The Diary of the Tenth Man

By D.B. Dakota

The customs computer earmarks the construction man for deportation and officials do not specify why. But the stockade's padre reveals a shortage of job openings for immigrant builders. To fix the immigration crisis will the US deport its own citizen constructors, to make room for Mexico's? "It doesn't matter who, just reduce the number of bodies competing for jobs. You are just another body in the way. Everyone knows this, why don't you know this? You of all people."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613091951

Book preview

One

Hightailing out of Mexico, crossing the Rio bridge on foot, I hit border check at Brownsville, parched. I die when I see the line, a snake, no end to it, ever. For an hour I inch along. Finally, the door... cool in there. Guard blocks it, storms at me.

Wait your turn!

I squeeze by and in, gulp the breeze, get cussed out. Beet-face matron behind me props the door open with her head for air. I elbow room for her, shove the door wider, she pries in.

You want arrested? guard barks.

"Puerco! Hey, pig! she snaps. He saved my life! Thanks, mister."

I nod. Scary, huh? I gotta get cleared before this crowd riots.

Ever see so many illegals? she sneers.

And the cars? I shake my head. If only I’d kept my rental. Loaded down. Everybody in Mexico is in these lines, I do believe.

Glancing around, I see passports, birth certificates, registration paper, green-cards, IDs....

My ID’s ready.

Those cages, I point around the big room. Haven’t seen those monsters before. At the counter, replacing turnstiles, are head-high steel gates sliding open and shut. I crane my neck and see they’re gates to pens. What are— Traps? What for! Traps?

Where’ve you been? She looks me up and down and clucks. It’s showdown time at the border. Politicians circling the wagons.

Each cage has space for one person to stand inside while being checked. A hopeful steps in... whir, clang, kerchunk, and he’s sealed off. He’s interviewed, the far side swings open—if his credentials are in good order.

If we don’t clear, I ask, what happens?

Don’t know, she shrugs, rubbing her face with orange cream. I always make it.

What’s it for, a big bluff of some kind?

Kick the daylights out of illegal immigration, that’s what they’re for. She transfers several tubes of the cream—contraband—from her purse into an inside pocket of her smock.

Why the panic? I ask. What’s a few drywallers and gardeners going to hurt? There’s a commotion ahead. "Uh-oh, look at the muchacho trying to—"

A boy in the cage, in uniform, an AWOL soldier, most likely on his way to the US, doesn’t like being trapped. He dives to the floor and slides under the bars, which start about one foot up from the floor. He runs right by me, back thru the line, twisting around the corners of the fence maze toward the door. Just shy of the door he bolts into the loitering crowd and heads for the street.

Stop! an inspector shouts. "Alto!" A guard in a blue uniform trimmed with white and red stripes, another new look—says Immigration Police on it—corners him, the IP does, and starts questioning the kid. The crowd boos. He darts away, another IP dashes up, tackles him. They both plunge to the floor, clobbering an old man in the back, knocking him down. The kid, too fast for the paunchy tackler, scrambles free, only to be met by the first IP fumbling with his holster, but can’t unsnap it. He lays a boot into the kid’s belly, and that takes care of it. The IPs brush themselves off, two more waddle up and they all leer, shaking their heads at the groaning juventud collapsed in a heap trying to get up.

"Finally getting serious about illegales," cream-face smirks, not fazed in the least—and the crowd isn’t either... the booing stops.

What’s to get excited about? I wave her off. All that panic about migrants; it’s just a bunch of hot air.

She frowns at me. Horse-bleep.

Honest, they’re good workers, I insist, wondering what she knows about work. But illegal, I don’t know, can’t have that. The line creeps along, converging at the iron cubicle, clanging on through in a trickle, and my turn’s next.

What a joke. Here goes the good little polly bobbing right up to the big bird cage. Wonder if those IPs will request an imitation of a sapsucker? I’ve got nothing to declare, no tequila or anything—no wonder cream. I hoist my pullman up on the beltline, also new, and watch it vanish into an x-ray box.

