The Boy from Sweet Rock

Jerry Duvall never felt like he fit in.

To say his relationship with his father was strained would be generous. His father didn’t understand his son and made few efforts to try. While Jerry listened to the classical FM radio station, his dad rolled his eyes and complained that the music his son listened to was “that boring high-brow junk”. And Jerry, for his part, loathed the country music his father blared incessantly. Music, truth be told, was the least of their differences. Jerry’s dad loved cars and was a decent auto mechanics; Jerry tried to putter around the shed where his dad, Arthur—Art—tinkered with old clunkers that he dreamed of restoring to their former glory. The few times when Jerry trudged down to the rustic barn that Art had used as his garage, he’d invariably wind up getting in the way or worse, fouling up what Art was doing, angering Art, who would mutter something about how he couldn’t figure out how his son could be so bad at even the simplest of automotive details.

Even when Jerry tried to please his dad by giving the old barn a thorough cleaning, that gesture ended in disaster. Art swore it took two weeks before he could find anything. He never noticed the spotless floors of his otherwise disheveled barn. With a keen sense of order and organization, Jerry had arranged the tools systematically. That only confused Art. Nor could Art appreciate for a second that not a single tool was smeared with grease and grim. That they sparkled was lost on the man more concerned with automotive results than spotless tools. Art didn’t appreciate his son, and Jerry could only feel inadequate and unworthy of Art’s acceptance. Jerry’s mother, Mary Ann, always felt she was caught between protecting her son and supporting her husband. She seemed to flounder with both.

Art loved fishing; Jerry loathed it.

Jerry watched PBS; Art enjoyed Duck Dynasty.

The two had little to talk about, so they seldom even tried.

Art didn’t dislike his son. Deep down he loved the boy. And on dark, long nights lying awake in bed, Art would wonder if it was possible that Jerry wasn’t his son. But he knew better. At least in his head, Art Duvall knew the night his son was conceived. Maybe he did. But still doubts crept into his sleepy, fatigued brain on those rare nights he couldn’t sleep.

Sundays were the one days that brought the family together. Art and his wife, Mary Ann, their children, Jerry, Samantha, and Elle would load up in the family’s extended cab Dodge pick-up and head to Calvary Baptist Church.

All too often when at church, Jerry winced and wiggled uncomfortably as the pastor of the very conservative, fundamentalist church ranted and railed against things he declared evil. Even worse was when the preacher promoted all manner of ultra-conservative conspiracy-theories. Despite all that Jerry truly reveled in the church’s youth group. He connected with several boys, and most of the girls. Only two of the boys were high school football players, and without the strength of numbers, those two athletes tamped down their testosterone-driven inclinations at bullying. And the suggestion by the youth pastor that Jesus wouldn’t approve of unchristian actions toward others, kept them at bay. At youth group Jerry could be himself, assuming he kept some of thoughts and questions to himself. He could talk ‘church-y’ well enough to fit into the group. At this tender time, Jerry didn’t know the word agnostic, but despite that, he was one.

Mrs. Duncan was Calvary’s less-than-ideal pianist. While she got most of the notes right and many of the rhythms accurate, her playing was mechanical and stiff. She sounded like someone who’d had a couple of years of piano lessons, then taught herself the rest, which was precisely exactly the case. The preacher, aware of this, carefully chose music Mrs. Duncan could execute with some measure of success, which left half of their hymnal unused.

Mrs. Duncan picked up extra income by giving piano lessons to kids in the neighborhood, including Jerry, who picked it up easily and quickly. Unfortunately for Jerry, her teaching methods were as lackadaisical as her playing. While Jerry could navigate notes with some accuracy, his rhythmic facility was nearly totally lacking. But Jerry played on, and Mrs. Duncan kept taking the Duvall’s money.

********

By now fourteen, Jerry was experiencing that inevitable metamorphosis. Only in Jerry’s case, instead of a muscular body, exotic new hair growth, and intimate endowments, Jerry got a lanky awkward body, hair that sprouted sparsely in odd places, and acne. As to endowment, Jerry was patiently waiting and hoping.

But while so many boys suffered vocal shifts that caused breaks, cracks, and unpredictable register shifts, Jerry’s voice simply drifted from boy soprano to rich baritone almost overnight. Jerry would gladly have traded that seamless vocal transition for either a taut, muscular frame or an acne-free face. But mostly the later. Endowment seemed less and less inevitable.

Timmy Trammell was probably Jerry’s best friend and happened to be Jerry’s first cousin. Timmy had a generous acceptance of his misfit cousin, and Timmy’s father, Marvin, recognized Jerry’s worth might be measured differently than all the other country boys. Jerry’s mother, Mary Ann, and her brother, Marvin, lost their mother when Mary Ann was only four years old. That death, as tragic as it was, left a gaping void in the little girl’s life. Marvin stepped in to fill that void. Marvin doted on his baby sister after they lost their mom, and he never stopped looking out for her as she grew up. And now, it seems, Marvin simply transferred that avuncular affection to her boy, Jerry. And even though Marvin never cared much for Mary Ann’s husband, Art, he kept those thoughts to himself, even while he watched Art treat his sister and their boy, Jerry, in ways Marvin felt were unkind and unsupportive. Art’s treatment of his son, Marvin sensed, was nearly toxic. So, Uncle Marvin took the boy under his wing. Jerry spent hours at Uncle Marvin’s house, and Uncle Marvin took every opportunity to include the boy, patiently trying to teach him what he could and being generous and compassionate when Jerry failed.

Aunt Pearl lived next door to Uncle Marvin and served as matriarch to the whole Trammell clan. Pearl was sister to Marvin’s and Mary Ann’s mother. It was Aunt Pearl who insisted young Jerry take piano lessons with Mrs. Duncan. And it was Aunt Pearl who suggested Marvin and Timmy take Jerry hunting.

There’s a rite of passage every southern boy goes through, that moment when he’s taught about firearms. Uncle Marvin took that responsibility with the gravity and seriousness it deserves. Showing Jerry how to hold the weapon, how to load it, and how to fire it were the obvious lessons. Less obvious, but much more significantly, southern boys are drilled incessantly on gun safety. Uncle Marvin insisted Jerry be trained and comfortable long before the hunting trip could happen. Uncle Marvin started Jerry out on a .22 caliber rifle. Jerry, to the amazement of both Uncle Marvin and Timmy, had a deadly accurate aim. And for his part, firing the .22 made Jerry feel more like a man than he’d ever felt. Having Cousin Timmy’s and Uncle Marvin’s admiration gave Jerry a pride he’d never experienced. Next came Jerry’s introduction to the 410 shotgun. The kick was substantially more powerful than the rifle, and the rush Jerry felt, even more charged. But it was the Savage 110 shotgun’s thunderous blast that made Jerry feel an overdose of testosterone. It was well-nigh erotic.

The hunting expedition was not for sport. Uncle Marvin long suspected it was wild boars that kept destroying his crops. The ravenous hogs ravaged the field of sweet potatoes days before harvest. And earlier that summer the same boars feasted on his young, tender watermelons, leaving a red and green mess behind. So, Uncle Marvin’s hunting expedition was not sport. It was business, and he intended to show those boars the business end of his shotgun. The three set out in search of the destructive wild boars that cool, crisp fall afternoon. Rumors of boar attacks, though dubious, loomed large enough to keep the trio alert and on edge.

The trio spent the afternoon traipsing through the dense forest searching for the offending wild boars, but only saw several deer, two copperhead snakes, a family of skunks, and a host of squirrels. When he spotted the first of the deer, Jerry instinctively raised the muzzle of his Savage 110 and took careful aim, but before he could fire, Uncle Marvin gently lowered the weapon and explained, “We ain’t got time to clean a buck, an’ we ain’t here for deer. Let him go.”

Disappointed, Jerry returned the shotgun to its cradled position in his arms and trudged along with Timmy and his dad as they continued their boar-search.

Near sundown Uncle Marvin admitted the obvious and said, “Let’s get back to the house. Guess them boars are smarter than us humans. I’m starving. Let’s go back and get something to eat.”

