Lessons learned in the parking lot.

We met in the parking lot.  Tonya was inside getting some groceries and he walked up to the car.  Lucca is in the front.  He approaches the passenger side carefully, points to Lucca and says, “Is he…” and then moves his hands to imitate a dog running, “…is he a greyhound?” 

‘No, he’s a whippet. Those are the greyhounds” I say pointing into the back seat.

He has two silver teeth.  He smiles a lot and keeps wiping the car with his rag.  He has a nametag hanging form his neck, in a clear plastic cover.  He’s making small talk, passing time and hoping to make some money.  “I have a pit bull.  He had six puppies” I smile and tell him that is a lot.  “Yes, I have the man, and my wife has the lady.  They make the six puppies.”  He tells me about his dogs while petting Lucca.

“I lived in Houston for 14 years” he tells me in his heavy accent.  “Really?” I smile, “That is my home”.  For whatever reason, this is what breaks the ice.  This is our bonding moment.  He smiles and shows his silver capped teeth, reaches in the window and we shake hands.  “I was there for fourteen years.  I work construction, I do plumbing.  I got busted by immigration that is why I am back here now”  he keeps telling me how he is looking for work and that he is a good plumber, “I can do anything.  I will do it good.  If you need to change your toilet, I can do it.  I will fix your sink, whatever you need.  I am a good plumber”.  To appease him I tell him I will call him if I need him or know of anything.  I grab a piece of paper and a pen, “Here, put your number here so I can call you”.  He grabs the paper and pen and stalls for a moment.  He scribbles his number down and hands me back the paper.  I look it over, but there is no name. “Hey-what is your name?”  “Rodrigo” he says, and he flashes his name badge to prove it, ‘Rodrigo Hernandez”

He leans against the car and we start talking about Houston.  He lived way out at Gessner and 290.  I told him where I lived and he shook his head, “Yes, by Bellaire?”  Not quite, “Oh, by Chinatown?”  I laugh and tell him he’s getting closer, “In between Bellaire and Chinatown” I say.  He smiles back and nods and continues on.  He says he’s been around and knows a lot of people in the States.  He’s been in Houston, Orlando, Chicago…I ask if he stayed in Pilsen (a heavily populated Hispanic neighborhood in Chicago).  He shakes his head and says, “No-it’s in Illinois…you know, and Michigan” Ok, I get it and I won’t correct him.

“I am back here because of immigration, they catch me”, he smiles, ‘Three times they catch me” and he shakes his head.  I raise my eyebrows.  ‘One more time and they tell me I am going to federal prison”. 

“No, you don’t want to go to federal prison” I reply.  He agrees, shaking his head and repeating, ‘No.  I do not want to go to federal prison”

I am curious, so I ask him about his travails back and forth over the border and around the States.  He is obviously happy to fill me in.  Like most Mexicans and those form Central and South America, he is trying to care for his family.  He does what he can to make money, even if he is away form his family.  “My wife, she has twins” he says looking at me.  He repeats himself, and he motions with his hands like there are two compartments, “Twins.  She has one boy, and she has one girl. Two babies”   I congratulate him on the news and he smiles, agreeing that it is a good thing.  ‘How old are your babies?”  I ask.  “Seven months, premature.  My wife had the babies in Leon, and now they are at home.  We have to watch over them, that is why I am trying to get more work”.  He tells me he has been here for a handful of months.  I tell him I have been in Mexico for three years.  He tells me that is good.   I tell him I had been in Mexico City for over two years, and only here a short while. He smiles and nods, “Yes, it is beautiful country here” as he points to the parking lot.  He motions all around and says, ‘Here is much peaceful and nice, easy going.  Mexico City is too many people, too many things.  Here is good for you”.  I appreciate his reassurance…and hope he is correct in his prophesy.  He walks around the car and wipes the window, and the mirrors.  He comes to my side and leans against the car next to me.  He tells me how he likes Houston.  “There is lots of people in Houston.  They have lots of food.  There is lots of clothes.  They have everything.  I like it! I like Houston, whatever you need you can have”.  I smile, and I understand what he is saying, especially coming from.  Mind you, in the super mega grocery store parking lot we are in, it is vast in size but slim in choices.  You get two brands of beans, and only styles.  Whole or refried…and that takes up half an aisle!

“You know Galveston?”   He asks as he leans toward me.  I tell him I do.  “I was there when the hurricane came.  I was in jail there…”  I notice what appears to be a snag in his story, so I ask, ‘If you lived in Houston, why were you in jail in Galveston?  What did you do?”  He stops and looks at me for a moment.  “It was county jail” he says.  OK, but I tell him Galveston is a different county. “Oh, yes. The county Harris.  That is Houston”, he smiles and continues, “The jails were all full, so they send me to Galveston.  I was there during the hurricane.  It was bad.  The lights went out, there was no electricity. There was water everywhere, no food, it was bad” he asks if I was there for the last hurricane; yes, I was.

He walks away to try and hustle a quick peso, helping guide someone with a load of groceries to back out.  As soon as he finishes he is back talking to me.  Each time he wanders off and returns he switches sides of the car…to keep things lively I suppose. Now he is back to the passenger side.  As he talks, he reaches in and pets Lucca, and wipes and re-wipes the top of the door and all he can within reach.