What is this, an airport? I smart-off to a guard type. He’s not talking. I hang onto my computer.

"Señor?" a monitor in back of the counter barks. Tough cookie.

I look around. Who, me? I’m no señor. She wiggles a finger at my notebook, then toward the x-ray. I don’t want it zapped, okay? I wince. Don’t you dare. I lift it toward her. It’s a computer. My boss’s machine got its digits shuffled in one of these things once.

"Sí." She scowls and jerks it over to a shelf in front of her.

If she even looks like she might run it through that x-ray anyway and risk erasure, I’m ready to leap over and snatch it. It’s got a construction site bid in there that has yet to be dumped. They’re figures for a hotel project, our second one, down in Ciudad Victoria. Man, oh man, lose that data, my company loses a chance at the job.

She’s careful, tho, snapping it open and closed, running a vacuum hose, a dope sniffer, probably, over a crack; she weighs it, consults a chart and hands it back. Serious I reckon.

All that fuss distracts me, and at my turn in the stall I’m slow stepping up, or maybe I slouch too far forward, I don’t remember. Anyway, one of those gates of the beast pushes me, spanks me, spins me around, or catches a belt loop, and my ID flies out of my fingers.

Oops. Just a second. Where’d it go? It doesn’t fall nearby, but someplace outside the cage and I don’t see where it lands.

Excuse me, maybe I can— I hunker down and grope around. There’s trash, paper wads, butts, open boxes and goop on the floor. Did you see where it went?

She’s no help. Straightening up, I’m facing another parasite, an impatient beckoning hand poking through an opening in the cage, the credentials examiner’s paw. She apparently hasn’t heard me or seen what happened; she’s visiting and giggling.

My ID, ma’am, I dropped it. Around in this area somewhere, or over there. Can you help me find it, please?

For sure peeved, she dismounts her stool and she and her visitor get down, scrounge through the rubble and she comes up with a card. I assume it’s mine. She shoves it into a slot, looks at a display screen and at a list, then at me, punches some buttons, waits, removes the ID, brushes it off, turns it over and over.

She passes my ID to her flag-bedecked companion and says, Ten.

Wearing a black arm band, he purses his lips, intercepts my suitcase and sets it behind the counter. I’m still trapped in this steel-fence holding pen like an overdue steer waiting to get dehorned. He flips a switch. A side exit to the cage swivels open next to him.

"Señor, he says, come this way, please. He points to a bilingual button under his chin. Has a large I on it. I notice all the customs people are wearing big I arm bands. Immigration," he scowls.

I step out, he grips my arm and tugs, nodding toward an office door with an armed man beside it, another IP. I’ve still got the computer.

Hey, let go! I squawk, trying to twist loose. What’s going on here? I’ve got a plane—

Mister, I-man cuts in, do not start a war—fair enough? We’re holding you for an ID status check.

The doorkeeper IP hurries over to help, I quit bucking and get whisked into the room. Ten, the IP mutters to another IP guard inside as he slams the door shut.

Sweat pops out and itches, and I stroke at the whiteness in my stomach. These characters are holding me hostage! There’s just the one door in here and a small open window facing Mexico with an iron grill on the outside. Several picnic benches line the walls.

Seated or milling about are a dozen men, about. They look spooked. The stereotype of illegales, their physique, skin color and features, and tongues too fast for my limited Spanish as they murmur. They wall their eyes toward the IP wearing sunglasses; his holster is unsnapped.

I shuffle to a vacant corner ticked off, thinking I can’t hang around here in this stinking pokey; I’ve got to get rolling on this bid. No time to lose. Try money.

The guard at the door, tower of a guy, sees me coming toward it and backs against it, hooking his thumbs in his belt.

