally his hand drops onto Christopher’s shoulder. An endless celebration; until night’s darkest hour, where silence lays like a blanket, its weight calming and soothing. In velvety darkness sleep claims the group transformed by their struggles into a village. Christopher’s soul knows the blissful peace of redemption. He watches the night’s darkness replaced by a lightening sky. Gradients of darkness fall to the gradients of light. The sun begins to rise in the east. To the left the Sierra Madre Mountains are purple in pre-dawn light. Christopher sighs. The weight of night falls replaced by the golden light of dawn.
Christopher is leaving Mexico a man. He came to Mexico on an ordinary errand, a boy questing for his manhood. Within prison life he transformed and balanced the depth of his character. His strengths utilized for the betterment of each day led him out of exile and into his journey home.
I found love. He will forever hold Star Woman’s message close. “Two people at one in their innermost hearts… Never forget the power of love.”
A honking behind the bus has each passenger turning to get a look. Christopher’s eyes widen in disbelief. A yellow Chevy speeds by the driver still honking. Christopher hears Cherry Bomb Glasspack mufflers roar a familiar howl. The black and white Tijuana tuck and roll upholstery shabby.
All four passengers are gesturing angrily at the bus. Christopher is glued to the window. He is greedy to read the telltale signs of his shiny car’s past, everything since their separation. He watches, hungry for each fleeting view, until the car disappears over the horizon. Ownership of his Chevy is in past. His priority is a safe return home. Turning to face his guide he says, “Okay Pepe, what’s next for us?”
Pepe yawns, “As soon as we reach Tijuana we’ll walk east for about an hour. A home serves as a halfway house. We wait for El Coyote.”
In the bus terminal they purchase orange sodas from the vending machines. Walking Christopher is lost in thought. He remembers his promise as the boat docked on Islas Tres Marias. His vow to stay connected to beauty, where beauty lived so could he. Now he comprehends Beneficence working in the large and small moments of daily life. Juanita taught me to love. I will never settle for anything less.
Christopher’s body hums with excitement. Geographically, as the crow flies, they are a half hour from the United States. He considers calling his parents, going to the border and asking for sanctuary. But these routes are mined with pitfalls. Should he fall into the hands of the Mexican authorities… He has no United States passport. Corrupt cops sold it. The Mexican government searches for him as an escaped felon. How did my life get so crazy?
When he’s home he’ll look at the night sky and remember the nights of star watching on La Luna. The injustices he suffered will be in the past. These will be his four words of freedom, it’s in the past.
Unpaved Tijuana roads are still carved deep with potholes. I drove my Chevy around these potholes. Nearby two boys are beating a tree trunk with sticks. Women hang out wash. Old men sleep on the porch with one eye open. Christopher feels none of the hostility he’d experienced driving his car. They look at me now and see a native.
One foot in front of the other the two men walk. The houses are spaced further apart. In the distance is a white stucco home with an orange tile roof. Across the street is a minimart.
Pepe announces “We are here mi amigo.”
He knocks on the door three times. Rap. Rap. Rap. The door creaks open. A young girl with a baby in her arms ushers them in. Her large eyes assess their appearance. Men, women with children, populate the floors. Mariachi plays from a battered radio on the kitchen counter. Shifting the baby to her opposite hip the girl says, “In the backyard we have basuras. If you want paper buy it at the market.”
Pepe nudges Christopher with his elbow, “Okay Amigo. Pay El Coyote when he shows. You’re own your own.”
Shaking Pepe’s hand Christopher says, “Gracias, mi amigo. Gracias.”
Christopher finds a place to sit leaning against the wall. Closing red and gritty eyes is heaven. In this moment there is nothing to do but wait for El Coyote. Inhale and exhale, it feels good. Wrapped in the blanket he bought in Mulege, he curls up against the wall, sound asleep.
Shrill cries of a baby jolt Christopher awake. Morning sun filtered by sheer curtains, around him many still sleep. Carefully moving around the bodies he walks through the kitchen and out the back door. How could I fall asleep in the midst of strangers? Have I learned nothing about stranger danger?
Rubbing his eyes he staggers toward the outhouse. He stands watching the sky change. The backyard is dirt. Three outhouses line a wooden fence. On a concrete apron chairs are scattered in various stages of disrepair. Old coffee cans are filled with cigarette butts.
Startled by the bang of the kitchen door Christopher turns. The girl minus the baby scrutinizes him. She stands hands on hips, waiting. Panic rushes through, by now, well-established circuits within his body and biology. Does she recognize me from the wanted posters? Are the police on their way? Should I run?
He gives her half a smile. It’s all he can muster. What was I thinking falling asleep in a room full of strangers?
The girl’s eyes widen. Without speaking they question him. Christopher realizes he’s holding his breath. She says, “I’m cooking breakfast. For some pesos I can cook for you too. You look hungry.”
Her kindness disarms him. He swallows embarrassment. “Si senorita. That will be nice.”
She turns away. The screen door slams. Christopher sits down hard on the concrete steps. Will he ever be free of these fears? His shoulders ache. He rolls his head to release pain. He sighs. Then remembering his new motto, he says, “It’s in the past.”
