While trying to go around the border I have Frank, after getting turned around at the fence after walking around it on the beach, he finds a little yellow inflatable raft and he tries paddling around the border. Just when he thinks he has it made, he meets a shark and now has to try to get to shore before being eaten. I thought it was a fun chapter, but I made it too funny and it seemed to take away from the seriousness of his situation, so I cut it. I still love the chapter, but it had to go for the good of the book.

Chapter 44

Putting the raft in the ocean I look back and see no one is coming to stop me. Pushing the raft ahead of me, I jump over the first set of waves and then land inside the raft. Fumbling around for the paddle underneath me takes some coordination and balance. Finally I’m ready to . . . uh-oh. There’s a big white foamy avalanche of what’s left of the next wave barreling down on me. The wave hits me and I begin moving backwards very quickly. Bubbling white water lifts the front of the raft up . . . lots of sky . . . “Aaaahhhh.”

When I come up for air, I’m kneeling, waist deep in water. A quick search for the raft finds it sliding up the beach on what’s left of the wave that flipped me over. Feeling around for my boots, I grab them and wait for the paddle to come to me on the retreating sea.

I walk over to the raft, flip it over, toss the boots and paddle back in again, and look around to see if anybody cares about the raft.

Looking toward the border I notice I’m a bit farther south now from where I started, and that reminds me, I’ll be fighting the current when paddling north. I hope I can paddle fast enough to make good progress. I’d hate to paddle out and then when I get back to shore, find myself back in Guadalajara.

The first order of business is to get past these rolling, foaming, border-guards. There are three lines of surf that I’ll have to get past and it looks like there is less than a minute between waves. I should be able to do this.

Putting the raft back in the water and walking it out as far into the surf as possible, I jump into the raft as the first, small foamy wave passes me. Getting on my knees without tipping over is not very easy, but I get situated and then begin paddling. The wave forming ahead of me, and the memory of what just happened, is not very reassuring. I need to get over the top of that wave before it breaks, but having to paddle and switch sides after every two or three strokes so I don’t paddle in a circle makes progress difficult. I feel like I’m barely moving.

The wave is peaking and I’m almost there. My heart is pounding as I paddle harder, and faster, but I feel myself tilt up, then begin to slide backwards as the wave becomes a wall.

In a moment of genius that only comes from recently experiencing a similar failure, I grab the boots with one hand and hang onto the paddle with the other as my little world gets turned upside down again. An idea hits me at about the same time as my head hits the sandy bottom.

I stand up and shake the sand our of my right ear, then walk over to where the raft has now landed, twenty or so yards farther south. Even mother nature seems to make it easier to get into Mexico than get out of it.

I empty the raft of water, then put the paddle and boots inside and reassess my situation. Glancing up the beach where I got this raft, I notice no one is coming for it. Come to think of it, as far as I know, this raft floated down on the current fromthe US. Maybe it’s an American raft . . .

I blow some sand out of my nose and feel it’s gritty coarseness in my shirt and pants. I’m probably getting swamped because I’m sitting too far back in the raft, easily getting pushed back down the wave. I remember watching Surfers in California, before we moved to Arizona. They used to pass the first lines of surf all the time by jumping over the first set of waves and paddling out very quickly past the second. I’ll just act more like a surfer.

Seeing my opportunity, I carry my momentum forward and jump over the first break and onto the raft, positioning myself forward with my chin resting over the front of the raft, and my ankles hanging over the back. Laying on my stomach I paddle like a surfer, not even looking at the wave ahead of me. I know there is one, waiting for me— I can feel it.

As the raft gets pulled up into the next wave, I paddle harder, digging deep into the water with flat bladed hands, and reaching the top of a wave, it begins to curl. A cold rush goes through my body as the fear of getting dunked again becomes a possibility. Leaning as far forward as I can and reaching over the top of the wave I pull downward and climb as hard and fast as I can. In an instant the raft levels off, and the wave breaks beneath me, bouncing me around, pulling me backward with it. I paddle harder to break free from the turbulent grip of the foamy white water. Finally, I sense some forward progress again. Man that was scary.

The next line of surf is coming toward me. The muscles in my arms and chest are exhausted. The next wave comes surprisingly soon. Paddling hard and fast, leaning forward like last time, I make it over this wave a little easier, but again there is the backward pulling sensation. My arms begin to feel like rubber, straining to make forward progress. The wave seems alive, almost like it’s trying to keep me from escaping.

