Coyotes: A Journey Across Borders with America's Mexican Migrants (21 page)

It was that afternoon, near Texola, on the Texas-Oklahoma line, that the windshield wiper motor stopped. The freezing rain, however, continued, and when roadside tinkering failed to provide a solution, we pulled off the interstate and into the service bay of a tiny service station in Elk City. Emilio watched carefully as the old mechanic began poking around under the hood; he wanted to know all there was to know. I walked outdoors into the bad weather and stretched my legs. A broadcast I had picked up on the Squire’s AM radio described the storm as the winter’s worst; it was our luck to be following its path as it raged slowly east. It was going to be a long trip.

Behind the building I found an old Esso sign in the freezing mud; near the cash register I noticed a cheesecake calendar of the sort you see around garages. The model was blonde, and her long hair reminded me that the wedding of a former girlfriend, with whom I had remained close, was to be the coming weekend, in Fort Lauderdale. An invitation had arrived for me at home; I had vaguely considered going. I made some quick calculations: possibly if the weather cleared, and we were able to drive nonstop, we would arrive in Florida in time. I ran my calculations by Máximo. He shrugged; to him, calculations of miles and hours were misleading. We would arrive quickly, he said,
“si Dios quiere
”—if God willed it. It was my turn to shrug—with the snow god directly overhead, the fatalistic view made some sense.
Que será, será,
whatever will be, will be. An expression in his language, not mine.

“Battery’s too small,” the mechanic announced.

“
¿La bateria?”
Emilio asked me, urgently. The mechanic pointed to the Squire’s battery mount. The battery was so small it barely fit in without falling out. I nodded. The ruling junta then held a conference and decided we’d better have the mechanic replace it. The price with the trade-in was not the rip-off we had expected. Better yet, it worked—for both the heating and the wiper problem. Máximo entered the cost on the list of expenses he was keeping on the back of a
novela;
he and Emilio paid for now. It would all be dealt with in time. We took the opportunity to add yet another can of fluid to the transmission and to buy another caseful: lately the tranny had been stubborn about shifting into high gear, and we needed to take advantage of the relatively clear roads to make up lost time. There was an upbeat mood as we swung back onto Interstate 40.

At fifty miles per hour—still our limit—we made relatively good time across Oklahoma. But bad weather struck again south of Tulsa. The semitrailer rigs that dominate many interstates, but that are poorly suited to slippery conditions, were sliding off the highway everywhere; we passed a number of spectacular wrecks. Gradually, though it was midday, the freeway emptied. We should have pulled off too, but, tired, I was not feeling assertive, and they badly wanted to keep going.

Things were at their most slippery, with the worst visibility, when a stopped trailer loomed ahead of us. It had stalled in the right lane, failing even to get over to the shoulder. Perhaps believing in the relative superiority of our newly fixed vehicle, perhaps thinking there really were no other cars out that day, Máximo spun the wheel confidently and the Squire began to change to the left lane. But at this instant, a voice blurted from the far back:
“Look out!”

Another semi, traveling much faster than we, was bearing down directly behind us in the left lane; on a road as slick as this, a collision was inevitable. Reacting quickly, Máximo steered us back out of its way, and stepped on the brake in order not to hit the stalled trailer. Under normal conditions, we could have stopped. But on that glassy surface, the locked tires were barely slower than ice skates. The Squire bashed into the trailer’s rear bumper.

We were mortified. Everyone stepped out into the wind to examine the damage ... everyone except Máximo, Emilio, and I, that is, for the front doors would no longer open. We had to climb into the backseat to get out.

The Squire had traveled about a foot beyond the trailer’s bumper, mostly underneath, so that the bumper rested on top of the slightly squashed hood. The front fenders were bent, the grille was gone, and glass from the four headlights covered the road. With everyone pushing, we managed to slide it back out from underneath. Using the tire iron as a lever, Emilio set about prying the hood open to see how the engine looked; meanwhile, I ran up the side of the truck to try to intercept and speak with the driver. He was just coming down from the cab.