The fierce alertness that accompanied them on the way out had dissipated and the trio, now more relaxed, fell into laugh-filled conversation, but the sudden rustling sound of leaves and branches stopped them.

“Shh,” commanded Uncle Marvin. “Be still!”

The rustling became louder and the sound of pounding hooves erupted.

“There he is!” yelled Timmy at the same time Jerry saw the enormous boar.

Uncle Marvin pulled his 308 Winchester into position, took aim, and fired at the rushing animal, maiming, but not killing it. Wounded and angry, the wild boar charged Jerry full-force and full speed. Uncle Marvin ordered Jerry to fire. His hands were shaking. No target practice had prepared him for this. The beast’s eyes were on fire as he continued charging. Jerry raised his shotgun, taking as careful aim as possible, Jerry released the buckshot from the shotgun, but the shot missed its intended target completely. The boar, now charging full speed, headed straight to Jerry.

“Climb up a tree, Jerry, quick! Climb up a tree.”

Jerry quickly surveyed the nearby trees, selected one, and started his climb to safety, but he was too late and too slow for the surprisingly agile boar.

With graceful speed and power, the giant hog’s first lunge pinned Jerry. Its tusk stabbed Jerry’s thigh. With a dull thud Jerry fell in perfect position for the boar’s deadly attack.

“Get up and grab the tusks!” Uncle Marvin ordered.

Even though he knew it was a futile effort, Jerry tried to stumble up, but the animal’s speed and defensive instinct made any attempt at grabbing any part of the boar wildly impossible.

Sensing victory the boar took three steps back, preparing for the final charge that would kill Jerry. The massive beast was so intent on the kill, he was oblivious to Uncle Marvin as he quietly sneaked up behind him. Once within six feet, Uncle Marvin hurled a massive rock at the animal with all his strength. The rock landed squarely on the boar’s head, disorienting the boar, who turned toward Marvin charging him at full speed. Uncle Marvin, hoping for this, raised his shotgun, took an instant aim at the beast’s head and released the weapon’s deadly canister. The animal fell dead instantly.

Ignoring the fallen boar, Uncle Marvin found Jerry bleeding badly from the tusk’s penetration. Ripping off his shirt, he quickly tied up the wound as best he could. Looking around, Uncle Marvin asked, “Where’s Timmy?”

“I don’t know,” Jerry squeaked out through gritted teeth and wincing in pain.

“Daddy,” the pair heard from a distance.

“I’m hurt.”

“Wait here, boy,” Marvin commanded sharply.

Uncle Marvin moved quickly to his son’s voice.

“I been shot in the shoulder,” Timmy screamed out as he held his wounded shoulder. Uncle Marvin concluded that a buckshot came from Jerry’s poor attempt at killing the boar.

Uncle Marvin pulled his son’s hand away from the injury and recognized it as a fairly minor flesh wound.

“You’ll be okay, son. Let’s get Jerry back to the house. He wasn’t as lucky as you.”

Using Timmy’s uninjured shoulder and his uncle’s powerful arms, Jerry hobbled along as the three struggled back to the old farmhouse.

“Call Aunt Pearl,” Marvin barked to his wife as he and the two bloody youth stumbled into the house.

A phone call and ten minutes later Aunt Pearl rushed into the house. Among dozens of other skills, Pearl is known for her homespun medical care—country-ways, as she describes her abilities.

Recognizing that Jerry’s wound was considerably more serious than Timmy’s, Aunt Pearl addressed that injury first. Jerry’s open wound which, despite Uncle Marvin’s shirt, was flowing blood alarmingly fast. After meticulously cleaning the wound, Aunt Pearl rigged a makeshift tourniquet to stem the blood flow. “That’ll do till you can get to a doctor,” she declared.

Carefully examining Timmy’s wounds, the country-wise old woman confirmed her nephew’s initial diagnosis.

“Get both these boys over to the doctor in Swansea,” Pearl ordered.

By-passing a room full of patients in the doctor’s waiting room, the nurse ushered the men into an examining room and within minutes the doctor began attending the wounds.

“Yup. That looks like Pearl’s work, alright,” the doctor commented as he studied her tourniquet. “She could’a been a doctor, you know?”

“Yup, we do,” said Uncle Marvin for all of us.

Once Timmy had been patched up and Jerry’s gaping wound closed with thirty stitches, the three returned home. Seeing an overflowing table of fried chicken, potato salad, green beans, and fresh tomatoes, Jerry, who was just beginning to feel the deadening effect of the narcotics prescribed by the doctor, was less aware of the pain in his thigh and more aware of hunger pangs. All three men were ravenous by now.

After dinner Timmy took Jerry to his room and the pair were quickly absorbed in a video game. Uncle Marvin knocked gently on the door and slowly opened it.

“You ain’t much of a country boy, are you?” Uncle Marvin asked Jerry.

“No sir, I reckon I’m not.”

“In fact, you ain’t got any country in you.”

“I reckon not.”

“Well, that don’t matter one tiny, little bit, son. What matters is for you to find out exactly what kind of boy you are. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, sir. I guess I’m still tryin’ to figure that out.”

“Well, it’ll come to you, boy. Just don’t give up on it. You got gifts we don’t know about. You’ll find ‘em soon enough.”

“Yes, sir,” Jerry whispered aware of the tears forming in his eyes. He didn’t want Uncle Marvin and especially Timmy to see him cry.

Jerry spent the night with the Trammels that night and was grateful that the plan set days ago meant he didn’t have to go home and explain the disastrous afternoon to his parents.

As he lay in the twin bed next to his blissfully sleeping cousin, Jerry mulled over what his uncle had said. He felt useless and worthless. Burying his head into the pillow, Jerry cried softly.

After a generous country breakfast that Jerry barely picked over, he said his goodbyes and headed home, practicing what he’d tell his parents. Maybe they’d be sympathetic. Well, maybe one will be, reasoned Jerry. My dad will just fuss at me and tell me how disappointed he is and why can’t I be a regular boy like all the rest. And on and on and on. Jerry determined to save his tears for his pillow.

Stepping off the Trammell’s porch, though, Jerry inexplicably turned to the right. He knew his house was less than a mile away, but its path was to the left. With that unexpected turn to the right, Jerry spied Aunt Pearl’s old barn of a house. Timidly Jerry rapped on her front door. There was no answer. He headed around to the back of the house and found Aunt Pearl furiously harvesting the last of the season’s string beans from her prodigious garden.

“Well, hey there, Jerry. How’s that leg of yours?”

“Okay. It’s real sore today, but I’m still takin’ those pills. They help a lot. The doctor said you did a great job on it. He says you coulda been a doctor yourself.”

“Oh, hush that! I ain’t got the brains for all that stuff doctors have to know about. I just know about country ways.”

“Well, your country ways worked for me yesterday. Thank you.”

“I wanna ask you something, Aunt Pearl,” Jerry said seriously.

“Shoot.”

Jerry told Aunt Pearl about the conversation with Uncle Marvin.

“Well, he’s right, you know, you got talents. You just gotta find ‘em. You don’t have to be a country boy; you just gotta be yourself, boy. Even if folks don’t always understand.”

Jerry mulled on that his whole walk home. I do like music, he thought. But I’m not that good at it. There’s a bunch of kids in my school who play the piano better than me, he admitted quietly. Maybe I’ll never figure out my place.

Jerry kicked a pebble along the path as he stewed in his funk. When he could spot his house, he realized he had to explain to them what happened yesterday. I’ll start with mom and go from there, he concluded to himself.

“Well, I’m just glad you’re okay and that Aunt Pearl was there to patch you up, well, her and the doctor. Let’s not tell your dad about this. Just wear your long pants and don’t say anything.”

“Okay.”

It was easy. Jerry’s dad wasn’t interested in his son enough to even notice his limp or the bulge caused by the large bandage.

************

Weeks later when Mrs. Duncan got sick with the flu, the church’s pastor asked Jerry to substitute for her that Sunday for church services.