I’m exhausted and out of breath. Just one more row of waves to go. The taste of salt water and the smell of plastic remind me of how fun this used to be as a kid. My wobbly arms beg me to stop and take a break.

I look ahead, paddling and assessing my chances. It doesn’t look like I’m going to make this one.

Paddling seems useless; my lungs can’t seem to get enough air, my arms are like rubber bands. The wave builds, pushing me higher, racing towards me, as my little yellow raft and I rush to meet it.  My breathing is deep and raspy like I’ve been running a marathon. I’m in deep water now and swimming isn’t going to work for me. I’m too tired. I have to make it, or I’ll drown. The realization that I might die turns my blood cold, sending my arms into overdrive. The raft gets lifted up, up, up. The wave begins to crest, and I feel incredibly high in the air right now. Leaning as far forward as possible, inching my chin way out over the front of the raft, paddling and paddling, hoping to get my head above the breaking wave. The wave breaks beneath me and once again I’m getting thumped pulled backward, but my spaghetti-like arms keep paddling until I’m away from the danger zone, breaking free from the grip of the wave.

I made it! I try to paddle a bit more to get past the surf line, but ultimately my arms give out.

My victory dance consists of collapsing on the bottom of the raft and taking in huge gulps of air. I made it!

When my breathing becomes more relaxed, I feel a swell roll by underneath me. I paddle a few weak strokes to get farther away from the breaking waves and notice the raft beneath me seems a bit soft. When I first got in it, the raft was pretty firm, but now it’s easy to squeeze and I’m lower in the water than before. It’s probably from all the tumbling I did on it.

I find an air nipple underneath my chin, pop it open and begin blowing. I’m facing the beach now and it’s becoming apparent I’m drifting southward, and towards the surf again. Maybe I can paddle and blow at the same time. I’ll just take it nice and easy. Turning the raft around and pointing it north, I take long, slow strokes, breathing in through my nose and out into the raft.

After only a few deep breaths, I feel dizzy. I close up the air nipple and focus on paddling. The last thing I want to do is pass out and end back up on the beach again, or worse.

I decide to paddle out to sea where there is less risk of being sucked into the surf, or being seen by anyone on the beach. After a few minutes I stop and focus all my attention on filling the raft back up. The smell of plastic, salt and seaweed is strong with my nose buried in the raft. I can almost smell the suntan lotion Mom would put on me to keep me from getting sunburned when she would take me to the beach. Suntan lotion. I look at my transparent shirt. Damn. I’m going to get sunburned out here.

When the raft feels firm enough, I push the nipple back in, carefully position myself in a sitting position, and use the paddle to take me north-west, still trying to keep out of sight. As long as I can see land, they can probably see me. This raft, being bright yellow, is probably not going to help me sneak past Mr. Quad either.

Paddling steadily on the left for three strokes, then on the right for three strokes, I try to get into a rhythm I can maintain for a few hours. That should take me a mile or so up the beach, then head towards shore and land in front of someone’s house and deliver the raft to them like I’m returning it.

After several minutes the raft is feeling soft again. Maybe all this activity has started a leak. I stop paddling and push several deep, slow breaths into the raft. It doesn’t seem to be satisfied, so I repeat until my little yellow friend is firm and happy again.

I can barely make out the shapes of the buildings and houses on the beach. The dark patch between Mexico and California, and the outline of the stadium lets me know I’m still a little south of the border.

Hey, what was that?  It felt like I hit something with the paddle. I don’t see any tree stumps or logs or anything down there.  Whatever it was, it seems to be gone now.

The sun is heating up my back. I pull the collar of my transparent white shirt up over my neck.  I’m feeling almost naked right now —there it is again, this time there was a splash a few yards to my right.  My heart races out of my chest.

There is something down there, and I don’t need two guesses to figure out what it is. It’s a frickin’ shark—I just know it! Great! I’m in an inflatable rubber raft and all the comfort I felt being so far from the shore vanishes in an instant.

Now I know what they mean when they say, it’s better to be on land and wishing you were on a boat, than to be on a boat and wishing you were on land. And that goes double for bright yellow inflatable rafts.

What should I do? Should I just sit here and pretend to be a log or something? Maybe it won’t see me if I don’t move. “Aaaah.” It bumped me beneath the raft. That time I screamed. It heard me for sure.

I start paddling delicately back to shore. Maybe I shouldjust stay in Mexico for the rest of my life.

Slowly I begin to pick up speed. Now that I’m going with the current, I’m making great headway. Without warning, a dorsal fin pops up about thirty yards away. Holy shit!

