Fleeing the Past . Christopher LaGrone
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to remember the purpose of the trip. It had been too long since the long-term plan he had devised showed promise. The possibility that it might succeed was surreal and was affecting his concentration. He entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, pulled a can of beer from its plastic six-pack rings, then put the remaining four cans back and closed the door. He tapped the top of the can with his fingernail and moved to look back toward Fabiola. He stared blankly, daydreaming about the future . . . now that his plan might actually work. The television illuminated the darkness in the living room, and he turned off the kitchen light to enhance the ambiance. He liked the movie-theater feel with her. Looking over the couch at the television, he squinted and gritted his teeth slightly as he cracked the top to the can, trying to make as little noise as possible. Foam filled the rim and he quickly slurped the fragrant bubbles before they overflowed. Fabiola’s tiny apartment was cozy in the evening. This was his favorite part of the day, when nothing was required of him.
She didn’t react to him opening another beer; it was only his second since they had been home after work. Lying on the couch, she was too focused on the presidential debate to acknowledge what he was doing. Layne observed her staring at the politicians on the television screen while he continued to strategize; she couldn’t see him watching her. He knew a conversation was overdue, but he wasn’t going to initiate one unless he had no choice—that was, if the dream became reality.
His attention was gradually overtaken by the growing intensity of the standoff between the candidates. They looked prepared and polished. They stood with assertive posture, their hands resting on their podiums. Their suits were striking, tailored to perfection. They were going back and forth about illegal immigration, and they appeared to care sincerely about their differing positions on the issue.
Layne said, “Is it like this in Argentina, where they say they are gonna do all kinds of things and then do the complete opposite when they get elected?” Then he took a sip of his beer.
“Yeah, it’s pretty much the same,” Fabiola answered without turning to look at him.
He enjoyed hearing her speak, her accent entertaining to listen to. “Do you understand everything they’re saying?” Layne asked.
“For the most part. There are some words I don’t know.” Her eyes were still trained on the politicians behind their podiums; she was captivated. Layne decided to let her watch for a moment before trying again for conversation. But he quickly lost patience. He couldn’t listen to any discussion involving illegal immigration without voicing his opinion.
“I wish they would just round up all of the illegals and send them all down there to South America by where you’re from,” Layne stated with a grin, “so that it takes them longer to find their way all the way back up here again.”
Fabiola laughed a little. “That’s never going to happen.”
“Then they should build a wall from San Diego all the way to the Gulf of Mexico that the wetbacks can’t get over, and guard it with turret machine guns,” Layne pressed.
“Yeah, right.” Fabiola was trying to pay attention.
Layne walked over to sit on the couch and Fabiola curled into a fetal position to make room for him. He grabbed her feet and pulled them over his lap, then retrieved a coaster and sat his beer on the cheap coffee table next to her Yerba Mate bulb. He began pulling her socks off her tiny feet. She protested, but he ignored her and began rubbing them while she resumed her attention to the candidates sparring. He enjoyed their warmth.
The candidates looked like puppets, the puppeteer below the stage squaring each hand off against the other. When it was the Texas senator’s turn to respond, he retaliated to a slight from his opponent. The senator looked at his opposition as he began, then faced the audience. “The United States shares a twelve-hundred-mile border with Mexico, and it’s no secret that we have an enormous number of illegals coming into this country every day. Let’s be honest, the federal government has failed to secure our borders. Migrants are risking illegal entry because there’s a magnet attracting them, and that magnet is jobs—plain and simple. I’m being realistic. I don’t believe we can prevent illegals from coming into this country by use of force. I think the only way we can stop them is by removing the magnet that attracts them. If I’m elected President, I will see to it that we penalize employers who knowingly hire illegals, with a $5,000 fine and thirty days in jail for the first offense. And a $50,000 fine and a year in jail for the second offense.”
The audience clapped vigorously, and the Texas senator waited for the applause to fade before he continued. He faced his opponent again and said, “And you lose all credibility in my book because you hired illegals in your home, and you knew about it for six months before you did anything about it. The fact that you stand here and talk like you’re tough on illegal immigration is astounding to me.” The governor of Nevada shook his head and looked at his notes, fighting the urge to defend himself until the moderator called upon him. His accuser looked straight at him and added, “And you wouldn’t have done anything about it if the press hadn’t become aware of it.”
The television flashed and lit up the darkness in the room each time the camera angle changed. Layne withheld his comments until the highlights were over. Nevada’s chief executive smiled and paused for a second before he responded. “To the best of my knowledge, I don’t think I’ve ever hired an illegal in my life. So, I’m anxious to hear about your findings, because I think you’ve received bad information. As governor of Nevada, I have taken the initiative of empowering our state police to enforce immigration laws. When you were governor of Texas you were against building a fence. In fact, you put in place an additional magnet by offering $150,000 in college tuition credits to illegals. If anyone is a hypocrite in regards to illegal immigration . . . it’s you, sir.”
The other half of the audience clapped and cheered.
“It would be nice if they would follow through on fixing this mess,” Layne commented, “but as soon as one of them is in office they will do the complete opposite of what they said they would do.”
Fabiola didn’t respond, so he gripped her big toe with his thumb and forefinger and pulled, resulting in a satisfying hollow pop. Fabiola pulled her foot away.
“No me hagas mal!” she said, slightly angry.
Layne laughed and reached for her feet and pulled them back into his control to examine her light blue toenail polish. While she was trying to listen to the debate, he told her, “I said, ‘no me hagas mal’ to a Mexican guy at work the other day because you say that. He laughed and told some other Mexicans we work with, and they were mimicking me. They said if you want to tell someone ‘don’t hurt me’ you say ‘no hazlo!’”
Layne goaded her on. “What do people in Argentina think about Mexico?”
“We just think they’re uneducated and they listen to stupid music. We never really think about Mexico,” she said.
Layne added, “The problem is that they come over here and have anchor babies and multiply, then they become generational welfare recipients. They should let the women in if they’re forced to take birth control pills while they’re here, and I swear I wouldn’t mind seeing them.”
“Mexicans don’t take birth control; I’ve never met a Mexican girl in my life who is on birth control,” Fabiola said.
“Really?”
“Of course not. They say it’s because they’re Catholic. It’s not Catholic to take birth control, but it’s okay to take people’s tax money that had nothing to do with them being pregnant?” Fabiola said angrily. “It ticks me off because they make it harder for people like me to get a visa. I waited in line, and Mexicans just run across the border whenever they want to.”
“If I make it into the Border Patrol, I’m gonna kick some butt,” Layne spouted. “I’m tired of these cheaters coming here and making themselves at home—waving Mexican flags. They left Mexico because they couldn’t earn a living there, but they’re still proud of it? It makes no sense. And all the lousy construction workers—there’s so many of them that