“Okay, I’ll do my best,” Jerry muttered.

“You’ll do fine. I’ll pick easy hymns.”

That following Sunday Jerry, who’d actually practiced for the service, blundered through all the hymns. The adults tried to sing along to the halting accompaniment, the youth giggled. Jerry was humiliated and sneaked out the church’s back door even before the benediction was pronounced.

Mrs. Duncan, hearing of Jerry’s halting performance, looked squarely at Jerry at their next lesson.

“I’m not a good teacher for you, Jerry. It was my fault you did poorly. I let you down, son. And I know it. So, I did some searching and found you somebody else. There’s a new music teacher over at Pelion High, Mr. David Drummond. He’s a hotshot from Carolina; a real talented musician. He said he’d work with you.”

“My folks won’t pay for expensive piano lessons, I know that for sure.”

“Well, guess what, me and your Aunt Pearl been talking. She’s gonna pay for your lessons, and she’ll drive you over to Pelion, starting this Wednesday evening.”

Drummond proved to be a tough and demanding teacher. When Jerry wanted to quit, Drummond convinced him to give it a couple more months.

“I’m tough on you for a couple of reason,” Drummond explained. “First of all, you’ve got some pretty bad or nonexistent technique; but secondly, because I think there’s something there. I think somewhere inside you is some real talent.””

“I don’t feel talented,” Jerry responded hanging his head.

“People don’t feel talented; either they are or they’re not. Feelings are deceptive; some of the most talented people I’ve worked with feel they are lacking the skills necessary to be a good musician, despite their being quite good. On the other hand, the cockiest students I’ve ever taught didn’t have enough talent to fill a thimble.”

“Do you think I’m good enough to be one of those good musicians?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’ve got a long way to go. Now back to Clementi.”

And with that challenge and Drummond’s encouragement Jerry began to slowly improve.

Within two months Jerry had gone from halting, error-filled piano playing to Mozart and Scarlatti, music Jerry adored. In time several of the Bach Two-Part Inventions eased into Jerry’s repertoire.

Mid-lesson as Jerry played one of those sublime Mozart sonatas, Mr. Drummond stopped and demanded Jerry sing the melody. “You’re playing notes, not making music,” he insists. “Sing it,” he demanded bruskly.

Jerry muttered the tune.

“No! Sing it—like you’re an opera singer. Belt it out with feeling. Imagine your most powerful emotion and use that.”

Jerry remembered the awful boar attack and took a lung full of air and bellowed the tune.

There was silence.

“You told me to belt it out, so I did. I’m sorry. I’ll try again.”

Drummond stared at the youth, interlaced his fingers, took a full breath and slowly exhaled before saying, “Well, it’s not what I was expecting, for sure. But this I do know: You’re studying the wrong instrument. You, young man, are a singer.”

Jerry was stunned.

“I am?”

“Yes. But understand, you need to keep taking piano lessons. You’ll need that fundamental background, but your future’s in your voice, I assure you. I need you to meet someone.”

The next week Aunt Pearl, after hearing from Mr. Drummond, drove her great-nephew to a large old house on Calhoun Street in Columbia.

Jerry and Aunt Pearl cautiously climbed the stairs of Dorothy Manion’s expansive home and knocked tentatively.

“Well, come in, come in,” called the aging 88-year-old opera coach from her studio.

“Well, young man, you certainly have a big voice,” Manion began with a slight chuckle, after Jerry had sung a couple of hymns. “Now, let’s see if we can make it a beautiful voice, too. It is my professional opinion with good solid coaching and a lot of work—and I mean a lot of work—you can have a very fine voice. But with that kind of power, who knows what can happen.”

***********

“Fifteen minutes to curtain, Mr. Duvall.”

“Fifteen minutes. Thank you,” Jerry called back to the stage manager.

Jerry stood and looked long into the full-length mirror of his dressing room. He studied the image of himself in that cowboy costume tailor-made for him, popped the big, white hat on, and said to himself, “Opening night of Oklahoma and look who’s Curly,” Jerry said to himself.

“A note for you, Mr. Duvall,” someone called as a note slid under his dressing room door.

Dear Jerry,

I guess it’s safe to say that the boy from Sweet Rock found out who he is and what he’s good at. Too bad your daddy and mama didn’t live long enough to see you up there on stage. None of us around here knows much about all that music stuff, but like your Uncle Marvin says, now we know how Jerry must have felt around us for all those years. I love you and am so proud of you.

Love,

Aunt Pearl

Onions Always Make Me Cry

2032

“Hey, Carlos, get those onions chopped up. We’ll need a bunch for tonight. It’s Friday, and you know what that means,” I shouted to the prep chef over the din of kitchen noise already building by midafternoon.

“Right, chief,” Carlos answered as he slung a five-pound bag of onions onto the prep table. “I’ll have you a bunch in less than five minutes.”

“I’ll help you,” I volunteered hesitantly. I hate dicing onions.

“Not necessary. I know they make you cry like a little baby,” Carlos teased.

“Not like a baby, exactly, but yeah. Thanks, Carlos.”

Carlos is easily the hardest worker in the restaurant, seldom missing a day of work and never showing up hungover or high. He’s one of the few who can lay claim to that accomplishment.

By the time Carlos presented me with a mound of perfectly diced onions for my signature risotto, I had already dropped a generous dollop of butter into the hot pan. The foamy melted butter would become the luscious base of our risotto. The onions immediately sizzled delightfully as they were dumped into the hot butter, a sound more beautiful to me than music. And the fragrance was heavenly. But on the other hand,as soon as the onion’s pungent aroma drifted to my eyes the tears started flowing..

Wiping tears and stirring constantly and evenly, I slowly added mushrooms, then diced garlic, and when the garlic yielded its sweet aroma, I knew it was time to pour the Arborio rice into the sizzling delicacy. Once the rice started to turn a delicate shade of golden brown, the broth could be added, but only small amounts at a time. Patience is the main ingredient in my risotto.

As I tended our signature side dish, the best risotto this side of Italy, my fellow chefs were caught up in preparing salmon, trout, pappardelle alla cacciatora, and our second most popular menu item, Bella Ciao (Bolognese, to most of our American clientele). Bella Ciao, with its delicious ragu served over our own handmade tagliatelle is second only to my risotto in both popularity and taste. Okay, maybe not, but I feel that way. I am a proud chef.

I added white wine to the developing risotto as our dessert chef was fussing over the tiramisu.

Finally, I slowly added the heavy cream and settled into the slow stirring process allowing the dish to become creamy and smooth. The whole process takes almost an hour, and it’s worth every second I put into that delectable side dish. Once it was finished, I could join the team in food preparation for the evening.

As the dining area was beginning to fill up, Rico, the restaurant’s owner, pushed the swinging door and strode quickly into the kitchen. Rico, short for Frederico, spends most of his time in the dining area mingling with customers, receiving their praise, and spreading his oversized Italian persona at every table, entertaining the guest with an overly dramatic European flair. Dining at Che Meraviglioso is by reservation only, and those are often difficult to get, but the lucky ones who get seated will, sooner or later, be greeted by the stout, gregarious, colorful Rico during their meal. But when Rico comes into the kitchen, he shifts abruptly from performer to boss even before the kitchen door swings open.

“Mateo,” Rico called in his thick Italian accent as he neared my workstation, “you gonna have to ease up on the onions and garlic in your risotto,”

“I won’t. I can’t,” I cried pretentiously, almost operatically.

“But you must. We got another jump in prices on the onions. Up to $105 for the 50-pound crate; garlic is getting impossible to find. Those damn tariffs are killing us. Importing our garlic from China is not even a consideration. Plus, the wildfires have destroyed the garlic farms in California. We’re hurting, Mateo. You gonna have to do your part if we’re gonna keep turning a profit.”

I realized he was right. The fact that my risotto has 25% fewer onions, and garlic seems a small enough price to pay.

“Okay, Rico. I’ll figure it out. Starting tomorrow.”

“Grazie, mio amico.”