“So what happens when you get busted by immigration?” I ask bluntly.  It seems straight forward.  Firstly, they hold you and question you. “They asked me where I was from, I said ‘here’” he smiles.  It is obvious with his dark skin, silver teeth and heavy accent, he is not from Texas.  “I told them I was born here, in Texas” and he says they pry him to be specific.  He told them McAllen.  He says that they took his papers, ran him through the system and came back and said, ‘No. You are not from McAllen, you are from Mexico.  You are going back”.  He shook his head.  He laughs and admits that he was caught out.  I tell him it was smart to say you were born in McAllen, but they still busted him.  They take all the illegal’s and bus them to Laredo.  “They pull up and make us get off the bus.  OK, go, get off” he says.  He tells of how they have to get processed out and then make the walk across the bridge to Mexico.  “There, there is someone waiting.  They ask where you are from and try to rearrange a way back home.  Maybe they give you a little money, something to eat and a ride back to your town”

“Is this your town?” I ask. “No, I am from Comonfort”.  Rodrigo came here for work.  He says the town close to him, Celaya, is too hard.  Not enough work, low wages and too much theft. “You go to the store and come out and your car and dogs will be gone” he reassures me.  He makes a grand swipe with his hand to drive home the point.  “I hear it is rough there too.  A few weeks ago they shot a man on the sidewalk, the cartels” I say.  He shakes his head, “Yes, it is very dangerous.  They are everywhere…but here is good.  I like it here.  There are many nice people and I have spoken with many Americans about different things, I like it” he reminds me again that he can do almost any thing concerning plumbing, and asks to keep him in mind. 

“I have a few weeks that I need to go back to America” he says as he looks across the parking lot.  I remind him that there is a lot on the line.  He replies back, “I know.  If I get caught this time, I go to the federal prison. I have to go though, I will try”.

“Isn’t it dangerous?  How will you do it?”  He steps back a bit and straightens up, “Of course it is dangerous.  The frontier (border) is very hard and dangerous. Many bad things happen there.  I will take the free train; do you know the free train?”  I am amused at the thought of this ‘free’ train.  I have a vague idea of what he is talking about, and ask if I am correct in my guess. He says yes, “that is the one”.  This is the train that is notorious that people from all over South America and Mexico hop off of here to get some food or try and find work on their way to the States and sometimes as they are fleeing the states.  The area where the train passes through town is notorious for crime and dodgy characters. “Are you ever afraid of hopping on the train, not knowing who is already on there or what they may do?” “Yes” he shoots straight back, “It is scary.  I hop onto the big empty cars and hope there are others like me.  Sometimes there are bad people there who rob you and try to hurt you.”  He straightens his arm out, towards the sky, “This train, it goes straight to Monterrey, Laredo, into Houston and keeps going.  It is easy to get to the States.”  He pauses for a minute, and then continues with fears of the dreaded Cartel. “I hope I do not meet the Zetas.  They make you pay them before you can get to the coyotes, then you have to pay the coyotes.  It is very expensive.  They are very bad people, The Zetas.” He shakes his head, as if he is remembering certain instances.  He looks up suddenly and says, ‘You know, they are even worse on the people from South America.  They make them pay even more, twice as much to The Zetas, then the coyotes charge even more. I think it is $7,000 to get in to the states” he pauses to do the math, as quoting the ratio of pesos to dollars gets confusing.  Sometimes, he says, even after they do get into the States then they have to pay again to be let free or to get the information of where to go or who to meet to find a home and work.

“I worry this time.  I do not want the Zetas to get me.  They take you and call your family and ask for maybe…$500.  That is a lot of money to many people.  They don’t care.  They don’t get the money; they never let you go home.  They kill you even if they do get the money.  I don’t know” he thinks for a brief moment, ‘I don’t want that.  I don’t want to get took by the Zetas and for them to call my family.  I end up in a ditch or a river.  It’s very bad…they are dangerous people”  

He asks if I am waiting for someone, and then ask if it is possible that I can spare him some change, he would appreciate it.  I tell him when the money and groceries come out, I will give him something.  “You are from Houston.  Did you know black people there?” he asks.  Yes, I did.  He shakes his head, “I lived in apartments and they were full of the black people.  They robbed me many times and put a gun on me.   I don’t like them.  I went to Stop and Go on my bicycle…” he makes a moving motion with his hands, like he is sweeping, “I go in for one minute, and they take my bike.  It is gone.  Some of them try to fight me when I ask for my bike. I can’t believe it, one minute and my bike is gone…at the Stop and Go!”

Tonya comes out as he is telling me about his bike.  She gets in and is complaining of being stuck in a long line.  It has taken quite a lengthy bit of time for simply tomatoes, an onion and some peppers.  “Hey, can you give me some change?” I ask her.  She turns to me and says she has none, no extra money.  As she is saying this she proves her point by opening her wallet and turning it upside down.  Rodrigo sees her do so, and steps slightly back from the car.  I look to him; he smiles and puts his rag on his shoulder.  He raises his hand and quietly says, ‘That’s OK…maybe next time”.  I look at him and nod my head; I tell him I will get him next time.  We smile at one another and he waves as I pull away.