I remember hearing that sharks are big babies, and if you hit them on the nose, they’ll go away. It sounded good on the TV show, but I was in my living room at the time.

The fin is coming straight for me. Time to make a decision. I stop paddling and nausea fills my stomach.  Here it comes. Okay, decision time, hit it or be still. . . shit, shit, “SHIT!” Smack! Holy crap! I hit it. I can’t believe it—Oh no! Immediately I want to take it back or apologize. What’s it going to do now? Did I piss it off? I can’t believe it. What have I done? I hit a fricking shark with a stupid plastic paddle. How dumb is that? I gotta get outa here.

I paddle frantically towards shore; Oh no! The walls of the raft are flattening out. The shark’s fin staggered for a second after I hit it, and now it glides away, so I focus on paddling and keeping the shark in my peripheral vision. I don’t want another surprise visit. The shark makes sharp turns like it’s lost or swimming in a maze.

Paddling like a madman, I decide to dispense with the stealth mode; the shark definitely knows I’m here.

The raft is low on air again, my knees are beneath the surface. Water is now spilling into the raft from the sides. I reach down to pop out the air-nipple and put it in my mouth. I look up again—the shark is gone.

Sitting on my knees and bent over the air valve in the front of the raft, I paddle and blow, paddle and blow, paddle and blow. I don’t even try to figure out how to do both at the same time, I just do it.  Some water comes in my nose as I breathe. I cough which is not helping me blow up the raft. I bend my head around with the nipple still in my mouth, to see if I can see the shark again. It’s gone. I’m breathing in, paddling, blowing out, paddling, breathing in, paddling, blowing out . . .

The fin appears again—dead ahead, coming straight at me. “Holy mother of shit!” My face is inches from the ocean. Bumping heads with a shark would not be a good thing. I don’t want the last thing I see to be a shark’s tonsils, so I close the air valve and sit up on my knees, which forces the bottom of the raft and my legs underwater, but I’m keeping a ring of air and rubber around me to protect me. Somehow, thinking this doesn’t make me feel very safe. As the shark approaches, I reach the oar back over my head, and angle the blade like a knife to slice through the water. If I’m gonna go, I’m gonna take a few teeth with me. “Here you go you son of a—“

I hit it with all my strength, and time slows way down. The distance between the dorsal fin and his tail fin is at least three feet. This shark is massive. I see beyond the shark and calculate I am still a hundred yards past the first row of waves. As my paddle connects with the shark’s tough outer skin, the plastic handle cracks, then splinters, then shatters into pieces. The shark’s tail reflexes and splashes walls of water in every direction. I close my eyes and wish I was just dreaming. Then he’s gone and time resumes its normal pace. Oh, my God! I look at what’s left of the paddle in my hands, look down at my leaky raft, somewhere down there there’s a pissed off super shark. I am so screwed.

I grab hold of my St. Christopher’s Medal, “Holy Mother of God, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Moses, the Apostles, who else? St. John, and anybody in Bible-land I left out; can you hear me? I could really use some help right now.

This broken paddle is useless. Realizing the damage these sharp pieces of plastic can do to a raft, I chuck them into the water. Oh, shit! What have I done? There goes my only weapon. What will I do when the shark comes back? Damn it! Now I’m no longer a . . . fierce . . . yellow . . . animal of some kind. I’m more like a happy meal. After the shark eats me he can play with the raft.

I lie back down on my belly, stick the air nipple into my mouth, and swim as fast as I can towards shore. I try to move my head around to check for the shark, but I can’t. It‘s probably better this way. I would just freak out seeing that fin coming at me again.

The first line of breakers are just ahead, about twenty yards. I can’t believe I’m so happy to see them. I hope I can get catapulted to the shore like the other times. I just have to make it to the breakers.  Maybe I can lose the shark in the white water, like a plane getting lost in a cloud. But what if the wave turns me over again, and I’m thrown out of the raft? I’ll be shark bait.  I can’t stand this!

It seems like it’s taking me a lot longer to get back to shore than it did to get out here. My arms are burning with exhaustion, but I can’t stop now.

The raft heaves up and a warm sensation spreads outward in my pants. I hold on tight with my arms as I’m lifted up, and then back down again, as a wave passes beneath me. Damn! I mean, great it wasn’t the shark, but damn I missed the wave.

I will never watch those Shark Weekspecials again. A mental picture of a TV  show where a shark comes halfway up the shoreline to get a seal, and the one where a shark tosses a seal six feet into the air like he’s playing with his food. Oh, wait, I think those were killer whales.