Since it’s often well past midnight before everything is cleaned and put away, Rico and I devised a rotation system for closing. Tonight was my night. Confident the job had been done and all the workers were gone, I checked that the front door was securely locked, walked quickly through the dining room, through the kitchen area, and headed for the back door. As I passed the bar, I noticed that our liquor license was scheduled to expire next month. I made a mental note to remind Rico. I may be a damn good chef, and I am, but I know fully well that it’s the bar that yields the lion’s share of our profits. Without a liquor license, we’d be headed for financial ruin.

I gave the heavy rear door a solid slam and checked to make sure it was locked. As I turned to my Mustang sitting alone in the workers’ parking lot, I saw the lone figure leaning against a streetlamp.

Oh, shit, I thought. I’m gonna get mugged. Well, this guy doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. I slid my hand into the pocket of my overcoat and found my Glock 43.

Clutching the weapon, I slowly approached the car, waiting for my assailant’s move, but the figure just stood there. He’s waiting for me to get closer, I thought. As I took each step closer, I started to pull the weapon from my coat pocket. The man began moving slowly toward me. I raised the pistol and pointed it directly at the man.

“Mateo!” the assailant called loudly. “Don’t shoot me. It’s me, Nicholás.”

As soon as I recognized the voice, I lowered the pistol.

“Nicholás? What? Why are you here? What do you want?”

“Necesito hablar contigo, mi amigo.”

“Nicholás, you know my Spanish sucks. It’s worse than my Italian, which is terrible. I can only fake a few phrases.”

“Poorly, at that,” Nicholás said through a slight chuckle. “What I said was that I need to talk to you.”

“I figured you’d been deported.”

“No. You see, mi amigo, I knew they were coming. All of us did. We watched on television every night as hundreds of immigrants were rounded up. We all heard how awful they were being treated. We saw reports of the terrible conditions on the buses and trains being used to ship them to airports to be flown to places we’ve never heard of. There are rumors of immigrants being sent to GITMO. And most of the time, once they’re locked away in some foreign country, the detainees are forgotten. They’re being deprived of basic human rights. I’d consider going back to my own country if I were from Mexico or Panama, but Venezuela, I can’t go back. I would be a dead man walking. I knew the NDA would come for me eventually, so I went to Father Hermanez at St. John Church. He let me hide in the church’s bell tower. I spent weeks there. Father Hermanez brought me food and water. He even brought me tequila and cigarettes, can you imagine? He’s a saint, he is,” Nicholás said as he crossed himself mechanically, a slight gesture to the religion of his youth. “You heard what happened, right?”

“No, go on.”

“They, the NDA, suspected Father Hermanez was harboring an illegal alien, as they like to call us, and arrested him. He’s in jail now because of me. Then, they searched the whole church including the bell tower, but they didn’t know about that little platform at the top; it’s there so that the bell people can maintain those campañas grandes. And that’s where I hid. When they came into the bell tower, I could see those assault rifles. They had on riot gear and wore masks. It was scary as hell, I tell you that. I wedged myself between the biggest bell and the back wall and stayed very still and quiet. After they tore the place apart looking for me, they gave up and left. I was so scared, man.”

“I’m sure you were. Glad you didn’t get caught.”

The National Deportation Agency (NDA) was formed two years ago and now aggressively pursues anyone suspected of being an undocumented immigrant and all those who are suspected of harboring them. They roam the streets snatching up anybody they think might be illegal. Simply having dark skin is enough for them. Tattoos can be enough to convict; accents are proof enough for these power-hungry thugs.

“And with Father Hermanez in jail,” I surmised, “you got hungry.”

“That, and I started missing the tequila, and my nicotine withdrawal is killing me.”

I gave him a cigarette, and Nicholás replied, “Gracias, mi amigo.”

“You’re welcome, mi amigo.”

“I didn’t know where to turn,” he said after a very long couple of draws.

“So you came to me.”

“Si, si. Asi es.”

“If I get you food and stuff, can you still use the old bell tower?”

“Not safe. Not safe for me and not good for the priests who are still at the cathedral. I’m desperate. Can you help?”

“Well…”

“I don’t expect you to put me up at your place, or anything. But I was thinking about the back room at the restaurant. You know the one.”

Of course, I did. Tucked away in the back corner of the restaurant nestled between the large walk-in freezer and the rear wall was a compact little room with a toilet, sink, and tiny refrigerator. Legend has it that a previous owner created the space for his dalliances with his mistresses. Whether or not that’s true depends on who you ask. Rico flatly denies the legend; others swear by it.

“I guess that’ll be okay for a while, but you’re going to have to figure out what you’re going to do long term.”

“I got a friend in Oaxaca who’d be willing to take me in. I’m having a problem getting in contact with him. Give me a couple of weeks to reach him.”

“Okay. But two weeks. And don’t be seen… by anyone, at any time.”

“Si, si. I’m used to that.”

“At least food won’t be a problem. I’ll make sure to leave you plenty. But you can’t raid the bar.”

“Si, bueno. I promise.”

We both knew the promise was certain to be broken.

“Keep the door locked, wedge a chair against the door, and don’t talk to anyone while the restaurant is open. We’ll figure something out tomorrow. You can have the run of the place from sunrise till around 10 in the morning. That’s when the cooks come in. You’ll be safe getting out of the room early in the morning. There’s food in the kitchen, of course; just stay away from the booze.”

“Si, si. Ningún problema. Hasta mañana, mi amigo.”

“Just be careful. Now I’m involved, and so is the restaurant. I don’t want to become Father Hermanez’s cellmate. Oh, and don’t add water to the booze to make it look like you didn’t sneak a hit, which I know you will. Just don’t overdo it, okay?”

“You’re a good man, Mateo.”

********

Two years ago Nicholás and I had become close working side by side in the kitchen at Villa Delarosa, a restaurant known for fine Italian food, charming ambiance, and a horrendously toxic kitchen. Every evening was a living hell with the head chef’s pan-throwing tantrums. His demeanor was vicious, his language foul and abusive, and his style dictatorial. When he demanded I stop crying while chopping onions, Nicholás intervened, volunteering to chop onions. The head chef grunted contemptuously, but agreed. When the chef fired me because of some trumped up allegations of drug dealing in the parking lot of the restaurant, Nicholás resigned in protest. Four days later, Frederico Martinez, having heard we were no longer employed, quickly snatched both of us up to complete the kitchen staff at his award-winning restaurant, Che Meraviglioso. When Nicholás vanished a few months ago, I feared he had been deported to Venezuela. I knew my friend would not have left without telling me.

As I headed to my own apartment, I was stung with an odd feeling of guilt—not from harboring an immigrant, a felony. I was proud to be able to help Nicholás. I felt an odd kind of guilt and fear. Guilt because I was born in the U.S. after my parents had immigrated from Italy. I am a U.S. citizen with white skin. I didn’t have to fear deportation and the draconian NDA officers, but I was fearful because now I was complicit, an accomplice to a felon.

************

“Mateo, what the hell is going on?” Rico demanded loudly as he stormed toward my workstation the next afternoon.

“What? I cut down on the onions and garlic just like you asked me to. It won’t be the same, but I get it.”

“No. Not that. I heard some noises in that unused little room. Sounded like footsteps.”

“Uh, I don’t know,” I lied badly.

“And the door is wedged… from the inside. I know, because that’s where I go to grab a smoke. I went this morning and found the door wedged shut. That means somebody’s in there, and they weren’t there when I left last night.”

“Oh, so you’re the one who's been smoking in there,” I said slightly accusatively.

“Si. But that doesn’t matter. I own the place. Now, the way I figure there are only a few people who left after me yesterday: the cleaning crew and you,” Rico declared.

“Then ask the cleaning crew.”

“I did. You know what they told me?” Rico asked pointedly.

“Buenas noches?” I shot back attempting humor.

“No. They said there was some guy lurking around your car last night when they left. Know anything about that?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” I lied poorly.

“So there was no man in the parking lot?” Rico asked.

“No. Not a soul but me.”

