So. Another miracle. The most miraculous so far. The Beast is behind me! The river is at my back! After plannings and more plannings by El Alacrán and the rest, dodging bands of police and border patrols, I Manuel Flores, shivering with fear and cold, have touched the earth of the United States. This ruedacaca, trying again again, has reached this place at last. Toño. Now he is closer.
I finally stop running, double over and pant pant. My sides are heaving from hobbling so fast. El Alacrán allows me half a moment to recover. My clothes are torn by the yanking claws of the trees. Because of my great fright I remember little of the river crossing except the cry of the man who saved me and my burst for freedom.
I am dripping with the big waters and mud of the Rio Grande. These run down my legs and splop to the ground. I close my eyes to better feel the falling water. The water I have crossed. I have made it! I think in wonder.
Quickly, with my pretend-camera from Cejas, I click a picture. Of my muddy shoes standing firmly upon the soil of this land. I hope that my first tennis shoes, stolen by thugs, somehow got this far. But mostly I pray that Cejas has.
What would Abue and Papi think if they saw me now? In my mind I see the hand of this America opening to me. I feel Toño near near. Through all my trials, this is the one time I allow myself tears.
“¡Muévete, güey!” El Alacrán curses at me to keep going.
We run like the devil from the Border Patrol shouting shouting. Well, El Alacrán runs, I hobble. They know we are here. In spurts we rush. We crouch behind bushes. We rush. We crouch. We rush again. My breath is gone, but I keep going. Through barbed-wire fences. Past a water tank. A shack. Till suddenly lights blink—on, off, on, off—ahead. My heart bangs—on, off, on, off—too when I see the signal. The Border Patrol has caught us!
But no. The rest of the coyote-team is here in a van, bashed around and scraped by many escapes, I believe. I think, This van has seen some things. The team is popping with impatience to get away. I look around for El Alacrán. To say my thanks. For saving me—and for not in an anger-burst killing me. But, like a fistful of smoke, he is gone. Vanished. ¡Púfalas!
At once these strangers whisk me off in the van. Shivering in my wet clothes, I am cramped in the back on a narrow seat, next to other wet and desperate ones. Sometimes they speak of their relief in getting this far. Me, I say nothing. I just breathe breathe.
Soon we stop at a scruffy building, to bathe and put on dry clothing. So we look like normal people, not ones escaped from a river crossing. When we come to a checkpoint, the driver shows papers. Also he shows money. The guy next to me pokes me and winks. “Money is the way to grease everything,” he says.
Then we drive a long ways. To a city. A big one. Buildings erupt from every space of ground. And streets. Like great gray snakes. These snake-streets swarm with cars roaring all over the place. On the outside I set my face to be fierce. On the inside I cringe from this terrible, loud Bigness.
From the front seat somebody shoves envelopes at me and the others.
“Here’s your docs,” he grunts, “and dinero.”
Papers and money to finish my journey. The papers are fake, I know, but the money is real.
I am tired tired. Enough to sleep for days, but I cannot. I am still tight with fear of capture and also with excitement—to be at last in the United States.
Finally, the van slows to a stop.
“Bus station. Everybody out,” the driver barks.
With beautiful clean clothing and beautiful false papers, I limp toward a beautiful bus with a thin-as-a-pin dog painted on each side, a bus bound for Los Angeles, The Angels.
Nobody says adiós. Nobody says “Vaya con Dios.” The van just slinks back where it came from. It is all right. Inside myself I give gracias to even the bad ones, to all those who have helped me arrive to this place. I raise my hand to nobody, and to everybody at once. I do not look back. I step into the bus.
“Hey, kid, want a seat?” somebody asks me, patting the place next to him and staring at my grandfather hair. Suspicious, I keep going.
I find a place alone, by a window, so that I can look out and watch Gringolandia rush by me. My papers, my money and food—from the coyotes, but paid for with Toño’s hard-earned money—I keep on the window side of me so that nobody can just ease close and grab them. Trust nobody. The Beast Rider life. It will not be easy to let go of it. Maybe that is good.
My first bus. It is gray. It is glorious. And—it has a bathroom!
The bus hisses and coughs as we move out into traffic, but it does not jolt and lurch like The Beast. When we make turns it does not lean till you want to scream for fear of leaning right off the tracks. The wheels do not forever shriek. They keep a steady rhythm, a kind of road hum, as we roll on our way.
Looking out, I see myself in the window. Shiny. Like a mirror. I see my wild white hair—and along with it I remember the terrible things.
My plan is to stay awake. To see every mile, every inch that I pass on the way to Toño. But that plan does not happen. I think that almost at once I fall asleep on the deliciously soft seat. I must sleep nearly the whole way—a couple of days, anyway—for the next thing, the bus chuffs to a stop. I have reached The Angels.
In a small fright, I check my pockets. I have not been robbed—yet.
Once I am off, I walk slowly. I breathe carefully. In case I am moving inside of a dream. In case this moment, like a trail of cloud, floats away. Just goes. Though I barely move, my eyes flick everywhere. They search every face. Doubt grabs hold of me and will not let go. What if I got the date wrong? What if I miss him? What if—? What if—? What if—?
All sounds go still. I am no longer breathing. I am looking from some place outside. Caught in this strange silence. The world seems to slow down, to slant, and me with it. I feel suddenly stunned with emotion, stronger than I have ever known. Then, here in this bus station, standing still as stone among the many people pushing, jostling in slow and silent motion, is a person I know in my deep heart, without a signal, without a word, without a photo. Toño.