or darkness were beyond the walls of their metal box. Someone began snoring softly, and Héctor thought what a blessing sleep would be now. Sleep was like sunshine and fresh air, something beautiful and unattainable.
4
THE COYOTES reopened the hole in the bottom of the truck. Not until Héctor took his first breath beyond the confines of the secret compartment did he realize just how thick, how putrid, the air inside had become. A new coyote hustled them from the truck, which was once again in a warehouse. This one was larger, a garage of some sort. Two dump trucks sat in the rear of the building and mechanic’s tools filled the shelves and walls. Héctor saw generators, tires, and compressors. He wondered why this place would not be a toy warehouse, too. Where would the toys within the truck go? Not for the first time Héctor felt as a child: innocent and curious and uncertain. He inhaled deeply over and over again as he watched his fellow pollos climb out of the truck. He assumed this was American air he breathed, but he could not be certain. Nor could he be certain if he should feel immense relief, or the dread he’d become accustomed to.
As the last man disembarked, the new coyote turned to them and said, “Bienvenidos a Estados Unidos de América. Welcome to America.”
Héctor smiled for the first time in memory. The other men smiled, too, though no one cheered, none of them spoke. They were indeed pollos, and Héctor wondered if this feeling would ever completely subside. His new position as an illegal American struck him, that from this moment forward his fate would be determined by this status he’d created for himself. He would always have that fear and knowledge that someone somewhere was more powerful than he: both coyotes threatening his family and norteamericanos bent on sending illegals back to Mexico. Perhaps a mixture of fear and joy would always dwell within him.
The coyote led the men into a small office within the warehouse, pointing out a water fountain and a restroom for their use. Héctor fell in line behind others waiting for a drink. Never had water tasted and felt so refreshing and necessary. Héctor believed he could stand before the fountain and exhaust its supply. He splashed it on his face and the back of his neck and drank another sip before relinquishing his spot and moving into the office where the others gathered.
When all the men were present within the office, another smuggler spoke to them. This one, young and hard-faced, held a file box. Héctor marveled at how efficient this system ran, how each coyote had a role and knew it well. The coyotes barely spoke to one another, as if they had done this procedure a thousand times. The vastness of their system impressed Héctor and he wondered if America held pockets of Mexicans living together, like little communities, little Mexican villages. Or did illegal immigrants keep their distance from one another, not wanting to gather, afraid to call attention to themselves? Did only the big American government discourage illegal immigrants, or did the gringos despise them, too?
The young coyote said, “Here I have identifications for you all. We will move fast. I will call out destinations, and you raise your hand when you hear yours. These identification cards are American driver’s licenses, issued from various states. When I say the state you wish to go, you will move over here, and we will find you an identification card that most resembles you. You will then study it. Memorize it. Find a partner and test him on the facts. This will be your new identity, and if you slip up, even slightly, your asses will be back in Mexico. You will want to have something better made when you get where you are going.”
He began calling states’ names. Some sounded familiar to Héctor. He glanced at Miguel and listened carefully for South Carolina. This is where we part, where our destinies diverge, he thought, looking about the room at the other illegal immigrants, and he wondered if he’d ever again see the men who chose identity cards for Arizona, Colorado, Florida. Where were all these places? Perhaps these men had family in these states, or perhaps they chose their destinations blindly, at random, with no more to guide their choices than a pleasant sounding name.
“Alabama,” the coyote called out.
No one raised a hand for Alabama. Alabama sounded pretty. Héctor mouthed the word: Al-a-bam-a. Maybe one day he and Lilia and Alejandra would visit Alabama.
“South Carolina,” the coyote called.
Héctor and Miguel stepped forward, raising their hands. A third pollo joined them, and they followed the man with the file box to a corner.
The coyote studied Héctor’s face a few seconds then flipped through a file marked “SC.” He pulled out a card, held it up to Héctor’s face to compare their images, then dropped it back into the box and searched for another. Héctor worried that the box contained no cards with his likeness. Then what? And where did these cards come from? Had they been stolen from the persons whose faces adorned the cards? Were the people pictured on the cards dead?
The coyote was holding a third card now beside Héctor’s face. He nodded, said, “This will work, no?” and handed the South Carolina license to Héctor for his approval.
Héctor studied the face on the card. The man in the photo had much longer hair than Héctor’s. Isadore Ramírez, 2400 Palmetto Blvd., Apt. 12, Columbia, South Carolina.
How could Héctor memorize the card when he couldn’t understand the words’ meanings?
Before he could ask, the coyote handed the other pollo his South Carolina card and said, “Pay attention. I will explain this to you.”
“Here,” he said, pointing with a long, stained nail, “Is your name. Here, your street, here your town, and this is your state.” He studied them a moment, to be sure they understood, before he continued.
“You are Isadore Ramírez. Whatever name you have always answered to … that man is dead. You have never heard of that man before. If you are to be an American, you are to be Ramírez. When you get on a bus, Immigration will likely board, and they will approach passengers at random. Such is what they do. Their actions mean nothing but that they want to intimidate. A guilty man is easily identified when he will not look at the officers, when he cowers and stares at his shoes. You will not do that. When the officer boards the bus, you look at him in his eyes. You have nothing to hide, and you want him to understand that. Likely he will pass you by, but if he does approach you, you will show him your card, and you will answer his questions with confidence.”
Héctor looked into the eyes of Isadore Ramírez and considered the soul behind the face on the card. Héctor imagined slipping into Isadore Ramírez’s ghost and making the spirit behind the photograph whole again, into man. I am Isadore Ramírez now, he thought, and he envisioned his own soul fading, merging with one he would never know. He considered his new name a good sign, as Isadore was the name of his village and its patron saint.
A pay phone stood outside the warehouse, and one by one the men stepped outside to make calls. The day burned hot, dry, and nothing of importance surrounded this place. Tall, half-dead weeds grew beside the metal building, and Héctor hoped prettier places existed in this country. Somewhere nearby, traffic rumbled along a highway.
When his time came, he fished a calling card from his wallet and pushed each number on the phone with great concentration. After fifteen rings he hung up. The others had to make their calls. Héctor shoved his hands into his pockets and returned inside. When they had all finished, Héctor tried once more. After five rings a man answered, and Héctor recognized the voice as the shopkeeper Armando. How near he sounded.
Héctor knew he must speak quickly; the coyote instructed the men to keep their calls brief. “Armando. Could you send a boy up the lane to my Lilia at Crucita’s house? This is Héctor. I must speak with her.”
Armando