Does it matter around here, I bluster from below his badge, that I’m an American and that gestapo out there has my proof of citizenship? I need that card, man. You can’t hold me like this! Big mistake here, Trigger, so call the man. Gringo gotta vamoose. I force a grin and slide my hand out of a pocket so he can see the hidden tens, a couple, sticking up.

He stiffens a bit, steps forward, comes to parade-rest and shuts his eyes for a moment. "I’m sure you’ll be taken care of shortly, señor. Just have a seat and be patient."

I shake my head and limp back to the corner and sit, scanning the poor foreigners in here for who knows what. And I keep peeking at the doorkeeper, hoping he’ll make something happen.

It’s a short wait. As I stand up, hands on my hips, and stare at him, he limbers up and backs against the door again with his arms still behind him. His knuckles ease back. The jabbering raises a notch. He taps the door—a code tap.

I sit back down and flop my blistered feet up onto the bench wishing I’d pitched these new boots into the Rio Grande. They’re good-looking, but they hurt. Pretty soon the guard saunters over to the window, stares out, and goes back to his post.

Then it hits me. Why should I have to tip him to get out and be on my way? There was crud on the floor, it got on my card. The mag stripe or the bar code got scuffed up. The ID verifier, the national work-permit databank register, whatever it’s called, rejects it. They’re doing a manual check, that’s all, that’s what they’re doing. Shouldn’t be all that long before they get me fixed up.

But what if their computer crashed? If I hadn’t dropped my pass, I’d be headed for Albuquerque and some old shoes. I could kick myself.

Now, twenty minutes?

Now it’s thirty and my stomach’s growling and no arm-banded I-man with button. The guard at the door never once glances over to recognize me, to signal for his bribe.

The door swings open...three I-cops march in and thin the crowd, taking away the first six guys they come to.

I saunter around in my socks, the door opens again, and a flashy bronze cowboy type stumbles in. He could have been pushed because he looks back huffy. The guard braces himself, but the cowboy just doffs his hat, mumbles something and bows.

He spots the gringo, me, in the tennis shirt, comes over, plunks down on my bench and puts out his hand. Barlow, he announces, and stirs the smoke and his bourbon breath with his Stetson. Gotcha, huh?

I tell him my name, what’s going on and, That ID is good. Got it six months ago, back when everybody else in the country got IDs. What could take so long? This is fishy.

Red tape, pardner, he says. Zarella, you say? I nod. He shakes his head and chuckles. Look, Zarella. He looks around and lowers his voice. You do now what you gotta do in cases like these. They’re sweatin’ you out, see, playing a little game with you. And you’re talkin’ to the umpire. You could be here all night, man. Maybe exiled, who knows, and you’re not supposed to.

To what?

To know.

Well, I tried a bribe on that guard. So far he’s ignored me.

That’s not their game. Take money from a citizen? I mean di-rect? What if you’re an inspector? They work through the middleman.

You?

Funny, you don’t look dumb, Zarella, but you do look— Aw, let’s just say you look the type. You’ve got the right profile.

Ridiculous.

How much’ve you got on you? Don’t answer that, ’cause I’m about to find out.

I scoot over onto another bench and he follows me over, reaching into his pocket. See these little cards? He fans a fistful. These here are my business cards and I might let you have one for a twenty. They’re usually fifty, but it’s gonna be party time ’fore long, and it’s already gettin’ kind of thirsty out, so I’m open for negotiations. I’m thinkin’ discount.

You’re crazy! I bristle.

I know, it runs in the family, but not so loud.

What are you talking about? Aren’t you a prisoner too?

Negatory. I’m a consultant, actual like. And, truth be known, it’s like this. You got no ID? Or it doesn’t check out? And you’ve got money? And your name’s Zarella? You’re quota fodder, pard, that’s all.

You mean I’m—

You made the list. They’re just cops, he nods toward the door, writing tickets. They’ve got quotas. You can appreciate that, can’t you?

You mean this is— I stammer. Is that what they’re—

Well, maybe you’re on their other one. Are you?

