NOTE: Wrote this fictionalized story in May 2006, as part of Border Tales, a crazy idea I had then about making fun of some news items. It’s all fiction, written just for fun. (PHOTO: U.S. Mexico border area at Big Bend National Park, looking south from the Texas side. Getty Images).
The tall man was wearing a camouflaged uniform, similar to those worn by American soldiers in Iraq. He was carrying what looked like an M16 military issue rifle over his shoulder. Strapped loosely to his belt was a large canteen that kept swinging back and forth as he approached a house not more than five hundred yards from the Mexican border.
“Anybody home?” the man asked as he knocked on the door. “Hola,” he added, using one of the few Spanish words he knew.
“Hoooolaaa,” he yelled this time, hoping that someone would come to the door. “Buenos días,” he added.
Just as he was about to knock again, a middle-aged man opened the door. “May I help you?” the man asked.
“¿Habla inglés?”
“Of course, I do. I said ‘may I help you,’ didn’t I?”
“I’m sorry,” the tall man said. “Just wondered if you had…”
The middle-aged man didn’t let him finish his sentence. “Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m with the National Guard. The President sent us here.”
The middle aged man looked around. He wondered if there were others that had come with the tall man. He also wondered whether he should go back inside his house and get his gun. After thoroughly looking at the tall man, though, he figured he was safe. The visitor did not seem to be a threat.
“You’re a soldier? You don’t look like a soldier to me. Are you sure you’re not a Minuteman?” he asked him.
“No, I’m a soldier,” the tall man replied. “Just wondered if you…”
“Hell no, you’re no soldier! I bet you’re a Minuteman. With all due respect, real soldiers are slim and trim and have no gut – you know? – like the one you have.”
“No, I’m a soldier; I’m just a little out of shape. Don’t do this all the time. Just one weekend a month. It’s hard to stay in shape.”
“Ok, I guess you’re a soldier and I’m sorry for not trusting you at first, but with all those Minuteman stories going around, you never know when one of those nuts is going to knock at your door. What can I do for you, anyway?”
“Just wondered if I could buy some food from you,” the tall man said. “We were sent here in such a hurry that the company commander forgot to alert the cooks.”
“They deployed you without any rations?”
“No, we have C-Rations, but who’s going to eat that crap? Regular soldiers do, of course. They’d eat rocks if they had to.”
“I understand. I wouldn’t eat C-Rats either. I had them once when I was in the Army some twenty years ago. They’re horrible,” the man at the house added. “By the way, to answer your question, yes, I have some food, but it’s not for sale. But I can share some with you when I get it out of the cans.”
“Cans?” the man replied. “I’m sorry,” he added, “I didn’t mean to sound like such an ingrate. It was just a Freudian slip. I’m sorry,” he continued. “And I don’t mean to insult your heritage, but I just didn’t expect food out of a can at a Mexican home. I’m sorry.”
“It’s Ok,” the middle-aged man said. “I understand. Most Mexicans don’t eat canned food. Or TV dinners, for that matter. We have the cans just in case of an emergency.”
The tall man looked relieved. He felt he had screwed up, but, judging by the middle-aged man’s responses, he also felt that he still had a chance to get some decent food to eat at this far away place, somewhere on the border between Mexico and the United States.
“I’ll take canned food if that’s all you have,” the visitor said. “Beggars can’t be choosy.”
“It’s Ok. My wife is getting ready to make some chicken cordon bleu with potatoes au gratin, chilled asparagus and, as usual, she’s probably going to bake pan blanco. We would love to have you join us.”
As he was inviting the visitor for dinner, the man at the house suddenly realized that the tall man was – for all practical purposes – the enemy.
“What am I doing?” he said. “How can I invite you into my house? You’re a soldier trying to stop our brothers and sisters from coming into our country to work. What am I doing?”
“We’re not here to stop anyone,” the visitor said. “It’s just a show of force. That’s what we were told, anyway.”
“Show of force? How many of you are there?” the middle aged man asked.
“Just three of us. Each one of us takes an eight-hour shift, Monday through Friday.”
“What about weekends? Who works weekends?”
“No one, it’s just a show of force. And only during the week.” The tall man felt his chances for sharing dinner with the Mexican family were rapidly diminishing. “We were just told to be here and that’s what we’re doing.”
“Show of force, huh?” The middle-aged man felt relieved. “It’s just smoke and mirrors if you ask me,” he said to himself.
“Ok, you’re invited,” he told the visitor. “Please come in. But, be careful with your rifle. Make sure you lock the safety so it won’t fire by accident.”
“Don’t worry. It doesn’t have any bullets.”
“No bullets?”
“No. There aren’t any available. They’re all being used in Iraq and Afghanistan.”