America the beautiful

The phone rings.

I answer.

In Spanish: "I’m Fulano etal (Mexican John Doe). Mario’s friend. You remember the guy that bought the horse? I have a really big favor to ask."

“I need a place to stay. Things are bad for me now. I just got out of jail.”

“I’m living in a car. But I got a job.”

“What happened to the restaurant?”

“I sold it. My wife got the money. I married another woman. We fought. She called the cops.”

Another call. Another friend.

“I need to borrow money. The truck I use to come to work—the finance company is looking for it. My grandmother reported it stolen. A friend has a car for sale. $1,200. He needs the money, but it has to be today.”

The phone, again.

“Your diesel bill for the month of March has not been paid….”

More calls.

A horse is colicking.

Abraham is drunk. Has been since Sunday.

Bearing went out on a disc.

Tractor tire, flat again.

Manuel thinks it’s sabotage.

I know better.

Shit happens.

You have a bull out on my place. Big spotted Brahman.

I have a bull out of his pen on my own place. Holstein-Jersey cross. Along with some dairy heifers.

Guess I left the gate unlatched last night. Got to catch that motherfucker.

The immigration lawyer wants more money. I’ll pay you back man.

All of this before milking.

I encounter a man at a nearby trailer park. A new neighbor. Ex-special forces.

Trying to kick the drugs the government uses to chemically lobotomize him. Handfuls of pills with names I don’t recognize. He quit all of them.

Can’t sleep. Killed kids sent into the mine fields. Shot them in the fucking head. 50 cal.

The way he moves, acts: rapid fire speech, jittery movements; looks, smells, tastes like meth to me.

This gang controls this, that gang controls that. Another over there.

More gangs than I can keep up with. I don’t want to know.

There’s dope everywhere. So much dope they’re burying the shit…

Everyone has dope, everyone’s the dealer. Who’s the John with a fucking job to sell the shit to?

Meanwhile, cops watch. Listen. Wait.

I best be moving along.

I call to check on the one horse I have left in training.

My trainer answers, from the emergency room.

Heart, again.

Horse is fine. He isn’t.

Fuck.

Time for lunch.

America the beautiful.