“Funny. That’s not what the CCTV video shows. It shows you and a man in the parking lot around 1 am.”

“It was Nicholás,” I confessed, knowing Rico had me cornered.

“Nicholás? Our Nicholás? I thought he was deported.”

“Me, too.”

“So he’s in the room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Shit.”

“It’s only for a couple of days. He’s got somebody in Mexico… Oaxaca, if I remember correctly.”

“Man, if we get caught…”

“I know, I know. But it’s Nicholás. Our Nicholás.”

“Best line cook I’ve ever known,” Rico reflected while looking down. “And that cabinet work he did for the bar? Maravilloso. I never even knew carpentry was his hobby.”

“And he was great at both, I added.

“Let’s just be real careful. He goes as soon as he can, sooner if possible.”

“Agreed,” I chimed.

*************

“So, it’s five to four,” the Chief Justice began. “We’ll grant cert to Freedom from Religion Foundation v. State of Idaho. I’m setting opening arguments for two months from this Tuesday. Finally, I’d like to officially welcome Justice Elizabeth Comstock to the group. As you know, she comes to us from the Seventh District. I know we’ll all miss Justice Terrance Timmons. His death was quite a shock, but we’re so glad the President was able to provide his replacement so quickly. Things are much cleaner and quicker since Congress amended the Constitution to remove the Appointments Clause of Article II. Judge Timmons’ widow requested memorials go to Christians for a Safe America, so please be generous. In my weekly meeting with the President, he strongly urged us to make substantial contributions. And we like to keep him happy. I’d like to add to that my personal request that you give. And please consider making a contribution to the President’s Re-Election Fund—in Judge Timmons’ memory, of course.”

Three of the justices looked down at the floor but had learned any dissention meant nasty publicity from the president’s vicious and callous press secretary at best, and removal from the bench by the President at worst. And with that the Court moved on discussing other cases.

“Thank you all,” announced the Chief Justice as the meeting came to an end. “I look forward to a lively discussion in the Freedom v. Idaho case, and I know you’ll do your research as thoroughly as always. Christians for a Safe America’s think tank has some good resources. And the White House has graciously provided several helpful amicus curiae briefs. Good day, ladies and gentlemen.”

************

“Did you see this?” Rico said as he walked into the restaurant slamming a newspaper on the counter of the bar the following afternoon.

“No,” all of us said as he showed us an article from the morning paper..

“The Court’s gonna hear the Idaho case.”

“So?” came from several of us.

“So, everything. Do you know the case?”

“Should we?” I asked.

“Yes, you should. The State of Idaho passed a law last year. Liquor can only be sold in government sanctioned liquor stores. Restaurants can no longer sell liquor by the drink in Idaho. It’s a revamping of the old ‘brown-bag’ laws. You guys are too young to remember. South Carolina used to have that god-awful law. Customers had to bring their liquor in with them. Restaurants could only charge for a corkage fee and chasers for the drinks. But this one’s different—no alcohol in restaurants, period. We won’t escape this one.”

“What?” we all chimed in unison.

“In Idaho restaurants,” Rico continued, “there are no brown-bags, no liquor, no nothing. Let me read part of the article to you,” Rico said before plowing ahead. “The Freedom from Religion Foundation, suspicious of the Christians for a Safe America’s involvement in the process, pressed the state to reject the law, but the CSA lobbied heavily for the bill. The bill narrowly passed the Idaho legislature. The governor signed it immediately. The Freedom from Religion Foundation subsequently sued the state arguing that the law violated the separation of church and state doctrine. The Idaho law was based on the National Christian Doctrine, the far-right Christian Nationalists’ manifesto aligning U.S. laws with the Bible. It is yet to be adopted by any legislative body, but the document has had an enormous impact nonetheless. The Idaho Supreme Court ruled that because the authors of the law relied heavily on wording from the National Christian Doctrine, the bill was deemed unconstitutional and struck it down. CSA then appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court.

“This is what I’m talking about,” Rico continued. “South Carolina is leaning heavily toward passing a similar law here. If it passes and the Supreme Court reverses the Idaho Supreme Court, I fear we’ll be in the same pickle. No liquor, and we’re done.”

“What happens if the Court decides to let Idaho keep selling booze?” I asked.

“We’ll be spared, at least for now,” Rico answered with a long sigh.

“But,” he continued slowly and deliberately, “given the makeup of the Court, there’s reason to believe they’ll reverse the lower court.”

“Meaning South Carolina would have the green light to pass the same law here,” concluded Sam, our head waiter.

“Exactly,” Rico exclaimed.

“We know how four of the justices are going to vote—they’ll vote to reverse; we know how three of them will vote—to affirm. Our future, gentlemen, rests in the hands of two men.”

“One of them will do whatever the President tells him to do. Problem is, I don’t know what the President will tell him to do,” Rico continued.

“I bet Bailey’s going to vote to affirm,” I chimed in. “He seems reasonable enough.”

“He’s also under the President’s thumb. Our President can be quite persuasive, you know,” Rico explained.

***********

“I couldn’t help but hear your conversation this afternoon,” Nicholás ventured as I took a plate of lasagna to his little hideaway.

“Nothing’s a secret in this place,” I snorted.

“So, you all have a bit of a dilemma heading your way.”

“Seems that way. If we can’t sell alcohol, we have no choice but to raise our prices substantially.”

“Seems to me that everybody else will as well. I mean, if you can’t sell alcohol, neither can they.”

“Good point, Nicholás.”

“Have you read the law South Carolina is trying to get passed? Well, once the Court reverses the lower court.”

“Of course not. And you have?”

“Yes, I read all of it.”

“You read the whole thing? When, where?”

“I’m stuck here all day. I gotta find ways to amuse myself.”

“You don’t have a computer,” I protested.

“I have a phone.”

“Oh, of course.”

“Anyway, the proposed South Carolina law has a twist: if the law passes, restaurants will be able to sell the alcohol they have when the law is enacted. They just won’t be able to buy anymore.”

“Well, how generous.”

“Don’t you get it?”

“What?”

“Rico needs to stockpile a shit ton of all kinds of alcohol. After the law’s enacted he’ll make a small fortune if he’s the only one with a restaurant that has alcohol.”

“I bet other restaurant owners will figure it out, too. Plus, we don’t have that kind of storage space.”

“Use this room,” Nicholás explained.

“What about you?”

“Hopefully, by that time I’ll be far away basking in the sun on the beach of Puerto Escondito.”

“I thought you were heading down to Oaxaco,” I countered.

“Puerto Escondito is not far from Oaxaco. My friend has a home in Oaxaco and a beach home on Puerto Escondito.”

“So, he’s rich?”

“He’s loaded.”

“Legal?”

“Legal is a flexible term.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll pitch the idea to Rico.”

“Any luck getting in contact with your friend?” I asked.

“No. Thing is he only uses burner phones. Old habit from Venezuela,” Nicholás explained.

“How are you going to get in touch with him?”

“Not sure. I think my sister might be able to help out. I’ve texted her. In the meantime, check with Rico about my idea, okay?”

Rico’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning when I shared Nicholás’ little brainstorm.

“We’ll start tomorrow morning. When can Nicholás give us the room?”

“Soon. Real soon.”

“Well, he’s gonna have to. We gotta make room for cases of booze.”

**********

For the next few weeks, Rico bought alcohol by the truckload. And as he did, the room quickly filled up, allowing just enough room for Nicholás’ small cot which had been moved to a spot near the door. Nicholás, though, saw a problem with that arrangement and rearranged the whole room, moving his cot to the far corner and setting up a narrow path from the door to his cot. He then had me buy a 4x8 sheet of plywood. When I asked why he shrugged and said, “you’ll see. Oh, and I’ll need three or four empty cases.”

“What?”

“Protection,” he said flatly.

“Don’t know how boxes and plywood will help protect you from much, but okay.”

The next day, Nicholás had a 4x8 sheet of plywood and three empty cases.

“So, Nicholás. You’re going to have to bug out soon,” I explained as I handed him the three empty boxes.