Other what, for gosh sake?

Their E-list. But that’s all right with me, I’m—

What’s an E-list? Are you trying to tell me—

I’m your friend, ain’t I? But now look. You don’t have to go back over yonder where you come from provided—

Barlow, darnit, I’m not Mexican, that’s not my home, I’m not a national, I’m just coming back from a job—

Right, like you said, right. Now let me finish. Time is money. Hey, I don’t know about yours but my time’s valuable. So what you wanna do is play this little game here just for funsies, their little game. I’m just here to see that everything comes out right... everybody wins, right?

He stashes the cards away, all but two, and crosses his legs. Now these little dealies? I’m workin’ my way through college with ’em, he continues. These are not IDs, see, these are phone numbers. Right here in Brownsville, this one is. The other one’s for McAllen.

For— Oh, you mean up the road—

"About fifty miles. You wanna swim back across the river, maybe, like a mojado, and come across up there instead? If you do, one of my consultants up there’ll meet you and get you allll fixed up. Wanna do it that way? I’m gonna have to start charging you by the hour for all this advice. Where was I?"

You’re trying to sell me a phone number?

Real cheap. Considering what you get for your money. A number where you just dials up the man and gets yourself a brand new ID cooked up, then you gets your buns outta town—ten four?

You mean carry around an illegal ID?

Barlow laughs and clutches his chest. Ain’t that terrible? But it’ll get you home. Dang, Zarella, you’re a tough sell! Now take our brother hombres sittin’ over there? He motions toward the other detainees. They’ve not got fifty dollars between ’em. So they’re gonna be sent back home to get it. So an understanding consultant can set ’em up for their IDs. So they can head north, don’t you see. For the food stamps and welfare checks and Medicaid and free housing. All kinds of good stuff.

How much of this rot does this character think I’m swallowing? I mean, anyway?

The I-police detail swoops in again and herds the remaining refugees out of the clink, leaving me and the cowboy, and I can see me being next—but why didn’t they take me out with them?

Barlow points to the door. Wanna buy a key? I think why not, and trade him two tens for a card, which he first inserts into a plastic sleeve doohickey, and hands it over with a guttural, Pay dirt! Ha, ha, ha. Now then. You still got a little grease for your host? and he prances toward the door. He kisses a ten, flaunts it at the guard, tips his hat and asks, How’s business, Brother Earl?

The officer smiles, takes my twenty—his hand is out—and holds the door open. And there, there’s my suitcase just outside. Make your way to the left, he mutters. Barlow leads the way.

The other watchman and the immigration bouncer are getting heat from an Oriental inside a cage, evidently resisting his fate as a foreigner. If they are aware one is now escaping, slinking through the file cabinets, they don’t let on. We sneak out into an alley.

So this is the new citizenship system. Big deal. At least now I can get on home. Out in the street I head toward a taxi. Barlow grabs my sleeve. I wouldn’t do that, Zarella, watch yourself. There’s the phone over there, see? Call that number.

But what’ll I tell him? How’s it work?

They’ll tell you, the picture man’ll tell you where to go and what time, then you takes the cab. Do it, call it. Not five minutes from now. And don’t hang around here. That’s in case they sweep the street, which they will. Nice meetin’ you—and don’t get yourself de-ported.

I offer a handshake but he wheels around and misses it. I gather he’ll circle back around to the customs entrance to wait for another signal that another flush one’s been trapped inside, one with the right profile, whatever that is.

Cabs are honking and waving at me and I have to figure this situation out. But no, I’ve got to do what the bootlegger tells me or I’ll wind up swimming that river back and forth. A one-man invasion, testing borders, to hear him tell it. Profile? Just because I don’t have brown hair? Ridiculous. Why did they pick on me in there? Did that examiner switch cards? Most IDs presented to her, she just waved on through without even verifying, I watched her do it.

