Wetback, by Patrick LeClerc

I pulled my threadbare denim jacket close around me against the chill of the night. Using it to scale the barbed wire-topped fence hadn’t done much for the battered garment’s appearance, but it got me one step closer to prosperity.

The fence was the only real obstacle on our side of the Rio Grande.The guards were less than enthusiastic. They knew our plight and sympathized, but they were government employees and would do their jobs to keep up relations with their neighbor.

When they were being watched.

Many of them smuggled their own families over, and most could be bribed to turn a blind eye to a border jumper by relatives on the other side, where jobs were there for the taking.

I had no wealthy relatives. I hadn’t had a steady job since my discharge. The government couldn’t even keep up the military now. I had only my instincts and training to rely on.That and my determination to make a new life.

I reached the banks of the river. Weak moonlight glinted on the surface.

This was it. Once I was across, I’d be in the land of milk and honey.

And increased security. The guards on their side were serious. They wanted to keep us interlopers out. As though they hadn’t come from Europe and stolen the joint from the Indians in the first place.

Time enough for life’s unfairness later. I crouched in the scrub and watched the far bank for movement.The moon was in its last quarter and clouds slid across the sky.A perfect night for this kind of work. I stripped off my clothes, stuffed them in a plastic trash bag, tied what I hoped was a secure knot and waited for the clouds to give me my chance.

The night’s chill on my naked skin made me want to hurry, but I fought down the impulse. Speed means sound means detection.

As the silvery ribbon of river faded to black, I crept from my hiding place and slid into the water. I stifled a gasp as I felt the river’s chill and lowered myself into the water without a ripple.I swam smoothly, not breaking the surface with my strokes, just with my head. The bag trailed behind on a length of twine, floating on the river.It was far enough from me to be dismissed as trash if anyone saw it.I made a low enough silhouette to pass for a small animal even if the moon did come back out. I’d chosen my crossing point where trees overhung the current, dappling the light on the water.

Damn, it was cold. I tried to remember just how long it took a man to freeze to death.Not long, but that was just the body complaining. I’d had worse. It was cold, but no worse than sleeping on the streets in the rain. And once I got across, I’d have dry clothes to put on.

I climbed up the bank and crawled into the brush, clenching my chattering teeth. So far, so good. I opened my bag and pulled out my clothes. Still dry.Even better. I dressed quietly and shivered for a while before moving on. When you’re cold you move too fast, take too many chances. Better to wait until I felt warmer. I dug in my pocket and put a hard candy in my mouth. Give the body sugar to burn. Not many left, but this was the time to use a little of my store.

After a few minutes my shivering settled down and I felt ready to move. I wiggled my toes inside my battered sneakers to keep the circulation going, wishing vainly for a pair of decent hiking boots. My sneakers were starting to come apart, and the trek through the rocky, bramble-choked desert hadn’t helped. Soon, I’d find work, and then I’d never be footsore again. I’d have a pair of boots for hiking, sneakers for running and even a pair of real leather shoes with a nice shine to wear when I went out on the town. I exulted in the fantasy of owning more than one pair of shoes.

Suddenly a bright light pierced the night off to my left. I dropped to a crouch and froze. A voice in heavily accented English cut through the air.

‘Freeze, Gringo! Border patrol! Stop where you are!’