He is a worm digger. I am a fruit picker. He is a white man, and I, a latino. He is carefree and self-employed, and I, just an illegal trying to live the American dream.
We ended up meeting by the bay. When our eyes met, we knew that our lives would never be the same again. This is how our story began.
My name is Carlos. I come from a South American country, Brazil--a third world country. I came to America to make money and if lucky, stay here, and try to live the American dream.
My work is very simple. I pick apples from morning til evening. I work very hard to save as much money as I can.
Apples are gentle to hold but heavy as well. I pick each fruit, and put it into a cloth bag. When the bag is full, I deposit it into the back of a large cart, pulled by a tractor. When the season for picking fruit is over, I hope to do like the others like, and dig ditches. It's a dirty and heavy job, but they say the pay is good.
Seldom do I go out. Adriano, Luan, and Manolo like to go to town on Saturday nights, to drink beer, cruise, and dance in low-reputation bars, where people my kind go to. I stay home and try desperately to save every penny I can. I even scrub the bottom of a peanut butter jar with my spoon, mix water to my dish detergent, anything to save money. I also have a hobby to fill my time, something that doesn't cost me anything: photography.
Adriano gave me his used camera. The LCD screen was cracked and he wanted to sell his camera. As no one wanted it, he offered it to me. I looked at the Canon camera and returned it to him.
"I can tell you haven't much saved, Carlos. Well, you can have it. It's a gift."
"Oh, thank you Adriano!" We hugged. I had tears in my eyes. He also gave me five blank DVDs for storing my photos.
Now, in my free time, I take photos. Like I said, it's a cheap hobby. When I want to download the photos, I borrow his old laptop computer. Then I record my photos onto a DVD. I pay $.50 for doing this. At first he didn't want to get the money. But I said it was just fair, for I used his equipment.
One day, I heard that not far from here, there was a lovely place where you could go by bike to fish. Many latinos go there secretly. I love fishing too. Maybe I could join the guys someday.
My gay latino acquaintances are too tired or drunk to wake up early on a Sunday morning. Instead, I want to go there with Bernardo, a stocky quiet man. He likes catching birds and building wooden cages for them. He says that back in Venezuela he had many birds and used to make a living by selling them. He also said he left Venezuela because, well, during the bar fight, he had to defend his honor, and the man tripped, and broke his own neck.
Once, he gave me a nice little cage and a shy smile. I thanked him and took a photo of him. He looked at the screen and smiled. He said he was looking much aged now.
Adriano told me that Bernardo was interested in me. "I don't think so, because he likes girls," I said. He's got many cheap adult magazines at his place. Once I saw him entering the bathroom with one. We all use the same collective dark bathroom, which is a big hole on the ground. You have to take your own toilet paper there.
"Carlos, you'll like this place. We can catch fish and cook them, like the Americans do." I remain quiet, peddling and worried not to damage the bike I borrowed from Adriano.
We get on a beautiful road with flowers all along it. Then we reach the forest, which Bernardo tells me, hides the bay. I nod. We hide our bikes in the woods and take a walk in a long winding and slippery path.
"This is so beautiful!" I can hardly believe it. The bay! I take a photo and ask Bernado to take a picture of me. He doesn't like to have his picture taken.
"We can go fishing, but we'd better watch for the Americans. If we see them, we'd better run, otherwise, you know."
"Yeah, deportation." This is the feared word among us illegals. We walk along the bay and I shoot many photos. Suddenly, we hear noises. People are coming our way! Bernando and I hide.
"We'd better head back." He whispers. I nod. I don't even turn around, in fear the Americans see us.
On the next Sunday, very early in the morning, I invite Bernardo to go to the bay again. He says he's afraid of being deported and stays in his dark unit. I can hear a girl giggling as he closes his door.
Anyway, I want to go there again. So, I borrow his bike and go there by myself. This time, I don't seem to find the spot we took the last time. I just know the bay should be in the back of the forest. Then I hide the bike and walk into the woods. Big mistake!
The large aged stones and rotten fallen branches of trees make the walk almost impossible. I've obviously taken the wrong turn. Wherever I look, I see trees and rocks. Everywhere I turn to, looks the same to me! This place is isolated and no one will ever find me here. I start to tremble and sit on the ground. I wish Bernardo were here with me. I know I cannot shout for help, for the Americans will hear me. Nobody can know I am here. I begin to cry. Then I remember my grandmother's teachings, "When you're in danger, ask the Virgin Mary for help. She'll surely help you if your heart is pure and you're in greet need." I close my eyes and recite a silent prayer for the Virgin.
As I walk a long way up, I think I hear someone not too far from me. I have never been so happy to hear a human voice again! Yet, I must be careful. I brush some branches and see a white American man taking a leak. My heart skips a beat. If he sees me, I'll surely be deported. I remain as quiet as a mouse.
The man is tall, strong, white, and he has a goatee. He's also very hairy, for he's not wearing a shirt. I think he must be in his early thirties I think. Someone calls him.
