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.
