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Sprinting for a portion of the fence that exists maybe thirty feet to his right-hand side as he faces the fence, Tony finds a good-sized hole that’s been cut through the steel panels by what appears to be a blowtorch.
“Jeez,” Tony whispers to himself while bending at the knees. “Pretty fucking ballsy of the illegals. Where the hell they get a blowtorch?”
But that’s when the word “cartel” comes to mind. Cartel and “human traffickers.”
“Makes sense,” he mumbles. Then, “Oh well, here goes nothing.”
Tony crawls under the fence. Suddenly he’s on the Mexican side of the equation. A few seconds later, Stan joins him.
“Holy shit,” the Polish meathead says. “We did it. We’re in Mexico.”
“Or close to it anyway.”
From out of the distance, Tony and Stan can make out the sounds of people talking and, on occasion, shouting. Not just a few voices, but hundreds of voices. Thousands. It’s a steady murmur of humanity that’s lined up for what seems like miles, just waiting their turn to get through the open door to the land of free stuff, thanks to the vote-harvesting politicians and the legal American taxpayer.
Tony stands. In the near distance, he can make out the partial moon’s reflection on the river. On occasion, a police chopper flies past, its searchlights aimed at the wave of illegals.
“We gotta cross that river and make it to the other side, Stan,” he says. “We can’t just follow the fence line and slip on through. We’ll be stopped in our tracks. We need to blend in with the others. It’s the only way.”
“I hate water, Tony,” Stan says, nervously crossing his arms over his barrel chest. “You know that. When was the last time you seen me go swimming? Even on a real hot day?”
“I don’t know, when?” Tony says.
“Never,” Stan says. “Polish people don’t like to swim. It’s not in our blood.”
“Well, you either cross that river or you try your luck with the border patrol without blending in. It’s up to you.” Now heading for the riverbank. “As for me, I’m crossing the river.”
Coming to the edge of the slow-moving river, Tony senses that it’s shallow, which means there’s no reason for Stan to worry. Stepping into the warm water while still wearing his worn work boots, he turns to his meathead partner.
“Stan,” he says, “it’s shallow, man. You don’t have to worry about swimming.”
“I’m not worried about swimming,” Stan says now taking a couple of tentative steps towards the river. “It’s drowning that bothers me.”
“You can walk across the river, Stan,” Tony says. “Just like Jesus. Or Moses.”
“Last I looked in the mirror, I’m no Jesus or Moses,” Stan says. “But tell you what, I’ll take your word for it, Tony.”
Stan steps into the river and stands beside Tony.
“You want I should hold your hand if something happens, Stan?” Tony says.
“That’s gay, Tony,” Stan says.
“Suit yourself,” Tony says while taking a few more steps forward.
The water becomes deeper, but it’s still shallow, the level not even coming up to the Italian meathead’s knees.
“Step on it, Stan,” he says. “We’re almost halfway there. I can almost smell that twenty-two hundred per month already and free rent.”
“More like forty-four hundred per month since we live together,” Stan says while walking a few more steps, the water sloshing and splashing around his shins, thighs, and even, on occasion, his mid-section.
The color of the water darkens in the moonlight. But this doesn’t seem to bother Tony one bit. He’s even picked up his pace which means Stan has no choice but to pick up his pace to maintain his position right beside his partner.
“Few more steps, Stan, and...”
That’s when Tony and Stan drop into the deep end of the river.