Gathering grit and determination, he enters the kitchen.
Dirty dishes cover the counters. A fan runs set inside the window frame. Sitting at the table he rests his hands on the red placemat. He feels ancient. The girl brings him a stack of fluffy pancakes. He smells buttermilk lingering in the kitchen underlying the fragrance of cooked pancakes. Buttering layers his mouth waters. How long has it been since I’ve eaten pancakes?
He pours syrup over the top. The girl offers him a steaming mug of coffee. Christopher nods, “Si” when she gestures to the milk. Each bite of pancake melts in his mouth, syrup and soft, buttery crust.
Out of the corner of his eye he watches as the girl move through her kitchen chores. She covers a sink full of dishes in hot water and soap. Using a rag she wipes off counters and stacks dishes to be washed. Puttering after her Christopher sees a flat tail of the silky creature following her. Taking another bite and wiping up some extra syrup, he thinks this is delicious. On La Luna, food tasted hostile, filled with dissatisfaction. Burnt edges no matter what was prepared.
But that was in the past. Not wanting the girl to think he is loco he mumbles, “It’s in the past.” With a grateful smile he puts dinero far exceeding the price under his plate. He bows his head again when she smiles and decides to go explore the store across the street. He buys chocolate bars and a large bag of peanuts. Adding to his purchases toilet paper and the San Diego Tribune, a six pack of water, soda’s, a fresh pair of socks and lastly a wool serape he returns to the house remembering to knock Rap. Rap. Rap.
His back against the wall, eyes closed Christopher’s thoughts turn to Juanita. In Juanita’s presence I felt complete. Yes, even stranded on Islas Tres Marias. Star Woman’s voice replays in his mind. “When two hearts, in their innermost hearts are one…”
Juanita what happened? Did I watch you morph into an angel?
And Star Woman answers, “Never forget.”
Women and children are in the backyard. Through the racket he identifies a ball has appeared leading to a spontaneous game of Futbol. Christopher’s eyes burn for his friend Checo. Inside conversations are spoken softly. The radio plays Mariachi. He feels the floor meet the base of his spine. The wall supports his back. He drifts. He is riding the waves of music falling deeper into reverie.
The room disappears. He floats. At the beach, sun turns the grains of sand golden beneath a blue cloudless sky. Flashes of Juanita’s face laughing. Sparkles, pinpoints of light surround her. The ocean filled with diamonds winking. She is reaching for him. The white swan stands behind her. Wings outstretched. They enfold Juanita, dressing her in white feathers. He blinks against the glare of the sun.
When he opens his eyes, Juanita, wearing white walks toward him. She is radiant. Her eyes shine, filled with love and hope. The ocean sparkles. He sees around him faces, the sheen of tears. Flowers, he can smell flowers. Fragrance floats sweetly, bees buzzing. The love of many condensed. Star Woman carries the void. He can see her in the clarity surrounding, empowering. The air filled with Star Shine. A shimmer wavers, infinitesimally small, across the landscape. Chips of starlight fall around them. He and Juanita are stand hand in hand. “When two hearts beat as one in their inner most hearts…… all of life bows before them.”
Mariachi is playing.
“Never forget.”
The dream inhabits him a place in his soul; large and small. In this way he’ll keep the dream close forever. The wait for El Coyote stretches into long days broken only by trips to the market. After splurging once on the candy Christopher purchases burritos, rice and beans. They are the core of his meals along with apples and oranges.
He tries sitting in meditation. His mind fills with static. YIKES! YIKES. He wants to have another dream. The dream more real than waiting, Juanita and her swan, the star shine, over and over again he tries to recapture the moment. He closes his eyes riding the waves of Mariachi music. He envisions Juanita’s white swan, her enormous wing span. He pieces together Juanita’s face. Her golden skin, her smile, eyes filled with laughter and love. As he tries to recapture his dream the images remain one dimensional. Even flat memory is better than no Juanita at all. He’d felt so close to her.
He searches to recapture the dream.
On the third evening El Coyote appears. In the backyard he parks a shiny BMW. Despite age the car is beautifully restored. The interior, Christopher notices with a grimace, is rusty brown tuck and roll. The exterior is silver. It blends into the twilight. A small man El Coyote also blends into the group. Christopher shrugs. Being able to blend in is a good thing for a Coyote.
The fee for guiding each adult through a hidden tunnel under the border is two thousand pesos. El Coyote explains the tunnel exits in the desert, five miles outside of National City. El Coyote knows most of the men and women from previous border trips. Christopher silently puts the payment in the man’s outstretched hand. He’s startled when the Coyote questions, “gringo?”
Christopher nods. Having collected his payments El Coyote raises his hand in farewell. He says, “I’ll see you when the time is right. Adios.” His enigmatic exit leaves them to wonder.
In the empty days Christopher’s fear played out endless scenarios. All ending with him in handcuffs and bruises transported to Islas Tres Marias. He waits for El Coyote, so close to home and freedom and yet dangerously far away.