The Mexicans, traveling in a foreign land and subject to rules they did not understand, automatically assumed it was all their fault. After all they, unable to stop, had slammed into the trailer. I was not so sure. I met the driver as he neared the back of the truck, dressed only in his shirtsleeves. His pants flapped in the wind around his cowboy boots. The blank, strained look in his eyes bespoke a trucker’s nightmare of spring-loaded seats, white lines, and stimulants. Especially in comparison to the brown-skinned Mexicans, he looked like death. Rounding the back of the trailer, suddenly, afforded the perspective of fresh air and no windshield, he realized his mistake.

Out of initial mumbles emerged words and a sentence: “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. I thought I was on the shoulder.” The truck, as far as we could tell, was undamaged. “I was wondering what happened—thought at first it was just my brakes kicking back.” He hadn’t even realized he’d been hit.

“
Tell him we’re very sorry. We’ll pay for everything,”
said Máximo.

“
Tell him not to call the police,”
asked Chucho. They looked at me and the trucker anxiously.

“
How’s the car?”
I asked.

Emilio was still peering around under the hood.
“The radiator doesn’t seem to be damaged. I don’t see any leaks. The belts are okay.”

Máximo borrowed the tire iron and pried open the driver’s door. In the process, the metal tore a gash in his hand. But he paid no attention, just climbed in and started the engine.

“
The tires look okay.”
said Chucho.

“
I don’t think he wants to call the police either,”
I said.
“Is it okay if we all just leave?”
My companions all looked at each other and nodded. They looked relieved.

“Look,” I said to the driver, now shivering and working hard to keep his slippery-soled cowboy boots steady on the ice. “We don’t want to be held up either. It’s an old car, and it looks like it still works, so no big deal. ”

He smiled wanly. “Thanks, partner,” he said, shaking my hand and turning to go. “I sure appreciate it. ” He probably didn’t understand why I was doing him this favor, and I didn’t plan to tell him. He skittered back up to his cab.

The blood dripping onto the pavement under Máximo’s hand was starting to turn to dark ice. One of the guys noticed and handed him a clean sock, which he wrapped around the hand. He began to move back behind the wheel, but I said I’d drive. I didn’t want any more accidents. I was angry that we had had this one, but also feeling frustrated at having no one to be angry at. The truck driver probably had been in the wrong technically, but it was hard to fault him. Máximo should have been driving more slowly—in fact, we shouldn’t have been on the road at all—but I didn't blame him or the group for wanting to get there, and soon. I tried to relax with the thought that we were lucky. The car still worked, and the police had not come. Nobody would have to flee into the blizzard, clutching his blanket. I scraped some ice off the windshield using a plastic card from my wallet. Máximo scooted over and then Emilio, unable to open his own door, came around and slid in the middle of the front seat, kicking the glass from near the tires on his way. Everyone else climbed in. I drove off my anger.

In Henryetta, Oklahoma, we bought new sealed beams and tape: the connections were all right, and in fifteen minutes we had headlights again. I felt like driving nonstop to Florida myself, like getting this trip over, but two hours later, barely into Arkansas, my eyelids were heavy and I was shaking my head to stay awake.

“
You guys, there’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask,”
I said to Emilio and Máximo. They looked at me, a bit concerned, sensing it might be important.

“
When you travel, do you also eat?”
So—the
gringo
was hungry! Those who hadn’t heard had my question repeated by others who had. There was laughter as they realized what I was getting at.

“
Yes, sometimes,”
said Máximo, smiling.

“
Well, look. I know you’re tired and I want to do my share of driving. But I can’t continue unless I get something to eat.”

“
Okay, okay. Look—how about the little old man?”

“
Huh? What ‘little old man’?”

“
Don’t you know him? Oh, I think we’ll see him pretty soon.”

“
Where?”

“
Up ahead. Just wait.”