I stop blowing into the raft, and look behind me, hoping not to see that huge shark again. Nothing. He’s probably right underneath me. Another wave is coming. If I paddle hard, it could take me all the way to shore. My arms and shoulders and chest and neck burn from the effort, as I strain one last time to get me back to dry land, while also bracing for a huge mouth to come and steal me away from my mom, my job, my new family. Nobody will ever know how I went missing.

I dip my hands into the water for only a fraction of a second each time, not wanting to dangle any shark treats in the water. The next wave picks my legs up and I paddle even harder to surf the wave in.

I paddle like crazy before the raft and I get launched forward, and I grab onto the raft and ride on a bubbly, bumpy wave in. Any moment, this ride could come to an end, and those bubbles could come from the shark as it comes to get me. It could be just below me, messing with me, letting me think I’ve made it safe, and right when I get to the shore, it’ll reach out of the wave, grab me, and jerk me back into the water, or toss me in the air like a doomed seal.

Why do I keep thinking these things?

The raft begins surfing quickly to the shore. I can almost feel the sand beneath me as I stay in the raft well after I could get out and stand up, not wanting to risk sticking too much of my body into the water. When I feel the bottom of the raft skid a few times across the hard sand below, I roll out. Sensing the shark is waiting for this exact moment to pull me back and play with me a bit longer, my body shudders wildly. I roll and do a kneeling kind of cartwheel, then I jump up and get as much air as I possibly can and land on the hard sand in front of me. Without stopping, I roll uphill. I roll, and roll, until I’m completely out of the hard, wet sand area too. Rolling and rolling until I’m covered in hot, dry sand, high above the water’s reach. My heart is pounding through my chest. I want to scream-cry-shout. All I can manage is a painful grunt as I collapse, covered in a gritty warm blanket.

After several minutes my breaths become less labored and my heart no longer wants to jump out of my chest.  I look at the water to see if that . . . pussy of a shark is swimming around, waiting for someone a little easier to catch to float by in a leaky raft.

It’s over.

After a while I look up to see the raft is bobbing on the remnants of a wave, about fifty yards away. I don’t care. I never want to see another plastic yellow raft again as long as I live . . . as long as I live. Man, it feels good to say that. I look down at my St. Christopher’s medal. Maybe it helped me out there.

One of the kids playing in the sand sees the raft, and runs over to it. The others quickly follow. I’m happy to give it to them. Besides, should the real owners come looking for it, all I have to do is point to them and I’m off the hook. Come to think of it, I’ll bet that’s why it was left on the beach in the first place. Maybe there were people watching through the window, waiting to see the show. Maybe this was just a giant mouse-trap and I grabbed the big yellow cheese.

I lie still, relishing the feeling of the sun baking me dry and cooking the chill out of me. I love the feel of land beneath me.

Man, this border is tough to cross. I thought It would be easy, considering the numbers of illegals living in the US. Some of them even bring their wives and children with them. Kids! How the heck to they do it?

I’m feeling extremely inadequate right now. If it weren’t for the fact that I just beat the crap out of Jaws . . . I did! I smacked him right in the kisser—twice! Oh-my-God! How many people do I know who can say that? “Ha Ha! I am the man!” I shout. A young couple frown and walk quickly past me. I look at myself, caked in dry sand from head to toe, lying on the beach.

I’ve stopped shaking, for the most part, so I decide to get up. My boots. Where are my dad’s boots? Down the beach toward the kids there is a small dark spot on the beach. The kids must have tossed the boots when they commandeered the raft. I’m just glad I didn’t lose them. I guess I could have shoved one in the shark’s mouth, if it tried to eat me, but then again, since they’re made of leather, the shark probably would’ve thought that it was just a chewy appetizer.

I shake most of the sticky sand-frosting off of me, then walk down the beach to pick up my boots. When I get there, the kids stare silently at me, mouths open. I half-heartedly smile, pick up my boots, turn and walk away. Soon the squeeling laughter resumes. I turn to warn them of the shark nearby, but they’re in pretty shallow water. They’ll be okay.

Where to now? I don’t have any friends or relatives in Tijuana. I can’t get home. I could call some of the numbers in my plastic bag, but they’re going to be too far away to help. The only person I know is Cheech, from El Burrito Crazy, and he told me how easy this was all going to be.

Since I’m covered, head to toe, in wet, glittery sand, every inch of me is grinding and squeaking as I slowly make my way up the beach.