I’m a nobody, just a nose-to-the-grindstone estimator. And my office is more than likely in a snit over those figures. I’m already behind schedule. So I guess the first thing I’ve got to do is to download this data to my boss and pray that he or somebody can decipher it. In case I get boxed in here in Texas. Or deported.

I lug my stuff across the street and fret at how awkward it’s going to be to hook up the phone to the computer. Besides, street noise is too high for an acoustic coupling, my last resort, like I was doing in behind-the-times Mexico. The battery is showing low, and what if the law shows up?

Instead, I dial the number Barlow sold me. There’s a sullen, Studio. Who is it? on the other end.

Is this, I’m supposed to—

"Who, pedro? You’re supposed to tell, the man rushes, who you’re calling for."

Me, I’m calling for me. Can you get me a quick—

Who sent you?

Barlow, a guy I— I understand he—

Right. Be here in fifteen minutes. I’m booked solid. Here’s the address. I jot it down. Take a cab, he’ll know where.

Wait a minute, I stall, is this—? Are you going to make me—?

We make portraits for friends of the cowboy. Two hundred apiece, cash. Click.

Two hundred? Barlow misled me. I thought I already paid twenty for a new ID. This picture taker scalper splits with somebody? Who, the I-gang in customs and cowboy too? Oh, yeah, keeps everybody happy, like he says. Traveler’s checks I’ve got, but a fake-card ring won’t take those and risk tracing, will it? Like heck! I’m already in my own country, I’m free, I’m loose. So I don’t have a silly ID. I’ve got other identification on me. I’m not going to get trapped away from home with a forgery. That’d be worse than counterfeiting money.

I trot back to a cab and order him to the airport.

AT LEAST THE AIRLINE takes my credit card, and I sure feel better, even if I am on standby. They let me on the three-o’clock and it’s gorged with Mexican nationals. Quite tidy folks. They sure don’t look like they had to wet-back it over the Rio. The border patrol must have beefed itself up. No reason to be leery, but trips before, I’ve never noticed loads like this. Headed probably for the beet fields and orchards. Hope some of them are construction men. What’s wrong with letting these guys cross the border to pull beets if they want to pull beets? I sure don’t do that kind of work or dig ditches and mow grass.

My company sends me over to work, and the architects for the project, they go. Then our supers go, and a lot of crewmen—presuming I get this data back to the office so they can bid right and get the job. I’ve always heard these field hands are hard up, so how can they afford air fare? They’ve cleared customs, tho, they’ve got boarding passes and here they are, headed for the good old USA. Somebody paying their way? The farmers with ripe beets, probably. They remind me of that lockup... sounds like the same place, feels like it.

We taxi out and hold.

The plane starts rolling, but barely, and it’s not thrusting. It cuts back, eases to a ramp, angles off the runway and lumbers back toward the terminal, stopping some distance from the concourse. We seem to have a minor delay, ladies and gentlemen, the captain says—what ladies? We should be taking off shortly. Please remain seated.

I can’t see anything going on out there on the ground, but those on the other side of the plane can, for the window passenger opposite me pecks on the glass and bleats to his seatmate, Viene la policía. The aisle passenger reaches back and feels his pocket, reclines, eyes glued to the luggage rack. They both freeze. Rigid as fence posts; they don’t bat an eye.

Sure enough. Coming in from the outside, they soon appear: men with briefcases: One after the other up the aisle, four of them, in jackets, puffing, lolling their tongues out, making faces as if apologizing. They do not take seats, but space themselves equally along the cabin.

And someone blows into the intercom. Attention all passengers. You will remain seated and— The voice cuts out. It’s not sing-songy crew drill. The mike squeaks again, there’s a short spiel in halting Spanish, a new voice.

Then the first voice: Testing one, two, three, four. Please cooperate with the inspection. Your flight will be leaving shortly. Present your identification card to the agent nearest you. Thank you.

Bunglers. Why didn’t they check us at the plane door? Or is this the way to pull off a surprise raid? While we’re all quarantined in here