"Bob, stop jacking off and let's go catch worms!"
"Is that how you to talk to your boss, Rick!" Both men climb the truck and move away. Now I can breathe again. I can still hear their words vividly in my head, as I peddle my bike back to our shack as fast as I can.
"Did you see, boss?"
"What?"
"The authorities are paying for each illegal immigrant that you turn down to the police! It's $1,000 bucks! Cash on the spot! This is much more than we get in this mucky job!"
"No way, man! They're not doing no harm to us. We need fruit pickers and, well, worm diggers too. There's plenty for everyone in America."
I wipe my tears as I peddle back home. I feel confused. I feel I need someone to talk to. That scene cannot be wiped away from my head. Yet, Bob was a kind man. I can tell he was different from the others.
"You're already back?"
"Yeah," I lower my head. "Thanks for lending me your bike."
"Well, don't tell me those cursed Americans were there again."
"Don't say cursed, for not every American is like that."
"Ok." We drink a lemonade and Bernardo talks about Caroline, the girl he met at the fruit plantation. He seems happy and talks about their future plans, and even marriage. I also think of Bob, the big American guy. But I know I cannot speak about him, for he is a man, and an American. My heart is nearly bursting with a new feeling I don't know how to describe. I just know that this feeling started when I saw this kind man today.
On the following weekend, Bernardo does not want to join me again. He also lets me use his bike. I know Caroline has spent the night with him at his place.
I peedle and reach the forest. All this time, I think of the events from last week. I mean, I think of the white American man, Bob. I wonder if I'll ever see him again. Perhaps not. Suppose I see him; yet I know I can't let him see me. I daydream of meeting this man again as I enter the woods. I hum a song so as to not feel scared of being here alone. It's a church hymn that I learned when I was little. It tells you to hold God's hand, for He'll help and support you. Suddenly, I think I hear someone shouting. I panic. Could that just have been a bird? No, it was clearly a man!
He must have seen me riding my bike on the road! My heart skips a beat. I throw myself on the ground and hear another cry for help.
Wait! Someone is crying for help. Or maybe it's someone pretending to be calling for help, but in reality, cops ready to take hold of us, latinos!
Anyway, I listen again and, well, by his voice, I can tell he's an American. He is not like us, who have an accent. Moreover, we always say 'God', 'Jesus', and the 'Virgin', when we speak. I know I must run away at once, before it's too late.
As I am making my way back to my bike, I hear his cries again. I know this time is for real. He really needs my help. But I just cannot help an American, otherwise, deportation!
What should I do? I kneel down and start praying for this man. I'm sure the Virgin will protect and take care of him Herself.
I am about to make my way back, when I hear his loud cry for help. I take a deep breath and turn around. I need to help this man! I feel the Virgin is telling me to trust in Her and do what is right in my heart.
After a brief pause, I hear him and look around. Then I see a sort of cliff, but not so deep. It's a sort of large hole. To my surprise, I find the same man from last week, Bob. I could be mistaken, for almost all Americans look the same: blue-eyed, tall, big, and hairy. I think he must have slipped as he stepped on some loose stones and fell into this small precipice. Even though this place is not too deep, he might have broken an arm or a leg. I get close to the edge. He sees me and our eyes meet for the first time.
"Thank God someone is around!" He is covered in dead leaves and dirt. "Help me, please!" I don't say a word and try to get to where he is. "I slipped and fell into this hole. I don't feel I've broken anything but, I cannot move my legs." I can see from his eye that he's much relieved to see me now.
"I-I'll see what I can do sir." I see no sign of blood on him. I feel for his strong muscular legs. Nothing, no broken bones. I offer him my hand and help him get on his feet. He's a heavy man, but not chubby, just a strong one.
"Oh, boy! Can't believe this happened to me." His lips are trembling and so are his big hands. "Say, let see if we can make it to the truck. I need a warm coffee right now." He begins to use his leg, and even manages to walk, though very slowly.
"Were you here a long time, sir?"
"No, I guess for half hour or so." I notice he's got a minor cut on his head.
With much effort, we manage to come out and reach his truck. He gives me his keys. I open the door and take the large thermos with coffee. I try to open it but cannot, for I've never had a thermos this beautiful before. He gently shows me how to open it. His large hairy hand brushes against mine. I then pour the hot drink and offer it to him. He drinks quickly and smiles.
"Better drink in the world! Mind you, my coffee is the best one around here!" He smiles for the first time. He offers me some. I sip and burn my lips and tongue. "Careful! Now you won't be able to speak for the entire day! Hahaha!" We both laugh. "Say, you saved my life young man." He puts his heavy hand on my shoulder. I smile and then, point to his cut on his head. He takes his first-aid box and I help him dress his cut. "Ouch! Damn this cut!"
"You're lucky it's just a small cut, sir." I really admire his beautiful deep-blue eyes looking at me.