I look at the water . . . I look at my clothes . . . I look at the water again . . . I know you should wait half an hour after eating before going back in the water, but how long should I wait after hitting a shark in the head with a paddle?

Keeping my eyes on the surface of the water, I slowly go back to where the water skims the beach. Surely he couldn’t get me here. I take a few more steps toward the water and wait for the next wave to rush over my feet, ready to run at any moment. The wave recedes. I take a few more steps toward the water, and the surf rushes up to my ankles. I think I would see the shark way before it came for me here.

After testing the water for sharks a few more times, I wait for a wave to break, and for the water to rush up to me again. Making sure all is clear, I fall to the ground, roll a couple of times in the water, leap up, and run on my tiptoes back to dry sand . . . God! That was scary. A lot of the sand washed off, but I probably need to do this a few more times.

When I’m finished, I feel a bit cleaner, but there isn’t any way I can get all the sand out of my underwear, waist, collar and armpits—not in public anyway. Going into the water deep enough to rinse myself off is totally out of the question and I can’t exactly walk through town dripping wet. I decide to take a nice long walk along the beach, my boots in one hand and my socks in another. I look like I’ve been swimming and lots of people swim at the beach . . . just not with all their clothes on. This’ll also give me some time to come up with a plan for what to do next. There’s got to be a way for an American citizen to get back into his own country.

When writing in first person, sometimes it is challenging to tell the reader what your character looks like. I thought I would be clever and write what he thinks when he looks in the mirror, and the reader could see how his self-image changes through the course of the Hero’s Journey. Too bad the voice didn’t fit the character. I had to cut it.

 

Chapter 4

 

I get out of the shower, and there it is—my nemesis—that hateful thing, holding court over the entire bathroom, watching my every move.

Hazel eyes, dark brown hair, thick and short, like a bear’s hide. Pale and speckless cheeks stretched over sad, thin bones. Clean-shaven, smooth skin, not yet dried and hammered by the sun. The once powerful rage of acne has retreated and all that is left are a few blackheads and scattered pimples stubbornly resisting the dryness of age, on spotted, ghostly shoulders. Progress? Do I look older and wiser? Too soon to tell. Part man, yet still part boy. When will I ever grow up?

He stares back at me. Silent. Resentful.  The mirror is a politician; a lying stranger hired to serve a need—but never does. The mirror has an agenda, hidden behind its silvery curtain, lurking just below the surface, smiling, barely controlling its own laughter, but all I see is what it wants me to see, what it thinks I want to see, what I think I really see.

It serves a secret twisted purpose—the mirror. I’ve learned to hate it, resent its fake smile, it’s mocking eyes. I vow one day to get a new one, but I never do. They are all false confessors anyway, and they weave lies with the truth so cleverly, so artistically, it can be impossible to separate one from the other. Such is the tapestry of life. Believe it all or nothing; what choice is there?

In school they teach that life is binary; black and white, on and off, good or bad, but in the real world I’m learning there are many shades of grey, yet somewhere inside the depth of shaded space is an invisible line that once crossed—changes everything. Truth can be bent until it becomes a lie.  Good things can be used for bad ends, and the good gets beaten out of it. Somewhere in-between the good and bad, a change is made. Hot to cold, up to down, black to white, hero to criminal. The mirror is where binary meets the infinite palate of life.  Like or don’t like, hot or not, friend or un-friend. Polite society is in perpetual contradiction with it’s Law and Order court systems where guilt is always obvious, set against it’s Siskel and Ebert movie reviews, where everyone gets to choose one side, or the other, and be right either way.

When I was a kid, the lies didn’t seem so obvious. Of course when I was young, the mirrors didn’t lie either. They revealed the youth I wished were older, the ugly I wished were cute, the skinny I wished were strong, the pitted I wished were smooth, the spotted I wished were not.

Mirrors told the truth too much and earned a hard reputation. I began to trust its brutal honesty, agree with its unfair accusations, and then one day I looked different.

The thing that stares back at me pretends to be me, but I know it’s not. The man I wanted to be is not there, just some impostor pretending to be me—the person I always knew deep down inside I would become.

He is neither rich, nor easy to look at. His body is not swathed in iron and dipped in bronze. There is no crown upon his head, or vengeful sword by his side. His eyes do not shine with the courage of a thousand vanquished fears.

I remember the ugly scrawny little kid I used to be, but the mirror won’t indulge me. My youth is almost gone except for the last fading spots on my nose, or maybe those are lies too, and in its place is this. . .  loveless thing. Don’t look too long and get trapped in its lies. Hypnotized. Changed. Look away. Never stare into the Hydra. Never admit the link, the secret, the truth.