“Yup. Guess so,” he responded dolefully.

“So, no word from Oaxaco?”

“Nope. Or Puerto Escondito,” he answered flatly.

“Your sister couldn’t help?” I asked.

“Not yet. She’s still working on it, though.”

“Whacha gonna do?”

“If I can’t get in touch, I’m gonna turn myself in to NDA. They’re gonna get me sooner or later. I don’t want you all to be punished because of me.”

************

The NDA paid us a surprise visit almost a week later.

“Search warrant!” the officer spat out as a team stormed into the restaurant.

“You’re under suspicion of harboring an illegal alien,” the officer snarled.

“Fugitives here?” Rico said in a bitingly condescending tone. “Fugitives at Rico’s?”

The reference to the iconic line from the movie Casablanca went substantially over the heads of the boorish officers, who went to work searching every nook of the restaurant.

“What’s in here?” barked the official as he stood in front of Nicholás’ room/ storage area.

“Booze, and lots of it,” Rico said flatly. “Wanna see?”

“Yes. Now.”

When Nicolás heard the commotion happening outside his little room, he pulled the small sheet of plywood over his cot, carefully slid the empty booze cases on top of the plywood sheet, slid into the cot, and nervously waited. He was tightly wedged between his cot, a sheet of plywood, with the empty cases on top of the plywood.

“Pull out the top row,” ordered the official in charge.

The head officer then climbed up, surveyed the room, saw nothing but rows of cases, and declared, “You got another storeroom?”

“You’re the one with that goddam search warrant. You find it! I’m not doing your work for you,” Rico snapped. “You find it; and when you do, please let me know. As you can see, I can use the space.”

“We’ll be back, asshole.”

“Well, you have a nice day, too.”

Standing in front of the storeroom, Rico and I looked at each other for a moment afraid to say what we both were thinking. Rico knocked gently and called out, “It’s okay, Nicholás, they’re gone for now.”

“Well, we dodged a bullet there, but it’s only temporary,” sighed Rico.

“Somebody squealed,” I muttered.

“Who? If it’s one of my workers, I’ll fire them, then kill them,” Rico said, nearly screaming.

“Rico, we don’t know who ratted us out. It doesn’t matter. The truth is they’re on to us. I don’t think Nicholás is safe here anymore.”

“I’ll turn myself in; you guys don’t deserve this,” Nicholás said, hanging his head.

“I hate to admit it,” whispered Rico. “But I think you may be right. We can’t stop the NDA. They’ll be back; and when they do, they’ll destroy the place looking for you, I’m afraid.”

**************

“Hey, Mateo, guess what?” Rico said a few days later and hours before Nicholás was to turn himself in to the NDA for deportation.

“I have no idea, but from the grin on your face, I’d guess it’s pretty good.”

“That god awful pizza joint at the end of the street is closing.”

“Not a minute too soon,” I said with a smirk. “And to think they call themselves authentic New York-style pizza. Grease-style pizza for sure; New York-style pizza, not so much,” I added.

“Well, guess who just signed a six-month’s lease for the place?” Rico asked with a twinkle and a big grin.

“You?”

“Me. Tonight we’ll sneak Nicholás in there.”

“And we have more space for more booze at that old pizza place.”

“Correct.”

Together, Rico and I went into the storage room to stop Nicholás before he was able to turn himself in.

“Three weeks,” Rico said to Nicholás. “This buys you three weeks to get yourself to your buddy in Oaxaco.”

***********

Soon after Nicholás had settled into the old pizza parlor, I approached Rico with an idea: what if we made the old pizza parlor an extension of the restaurant? We always have a long waiting list. When we’re the only restaurant with booze, we’ll be flooded. With that space we can double the number of patrons and double our profits.

“And best of all,” I continued, “Nicholás can begin working on that project immediately. He needs something constructive to do, and we need the work to be done. What he doesn’t get to do or isn’t able to do we’ll hire contractors to do later,” I explained to Rico.

“Excellent!” Rico exclaimed gleefully. “But you know he can’t stay there forever. He’s gonna have to do something soon. Any word from Mexico?”

“Not to my knowledge,” I admitted.

“Can’t he just leave the country? That’s what they want, right?” Rico pressed.

“Not anymore. Nicholás is now considered a felon. The NDA wants him arrested and jailed.”

“Shit! He can’t win for losing,” Rico exclaimed. “Well, we’ll just have to figure out how to get him across the border.”

“Right,” I said sarcastically. “Like Houdini?”

“I don’t know right now. Give me a couple of days.”

It was three days later that Rico burst into the restaurant.

“I figured out a way to get you into Mexico without NDA knowing,” Rico proclaimed with a twinkle in his eye.

“Really? Do tell,” Nicholás said.

“ Controy.”

“¿Perdóname?”

“Controy’s only sold in Mexico; can’t get it in the U.S. Our famous margaritas require Controy. We’ll make a road trip down to Matamores. That’s our cover,” Rico explained.

“They’ll stop us at the border,” Nicholás explained. “You know that. They’ll spot me for sure. I don’t have papers, and even if I did, I suspect the NDA has all kinds of bulletins out for me. I’ll be arrested on the spot. I’m on the wanted list for resisting deportation. That’s a felony offense. I’ll be sent to a prison at best and one of those awful internment camps at worst. The NDA likes to make examples of immigrants who resist deportation. Minimum sentence is 10 years. I’d like to avoid that,” Nicholás sighed.

“I already thought about that and I think I may be able to help you,” said Rico slyly. “Let’s just say if a person has the required papers, and if that person doesn’t look a lot like you… maybe.”

“Estoy confundido,” responded Nicholás through a puzzled squint.

“Leave the details to me and my very talented cousin and his partner.”

************

Nicholás’ cell phone vibrated shortly after 2 am several days later.

“I found Ernesto,” started Nicholás’ sister, Aquila, in hushed tones.

“Really? How?” Nicholás asked.

“Abuelita, his grandmother. I should have thought of her sooner, but I didn’t know how to find her at first. She stays on the run. But mamita was able to find her. She had gone to Gran Sabana where they couldn’t find her. Abuelita is the only one Ernesto trusts completely. She has his cell number. But you should call quickly; it’s a burner, and he’ll change the number in a few days, for sure. Here’s the number.”

By dawn, Nicholás had contacted Ernesto. It was as if they had never been separated; as if they had talked regularly. The gap of time melted as soon as they greeted each other.

***********

Just as Rico had anticipated, the NDA returned. They mercilessly ransacked our place leaving the restaurant like a tornado had swept through. But, of course, they could not find their target, Nicholás. Rico was detained for questioning.

Among Rico’s true talents is lying, when needed. During the arduous two-hour interrogation as he was being questioned and hounded by NDA officials, he patiently and fervently kept denying knowing anything about Nicholás. When two high-ranking NDA officers entered his room, he sensed it was time. He allowed them the opportunity to intimate, cajole, and play good-cop/bad-cop for a while. Rico artfully denied his knowledge of the fugitive, frustrating the officers. And just as he suspected, they threatened to incarcerate him, charging him with obstruction and impeding an NDA investigation.

Rico feigned distress and worry, nearly tearfully pleading for leniency.

“There’s one way,” barked one of the officers. “Tell us where Nicholás Escobar is.”

“Okay. Okay. Just don’t put me in prison. If I tell you, will you let me go?”

“Talk, and we’ll see.”

“He’s with his cousins in Bayfield, Wisconsin. When I first found out he was illegal, I demanded he leave at once, of course. He begged me not to report him, but I told him I had to. It was the American thing to do. We want to make this a great country, right?”

The official grunted. “So why didn’t you report him then?”

“I thought he was leaving the country. That’s the point—get rid of the trash. I really didn’t care where he went.”

“Then how do you know he’s in the U.S.? Where did you say it was?”

“Bayfield, Wisconsin. I just found out this morning. Overheard the kitchen staff talking about it.”

“Hrump,” grunted the officials.

“Call our office in Bayfield,” barked one of the officials. “Tell them Escobar may be there.”