Máximo and Emilio had driven this route so many times, I thought, maybe they knew some old guy in western Arkansas who ran a cafe, some old Mexican who would feed us. I was annoyed at their vagueness, but glad they had an idea.
“El viejito,”
they called him. I managed to drive for another half hour.

“
There he is! There he is!”
Chucho suddenly called from the back seat as we approached some exits for Fort Smith.

What were they talking about?

“
Look! With the beard.”

My gaze followed Chucho’s pointing finger up the pole of a road sign for Kentucky Fried Chicken! They were talking about the Colonel.

“
Colonel Sanders!”
I said.
“Why didn’t you say so?”

“Cairrrn-ul San-dess,” Chucho struggled. They hadn’t been teasing me—it was just a very difficult name for a Mexican to pronounce.

“
All right—el viejito,”
I said. The little old man.

We pulled into the parking lot. A collection was taken for the impending feast; unfamiliar with this town and state, they waited in the Squire while I walked inside to get two buckets of chicken, all the trimmings, Pepsis all around, and about half a dispenser of napkins. Carrying it back out required two trips. Though hungry themselves, they all got a big kick out of watching how much pleasure the meal evidently gave me. Whenever there was something extra, it was passed to me. I was all smiles. Food and mood: the relationship is undeniable.

Things settled down as we crossed Arkansas. The frozen roads and barren vistas gradually disappeared, yielding to greenery and air with just the right touches of fragrance, humidity, and warmth to be the South at its best. The blankets in back were converted into use as pillows. The fourth day dawned over a bridge, with the Mississippi River in the side windows and Memphis on the horizon. Everyone relaxed, with the exception of a brief moment of panic when we were passed by a late-model sedan apparently carrying newlyweds. Torn remnants of toilet paper and streamers fluttered from the aerial and around the bumpers, and words formed with shaving cream had slid down the windows into undistinguishable globs.

“
Snow!”
murmured Máximo. He pointed to the old shaving cream at the bottom of the windows and looked around at the sky.
“Where did it come from?”
He had developed a mortal fear of the stuff.

“
Where? Where?”
demanded the others, suddenly alarmed.

“
¡Tranquilo! It’s not snow!”
I proceeded to explain what, come to think of it, is a fairly peculiar local custom. They were perplexed. Emilio’s brother asked if it had something to do with the groom’s shaving.
“Is it just for men with beards?”

Right before Knoxville we made our first turn since Arizona, this one onto Interstate 75, southbound through Chattanooga to Georgia and Florida. A filling station map later revealed that we could have saved three hours by turning sooner, taking a southeast diagonal, I-24, at Nashville, but I didn’t say anything. Maybe they were ignorant of it, but maybe they were not. The shortest route wasn’t always the best, as I was reminded when we exited the interstate somewhere south of Macon.

“
¿Que pasó?”
I inquired.

“
From here, we take another route,”
said Emilio.

Máximo eventually explained.
“La Migra knows there are guys coming this time of year. They keep an eye on the interstate—ask Emilio.”

From the somber look on Emilio’s face, I didn’t have to.

“
So,”
he continued,
“we take another route. ”

It wasn’t until a few days later, when I got to sit down and really look at a map, that I was able to figure out exactly how we had entered Florida. The route was circuitous, but it worked. It wasn’t till central Florida that we rejoined the interstate, and then only briefly; it angled west, toward the Gulf Coast, and we headed back off to south central Florida.

During this stretch Chucho got his first taste of driver education, Mexican style. He had been bugging us to let him drive since the snow stopped. Of course, he had no license. But the road was straight and little traveled; and, more significant, the three of us drivers were thoroughly exhausted. We parked alongside the road, Chucho and Emilio traded places, and Chucho scooted up the front seat in order to reach the pedals. Smiling broadly, the envy of all those in the back, he revved the engine loudly. The troubled transmission took another step toward its grave when Chucho shifted from PARK to DRIVE with his foot already on the gas, and we peeled out onto the pavement.