Mirrors are at least kinder than photographs. Pictures suck the fantasy right out of life.

Oh, crap, what time is it?

Dark brown pants, dark brown vest, dull yellow “Shift Leader” nametag, a gold “1” year pin, dark brown tie, dark brown socks; I’m a pauper, not a knight.

The promises made long ago, the ones where they say I can be anything I want are like a rainbows; I see one, I know it’s there, but the more I walk towards it, the more it laughs and says, “I am here, come closer, you are not far,” but I never arrive, and the rainbow bids me come, like a beautiful dream. I am neither young nor old. I am in the valley in-between. The pit. Purgatory, just like Shane said.

Time to brush my teeth. Careful, don’t get any white specks on the mirror; break it’s spell, provoke it’s wrath. Put the toothbrush down and comb my hair forward. Time to go, can’t be late. Dark peppermint for breakfast again.

God I hate working mornings.  What is it about mirrors these days? The more I begin to look like a man, the less I like it. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? I seem to be stuck right in the middle of a morph, the part where one thing changes into another, but right smack dab in the middle. I wonder if there’s a word for that. I should look it up. Maybe use it in my next creative writing project.

I take a peek out the window and get more bad news. An early rain is misting down. Summer is ending so soon? Didn’t they used to be longer?

I gotta get going.

In the closet by the door I find my umbrella and clear plastic poncho. First rain—a sprinkle really, but it could get worse; I grab them both. I try not to look directly at it, but it’s too big to miss; the box of shame. It looks up at me, smiling, mocking me. It holds the secrets of my past and knows my whole identity can be blown apart, should any of it’s contents leak out into the world. And there is the threat. As long as we keep it, my identity is in jeopardy and it knows this.  It smiles as if saying, “you can keep me in the bottom of this closet, but if I ever get out, your life will change forever.” I hate that we keep it. I hate she hangs on to something so bitter, so humiliating. She needs to move on.  I wonder if she’d miss it, if it were just gone one day.

Outside a warm breeze pushes a fine mist around like wet dust and it’s turning everything darker. Standing there for a second, looking up, I feel its cool wet fingers brush away the residue of whatever it was that twisted my insides just moments ago. Not to worry—that well runs deep.

I lock the door behind me and then open the umbrella when something flutters past my eye. I catch it before it hits the ground. I’m greeted with a cast of liars. Smiling faces before the ultimate betrayal. I’ve seen this picture before, a long time ago. I can feel black ink flowing through my veins as I look at it. I used to spend hours looking at these pictures and Mom would tell me great stories about my Dad. That was before I found out who he really was. I haven’t looked at them since.

In this picture she looks very young and innocent, especially surrounded by that pack of vultures. Look how realistically they all smile. How could she not be convinced they liked her? It’s not her fault, really; it’s them. They are such good liars. Comes from generations of practice I guess.

I gotta get moving. I shove the wedding photo in my back pocket. I’ll throw this one away at work.

I wonder how it got inside the umbrella? Mom must have been looking at the pictures again. Why does she torture herself like that? She’d be better off burning the box and forgetting all about that side of the family, like me. Assholes.

A car driving by wakes me up from my little walk down memory lane. Mom’s memories really. I wasn’t born yet. I gotta walk fast, I can’t be late. I have to be a good example for the employees if I ever want to get promoted to Assistant Manager. We could use the money.

Standing at a traffic light with six other people, I silently wonder about the Mexicans ahead of me. I’ll bet they’re illegal. I wish the border patrol were here. Why is it they never seem to be where the Mexicans are unless they get called? Actually, they don’t even come every time they’re called. I called a month ago about the illegal aliens at work, but I haven’t heard a thing from immigration or the Department of Homeland Security. This is why we patrol the border ourselves. Can’t rely on our government to take care of the situation.

Out in the desert, Shane was so cool. Tough, silent, methodical, thorough. . . I could be like that. Maybe I should join the Army after high school, like Shane. Then I could be the one leading the patrol in the desert. Maybe I could do like Shane says and pay the Coyotes in lead on this side of the border. I’d kinda be like a superhero. A masked vigilante.

What would a good border guard vigilante superhero name be. . .  I’d be in the desert so I could be Scorpionman. . . The Rattler. . . The Lone Chupacabra. . .  I’ll pick this up later, I’m at work already. Time seems to fly when I get thinking about them. For now I’ll just be me. Quiet, calm, calculating. . . and tough. Shane; I could live with that name.