“Oh, he’s there. I guarantee it,” spouted Rico, realizing he might be overplaying his hand.

“We don’t have an office in Bayfield,” the other officer explained.

“So, since I’ve wrapped up this case for you, you’re going to let me go, no?” Rico asked.

“For now. But make sure your kitchen staff is legal or else.”

“Of course. They all have documented I-9s on file,” Rico continued lying convincingly.

*********

Leaving the NDA office, Rico called his cousin, Emilio.

“It’s showtime. Let’s roll,” he said. “Meet me at the restaurant as soon as possible. Bring the stuff.”

Well past midnight, Rico’s cousin Emilio had transformed Nicolás’ appearance, and Emilio’s partner, Barrett, had snapped several photos of the new Nicholás for the forged documents he would carefully craft before their trip would begin.

With Emilio’s skill as a makeup artist, Nicolás was now Nikki Rodriguez. Barrrett’s computer skills provided convincing documents for the newly minted Nikki. Together, Emilio and Barrett concocted a play of sorts in case it might be needed. Realizing they needed the best actors to pull it off, they enlisted Charlene Crimson and Eduardo McDonald, stars of Emilio’s drag show, to play the two lead roles in the very real and very dangerous little play.

By dawn the following day the restaurant’s panel truck was headed to Matamoros for the precious load of Controy liqueur.

Now convincingly transformed into a strikingly beautiful young woman by Emilio, Nicolás settled into the back of the van. Thanks to Barrett, Nicholás was in possession of several impeccably forged documents—birth certificate, I-9, a California driver’s license, with the name Nikki Rodriguez and a letter from the NDA—a last minute detail added as a bit of a jab at the heavy-handed agency.

The loyal opposition might have been silenced, but they weren’t stopped. Few hated the NDA more than Emilio and Barrett. Emilio, owing to his complexion and heavy accent, had been detained and questioned multiple times by the NDA. It seemed to me that their hostility was justified.

The drive from Charleston, South Carolina, to Atlanta was quiet. We all slept except, of course, Rico. I took over driving once we had gotten through the congested Atlanta area. Rico dozed intermittently as we continued.

“Damn!” I yelled, waking Rico and startling the other two. “Look at that traffic! There must be an accident.”

“Can we get around it?” asked Rico. “I’ll check my phone’s GPS.”

We inched along in that pattern of advancing several feet, then stopping completely, then inching forward a few more feet.

“Can you see anything?” asked Emilio.

“Just a ton of taillights,” I answered unhelpfully.

“And looks like there’s no better alternate way,” admitted Rico after checking the GPS.

We continued in that painfully slow cadence for at least 45 minutes.

Barrett spied the roadblock first. Multiple police cars with blue lights flashing sat along the Georgia-Alabama border.

“I don’t think it’s a wreck,” Nicholás who had inched forward, added cautiously.

“Shit!” cried Barrett. “I just found it online. It’s an NDA checkpoint. Everybody stay calm. You know what to do. We just didn’t expect it here.”

“Consider it practice for when we actually get to the border,” added Rico.

“Assuming we get to the border,” Nicolás whispered.

As they neared the checkpoint, Emilio turned to Nicholás. “Make sure everything’s tucked. If you have to get out of the van—and odds are you will—you don’t want any suspicious bulges.”

“I never dreamed being well-endowed would be a liability,” Nicholás muttered through a forced grin.

“Tuck tight, tape if you have to,” Emilio said. “You only need it to hold until we’re through.”

Fifteen minutes later we were being directed to a spot for inspection. The NDA officials demanded everyone get out. Rico protested, but was immediately countered by a gruff “Get out now!”

Two officials went through the van meticulously while two others inspected our papers.

As Nicholás produced the forged document, I felt my chest tighten. Ala-fuckin-bama, I thought. And we were worried about the Texas border. I hoped everybody would remember their lines and their lies.

“Hmm,” hummed the official menacingly.

He walked to within inches of Nicholás staring coldly at him. Nicholás stood still and silent as the agent walked menacingly around him. As he was making a second circle around Nicholás he stopped behind him. Suddenly and roughly, he yanked the wig from Nicholás’ head.

“Just as I suspected!” the official screamed. “A wig. Strip!” he commanded.

“How dare you!” shrieked an indignant Barrett. “I will not have you or anyone else demand my wife undress! You do realize she’s a survivor of cancer. Don’t you think it’s embarrassing enough to expose her condition? Now you expect her to undress in public? I demand to see your supervisor, now! My wife will not submit to this sexual exploitation!”

“I’ll get a female officer and take her somewhere private,” countered the official.

“What? Take her into custody? I demand a supervisor!” he continued.

Nicholás adroitly snatched the wig back and slapped it back on his head.

“And what right do you have?” Rico added.

“I don’t have to give you any explanation. It’s the law. We’re gonna catch every last one of them scumbags who are hiding foreign trash. You’ll do as I say, or you’ll all be detained, too.”

The official studying the documents walked over grinning menacingly.

“This letter is signed by Beatrice McMillan; it says here that she’s with the NDA. Let’s get to the bottom of this. I’m calling the number.”

The cast slipped into character and waited for the curtain to rise. It was a clever little ruse. Charlene Crimson, Charleston’s flamboyant and famous drag queen, and star of Emilio’s famous Holy City’s Queen of the Night Show, had been enlisted to play the part of Beatrice McMillan. Charlene, with that distinctive smoky, velvety voice, basked in the role with gusty. In her opinion, her acting abilities rivaled those on Broadway.

“Yes, this is Beatrice McMillan with the NDA,” Charlene oozed seductively and smoothly. “What is your name and badge number?”

The officer complied.

“So, she’s legit?” asked the agent after Beatrice attested to Nikki Rodrigues’ legal status.

“She is. And whatever you do, please don’t ask her to take her wig off. She’s just recuperating from chemotherapy and is quite self-conscious about the hair loss. She’s Deputy Director Carson Blake’s cousin. He’s worried as hell about her, with the cancer, and all.”

“Of course! Of course!” the officer spoke defensively.

“And do you have her husband as well?”

“Yes. But why are they here at the Alabama state line in some restaurant’s panel truck?”

“Perhaps you should ask Deputy Director Blake himself.”

“I’m gonna do just that.”

As the banter continued Charlene, posing as the officious Beatrice McMillan, noted the officer’s cell number displayed on her phone.

Seconds after the call ended, the officer came near Nicholás, eying him suspiciously.

“I got a bad feeling about this,” he started. “I’m gonna have our female agent conduct a strip search anyway.”

A stern looking, stout middle-aged woman approached Nicholás.

“Ma’am, I’ll be conducting the strip search.”

“Why strip search my wife?” demanded Barrett.

“Cause we can,” countered the officer.

As the female agent was escorting Nicholás to a nearby NDA van, the officer’s phone rang.

Eduardo, the drag show’s male announcer, had been cast as Deputy Director Blake in Emilo’s little drama.

“Agent Braswell, this is Deputy Director Blake. I just got off the phone with one of our Atlanta agents, Beatrice McMillan. You talked to her earlier, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any problems?”

“No sir. We’re just conducting a strip search to make sure.”

“You’re doin’ what?

“We’re doing a strip search to make sure that she’s a she.”

“She is my wife’s cousin. And I can assure you she’s a she. If one piece of her clothing is removed, I can guarantee you’ll be dismissed immediately.”

“I see. I need to go now,” he stuttered while waving his hands wildly, stopping the strip search just as it was beginning.

“Don’t tell me you already…”

“No, no. It’s just really busy here with the checkpoint, and all.”

“Well, just so you know, I’ll be checking with McMillan. Anything goes wrong, there’ll be an investigation. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let them go,” Eduardo barked.

“But why are they in a restaurant’s panel truck?”

“That’s classified information, and your clearance level, sir, isn’t nearly high enough, and it looks to me like it might be getting even lower, if you get my drift. Now if there are no more of your questions I suggest you let them go.”

“Of course, sir. Thank you.”

