the restaurant, though not for the front. He headed for the back, where he found what he was looking for. Fellow Mexicans, two dishwashers, illegals, on a break.
They spoke in Spanish, so here are the subtitles:
“Good morning, brothers. What’s going on?”
“Not much.”
“I’m passing through here, heading to New York, where I have work with my cousins, doing construction.”
“Day labor?”
“Better than my previous job.”
“Each job is both better and worse than the one before. We wish you luck, friend, but hope you are not looking for a handout. We cannot afford to risk our terrible jobs.”
Paco laughed at the weak joke. “No, my friends, I am not looking for a handout. I have a little money to keep me going. Just wanted to speak with countrymen about the best way for me to continue north. Cheaply, of course.”
“Nobody around here would pick up a Mexican hitchhiker.”
“I am Honduran.”
“Yes, you look like one. A Honduran from Mexico. Your last job was not what you thought it would be, either?”
“I was thinking about whether any of you travel north after work. Just another step closer to New York, you see? I can contribute to help pay for petrol.”
The dishwashers exchanged a glance. “You might be able to get a ride with us to Culpville. There you might get a bus. But you would have to ask John.”
“Who is John?”
“He runs our bunkhouse, provides transportation.”
“I will ask John. Where is he?”
“He arrives after our shift, at eleven, and takes us all back to the bunkhouse for a meal and then sleep.”
“Good. I will be back here to ask John.”
“Don’t come here. We meet in front of Pedro, at eleven.”
“Many thanks. I will see you then.”
Paco wandered off to look for a bathroom. His reaction to this place was similar to his reaction to most things American: bewilderment and resignation. Could he ever understand gringos and their excesses? He wondered if South of the Border was what Americans thought Mexico was like. He had to admit that the touristy parts of Juárez were at least a little like this, once. Even so, Paco had never seen anybody but a mariachi wear a sombrero, and yet there was this grinning statue of a peon at every turn.
Even a grinning Pedro in a bathrobe and slippers. The statue was standing in front of a public restroom that had showers.
Paco bathed, and was back at the road-straddling Pedro at close to eleven.
There was an aging white Econoline van there, and some of his countrymen were slouching outside. Including the dishwashers.
“What’s going on, friends?”
“We spoke to John. Here he comes now.”
Paco turned. Bald and buck-toothed, John was a large gringo who limped across the lot from the restaurant, a foam container of coffee in his hand.
When he drew near, the dishwashers gestured to Paco and stepped back. John’s puffy red face looked down at Paco and grunted. His smile was large, but the teeth were small, and there seemed to be far too many of them. “You want work?” His Spanish was coarse, but understandable.
We’re back to subtitles:
“No, Señor John. I am on my way to New York. My countrymen here said I might be able to get a ride with you to the nearest town where I can find a bus.”
“A bus?” John laughed, but without humor.
“I can pay for the petrol it costs to get me there. I am not a hitchhiker.”
“Why don’t you want to work here? Hm?”
“I have work elsewhere.”
John patted Paco on the shoulder. “Good for you. Sure, we’ll give you a ride. Get in, boys. All of you.”
The van was packed with illegals as John pushed the wheezing Econoline to highway speeds and onto I-95. Paco thought the van was very solemn for a bunch of Mexicans, who were usually talkative. They exited in North Carolina, and John brought the van down a dirt road through the pines and into a large clearing. In the center of the clearing on a rise was a cinder-block bunkhouse flanked by fading red tobacco
They spoke in Spanish, so here are the subtitles:
“Good morning, brothers. What’s going on?”
“Not much.”
“I’m passing through here, heading to New York, where I have work with my cousins, doing construction.”
“Day labor?”
“Better than my previous job.”
“Each job is both better and worse than the one before. We wish you luck, friend, but hope you are not looking for a handout. We cannot afford to risk our terrible jobs.”
Paco laughed at the weak joke. “No, my friends, I am not looking for a handout. I have a little money to keep me going. Just wanted to speak with countrymen about the best way for me to continue north. Cheaply, of course.”
“Nobody around here would pick up a Mexican hitchhiker.”
“I am Honduran.”
“Yes, you look like one. A Honduran from Mexico. Your last job was not what you thought it would be, either?”
“I was thinking about whether any of you travel north after work. Just another step closer to New York, you see? I can contribute to help pay for petrol.”
The dishwashers exchanged a glance. “You might be able to get a ride with us to Culpville. There you might get a bus. But you would have to ask John.”
“Who is John?”
“He runs our bunkhouse, provides transportation.”
“I will ask John. Where is he?”
“He arrives after our shift, at eleven, and takes us all back to the bunkhouse for a meal and then sleep.”
“Good. I will be back here to ask John.”
“Don’t come here. We meet in front of Pedro, at eleven.”
“Many thanks. I will see you then.”
Paco wandered off to look for a bathroom. His reaction to this place was similar to his reaction to most things American: bewilderment and resignation. Could he ever understand gringos and their excesses? He wondered if South of the Border was what Americans thought Mexico was like. He had to admit that the touristy parts of Juárez were at least a little like this, once. Even so, Paco had never seen anybody but a mariachi wear a sombrero, and yet there was this grinning statue of a peon at every turn.
Even a grinning Pedro in a bathrobe and slippers. The statue was standing in front of a public restroom that had showers.
Paco bathed, and was back at the road-straddling Pedro at close to eleven.
There was an aging white Econoline van there, and some of his countrymen were slouching outside. Including the dishwashers.
“What’s going on, friends?”
“We spoke to John. Here he comes now.”
Paco turned. Bald and buck-toothed, John was a large gringo who limped across the lot from the restaurant, a foam container of coffee in his hand.
When he drew near, the dishwashers gestured to Paco and stepped back. John’s puffy red face looked down at Paco and grunted. His smile was large, but the teeth were small, and there seemed to be far too many of them. “You want work?” His Spanish was coarse, but understandable.
We’re back to subtitles:
“No, Señor John. I am on my way to New York. My countrymen here said I might be able to get a ride with you to the nearest town where I can find a bus.”
“A bus?” John laughed, but without humor.
“I can pay for the petrol it costs to get me there. I am not a hitchhiker.”
“Why don’t you want to work here? Hm?”
“I have work elsewhere.”
John patted Paco on the shoulder. “Good for you. Sure, we’ll give you a ride. Get in, boys. All of you.”
The van was packed with illegals as John pushed the wheezing Econoline to highway speeds and onto I-95. Paco thought the van was very solemn for a bunch of Mexicans, who were usually talkative. They exited in North Carolina, and John brought the van down a dirt road through the pines and into a large clearing. In the center of the clearing on a rise was a cinder-block bunkhouse flanked by fading red tobacco
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