********

“Wow, that was tense,” I said as we pulled away from the checkpoint.

“And it changes our plans,” added Rico. “They’ll check and find out there’s no Agent Beatrice McMillan and that Deputy Director Carson Blake did not make that call.”

“But, damn, your actors are good—Hollywood good!” I said to Emilio.

“No. They’re even better,” he replied with a broad smile.

“By the way,” I continued, “was it your idea to make Nicholás bald? I mean, to go to the trouble of shaving his head took a lot of extra work. I’d just use a skull cap and be done with it.”

“Actually, it was Charlene’s idea. She’s detail-oriented and figured that the wig might be pulled off, and she was right. Nobody has instincts as keen as a drag queen! She came up with the whole cancer-survivor bit.”

“So, when the wig came off, Nicholás looked like a cancer survivor,” I added, impressed with the ruse.

“Nikki is bald,” Emilo corrected. “Who’s this Nicholás person you’re referring to?” he added with a quick smile and a raised eyebrow.

As the miles passed by the tension began to subside slightly. We talked; we even laughed, relishing our duplicitous encounter at the Alabama border. We all agreed that Barrett's performance as the dutiful spouse was award worthy.

“So, how was the honeymoon?” teased Rico.

“I can only wish there had been one,” Barrett said as he winked at Nicholás. “He’s one hot looking hunk.”

Nicholás blushed slightly, grinned and said, “I’m not your type.”

“So, what’s the new plan?” I asked, bringing us back to the looming problem.

“We better not use the Bridge of America border crossing as planned,” moaned Rico. “They’ll be looking for us. We’ll need to use another point of entrance. Let’s stop and spend the night outside of Houston and I’ll try to come up with something.”

“We’re sleeping in the van?” I asked.

“’Fraid so. Motels are out of the question,” Emilio explained.

“That’s okay. It’s safer if we stay in the van,” Barrett observed.

It was well after midnight by the time we found a spot to spend the night. Cheap fast food was our safest dining option. As we ate, we kicked around alternate ways to cross over into Mexico. Several options popped up: Stanton Street Bridge, Del Rio International Bridge, even the Hidalgo County Border Crossing. We decided to risk the McAllen-Hidalgo International Bridge. Sleep was fitful, if not nearly impossible.

It was almost sunrise when we were all suddenly jolted by Nicholás.

“I got an idea,” said Nicholás finally. “Well, to tell you the truth, Ernesto had the idea.”

“Wait, what?” Rico blurted. “You talked to Ernesto last night?”

“Yeah. And a couple of days ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” I asked.

“I haven’t had much of a chance to. And I didn’t want to take unnecessary chances. The less you guys know, the better for everybody. Trust me.”

“So, what did he say?” Rico asked.

“Ernesto said to use the Los Ebanos Ferry. It’s only like thirty miles from McAllen. I remember hearing my folks talk about it. It’s a hand-operated ferry—last of its kind. Ernesto tells me that security’s very light there,” Nicholás explained. “And, by the way, it’s called El Chalán by the locals, so call it that, and you’ll sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

**********

Just past noon, we were in a short line to board the El Chalán ferry. An agent glanced at our papers nonchalantly, smiled broadly, and said, “Looks good to me. Enjoy the ride. Everybody does.”

Once the van was secured on the ferry, Nicholás as a female disappeared into the back of the van. As soon as two compact cars had been loaded onto the flat ferry, we jumped out of the van and joined a dozen or so locals in helping the crew members pull the large rope that was used to propel the ferry from the United States into Mexico over the Rio Grande. Minutes later, Nicholás emerged as himself, a strikingly handsome young man. He was at last able to be himself again. He was no longer in the U.S.

The mood on El Chalá was light and joyous. The bitter hostilities over borders seemed to melt away as people mingled, talked, and laughed as they pulled the ferry across the river. The trip, though only five minutes, crosses the winding river at one of the most luscious landscapes of the entire border. Birds flew gently overhead, gracefully and freely flying from one country to another oblivious to the artificial and often hostile borders that humans have inflicted on a land never intended to be bifurcated so harshly and unfairly. Unlike humans, those birds never bothered to alienate each other based simply on which side of the river their mothers had laid their eggs; they held no contempt for each other based on the side of the river from which they’d been hatched. Though the birds sang different songs, they flew together, choosing to accept the variety as it was intended, not as a trigger for distrust and discrimination. The river was for them a source of life, not a barrier, and certainly not a symbol of nationalistic arrogance.

“Okay, now, one more big favor, ” Nicholás began as we pulled away from El Chalán. “Ernesto is sending his jet to the airport in Reynosa. It’s about an hour away. I need you to drive me there. Ernesto will make it worth your while; I can guarantee it.”

“So, I take it you guys are pretty tight?” I asked.

“Mucho. He’s from Venezuela, too. We grew up together.”

Nicholás spied the sleek Embraer Phenom 100 jet as we sat in the Rex A-1 parking lot of the Reynosa Airport. The Brazilian-made jet was beginning its final descent when Nicholás pointed and yelled, “There it is! Beautiful!”

Within minutes the jet came to a stop and three men emerged from the craft, the third, I assumed must be Ernesto.

Nicholás raced to Ernesto and the pair immediately embraced fondly. As we neared the pair, Nicholás introduced us.

“So, Nicholás has told you I’ll make this trip worth your while, si?” Ernesto said.

“It was our honor to help our friend,” Rico responded. “We don’t need a reward.”

“I’ll be in touch. Go back to the U.S. I understand you’ve got some money to make on a few bottles of booze.”

“A few hundred cases,” Rico corrected.

“Bueno! Make money, love life, be kind, and be careful. I’ll be in touch.”

Then turning to the other two men, Ernesto barked “Señores por favor descarguen las cajas. I brought the Controy you came for. My men will help you load the cases into your van. And here’s a down payment for you—consider it a friendly offer. If you don’t accept my offer, you can keep the money. You more than earned it getting my brother, Nicholás, back safely.”

“Nicholás is your brother?” Rico and I both spat out simultaneously.

“Why didn’t you say so?” Rico added.

“He’s not my real brother. We love each other like brothers.”

With that, Ernesto handed us a briefcase.

“It’s $25,000,” Ernesto confessed quietly. “I like to think of it as a little investment—an enticement—a friendly kind of bribe. I’ll be in touch later. Right now, you gentlemen have a very long road trip ahead of you. Vaja con Dios, mi amigos y muchas gracias para toda.”

Six months later, Nicholás sat on the beach of Puerto Escondito, smoking a cigar with his friend, Ernesto. As Nicholas and Ernesto were puffing on expensive cigars, Rico and I said at the bar back in Charleston. The Supreme Court overturned the Idaho case. South Carolina enacted their law almost immediately. Restaurant alcohol was about to end except at Che Meraviglioso where diners could order drinks long after all other Charleston restaurants were dry. We lifted a margarita made from that delicate Controy and toasted Nicholás Escobar.

My cell phone buzzed.

“You can tell from my voice who I am,” the voice started. Of course, I recognized the Nicholás’ rich, baritone voice.

“When you and Rico have sold all that booze at an ungodly markup, Ernesto and I have an idea you won’t want to refuse. He and I are opening a restaurant here in Puerto Escondito. He wants you and Rico to come run the place and cook for the restaurant. Imagine Italian food in Mexico. Brilliant. Let’s just say we hope you’ll enjoy preparing your risotto in beautiful Puerto Escondito. Oh, and for what it’s worth, the answer is contact lenses.”

“Beg your pardon?” I asked, thoroughly confused.

“You know I teased you mercilessly for crying when you chopped onions?”

“And you didn’t shed even a tiny tear, yes, I remember well.”

“And I said ‘Real men don’t cry.’”

“Of course.”

“Well, it’s because I wear contact lenses. The contacts keep the onion fumes from getting in my eyes. It’s the onion’s fumes that make you cry. I used to say that when you can see clearly, when you understand, when you know the truth you cry less, but that’s not true. When you finally see clearly you always cry.”