Endurance or the Coyote's Tale

   Thomas watched his partner, Nacho, try to usher a family out of the old Plymouth Belvedere. First, the mother came from the trunk. Her sweaty, black pasty bangs stuck to the side of her face. She tried to make herself look decent, dragging strands into a long thick ponytail. Thomas looked out to the empty desert as he called,

“Ninos, come on.”

   Two small girls, probably no more than three and five, sheepishly pushed the door behind the driver’s side open. The mother rushed to help her children jump down from the sweating leather seats. Miniature replicas of their mother, both of the girls rubbed their faces, trying to adjust their vision to the brightness of the desert. While Thomas watched the mother cajole and sooth her children, he was reminded of the other reason he did this type of work. It wasn’t a full time job but at twenty-seven years old he relied more and more on trafficking money than that of his job waiting tables. He didn’t need the mother to tell him that many of her hopes and dreams for her children started in Mexico but will come to life in The United States. He could see it in her eyes as she squeezed both of her children.

   Since Thomas spoke only a few words of Spanish, Nacho took charge of all of the negotiations and price setting. There was no need for him to ever suspect that Thomas knew any other language than English. Nacho always thought of his partner as a loyal yet ignorant white boy from San Paderno, California. Wet behind the ears was how Thomas liked to play it, a lesson he learned growing up. He thought of his supposed ignorance now as he rubbed the stub where his pinky finger had once been. He glanced back at Nacho who was round faced and short but strikingly handsome. In his early thirties, Nacho's shoulder length black hair added to his weathered, rugged look. Gazing out at a tall, deeply blood stained looking plateau, the younger coyote listened as Nacho rattled off in Spanish to the emerging family of four.

“Walk that way and in a little over a mile you will be at Nogales… of the USA! You will see it.”

   Thomas kept his eyes on the plateau but listened as the ever-grateful family thanked Nacho. The father clasped hands with the rotund coyote as if he were the Pope himself.

“Thank you so much, sir. Thank you. We will never forget you…”
             Before the man could go any further, Nacho snapped at him with an irritated growl.

“No, asshole! You better forget me! You don’t know us! I don’t exist! Understand?”

   Nacho held tight to the man’s hand while drawing him forward, both men eye to eye. He squeezed the father’s fingers with a firm grip and felt the rough calluses of his client’s palm.  The man was a farmer, this much the coyote knew. A lifetime of toiling in the earth had given the farmer a strong and firm build but Nacho didn’t think the man would fight unless pushed further. Confident that he had struck fear into the father’s heart, the plump coyote began to release. The weary farmer smelt the acrid odor of bourbon on Nacho's breath. He held back his anxiety as best he could but gulped three times in a row, continuing to nod.

“I understand, sir. There is no one. Just us.”

   The father spread his hand toward his nervous wife and two little ones. The girls recognized fear in their father’s voice. It was a tone that scared the oldest daughter to tears. Thomas had since turned to watch the family. He rose off the rock and walked toward the girl. With a lean and almost skinny frame, he appeared taller than his above average height. The last fragments of sunlight glinted off his freshly shaved blonde hair. The mother huddled her little ones closer as she tried to avert the hard stare of his strikingly green eyes. While walking toward her, he studied the mother's rigid body and was happy to see that his smile loosened her grip. Thomas’ ability to comfort was one of his greatest gifts and he was aware of its power. It wasn't the smile that contained strength but the feeling within. 

   Thomas looked at the oldest daughter’s face and saw an innocence he hadn’t seen in years. It was rare that he and Nacho worked with children. Usually they ferried men across the border. Families had been uncommon. Thomas recognized fear in men’s faces before but most often it concerned self-preservation. At this moment, the young girl’s eyes passed from her father to her mother and sister then back to Thomas, never at Nacho. The girl’s worried face reminded him of his sister and the way she looked when her brother found trouble. A different memory flooded his mind as he swore no bad would come to this child or her family.

   A brief flashback, to a time not too distant from the present, screamed at Thomas. He recalled the two brothers and their cousin who wanted to be taken to America. Though they appeared young, they were 18 and 19 years old and society deemed them men. Yet Thomas knew better. He spotted their innocent movements as when they nervously played with their fingers or gazed at Nacho's gun as if it symbolized power and not the truth. The gun was a tool for scarring. It marred the mind, disfiguring one's thoughts and actions so that in time all that could be recognized lay tainted. The scars came in many ways and on that day it would tarnish those who gained from its use. The boys stared up at the coyotes as if the men were idols and not ruthless criminals.                                       In the middle of the day, the coyotes dropped the three boys off. Nacho had been drunk. Again. He couldn’t find the 9mm he kept tucked in his waist, convinced that he left it near where they dropped off the boys. Once they neared the spot, Thomas peered down at the gun, just under Nacho’s rattlesnake skinned boots.                             While the older coyote continued to drink from a pint he had been sipping throughout the day, Thomas couldn’t help but think of the boys. He naively hoped that they would walk in the correct direction. Why Nacho didn’t mind abandoning to death the very people who paid him money to keep them safe was beyond his partners’ understanding. Worse yet though was why it didn’t stop Thomas in his tracks. True, Nacho didn’t try to kill anyone but his lack of assistance and concern made Thomas wonder if perhaps

his old friend would rather see some of their travellers dead than alive. As he pondered this, the young coyote’s curiosity got the best of him as he drove the Plymouth up a plateau. Were Nacho’s directions his way of performing stupid pranks just to scare travellers or were his intentions more sinister? Being some two hundred feet above the ground, Thomas began to wonder as he overlooked the entire valley.                                        Under the sweltering heat of an Arizona sun, he spotted three figures in the dust. He could see the boys moving quickly, arms flailing in the air. Yet what Thomas couldn’t see from that distance was the boys shrieking at each other. Panicked, lost in the desert, desperate to escape the heat and unfamiliarity of the Arizona border, the cousins tore at one another, at their own flesh and blood.    The young coyote imagined them in hysterics and grimaced at the fact that he, inadvertently, really had a hand in the whole event. He couldn’t watch anymore and quickly drove away. That was the last time Thomas saw those boys until their pictures appeared in an Associated Press article.  The photographer was only allowed to display their feet, dusty sandals and sneakers sticking out from under black, plastic sheets.                               Thomas tore himself away from the dreaded memory as he gazed at the five-year-old girl in front of him. He wiped tears from the little girl’s mahogany cheeks. With a worn grin toward the mother, he said goodbye and pointed the family on their way. The father caught an opportunity and scampered off to his daughters. He marched them onto the scalding pavement and toward Nogales.

   Thomas watched the family for a little longer as he knew what awaited him. Just as the younger coyote turned toward his partner, Nacho took another swig from his flask all the while staring at his friend.

“Thomas. Come here.”

   As he walked toward a knelt Nacho, keeping shade under the Belvedere’s shadow, Thomas replayed one thought constantly in his mind.

"Keep it cool. Keep it cool, bro."         He worried about getting Nacho upset. He was ever mindful of the bulge sticking up out of his friend's backside; a 9mm Beretta. The pistol never bothered him because he knew it came with the territory. They weren’t the only coyotes ferrying desperate men across the border. And even fellow coyotes weren’t as dangerous as the other criminals and drug runners who made the border their playpen. Yet, he felt weary when Nacho had possession of both his gun and alcohol. Thomas owned firearms yet left them at home. He had a six-inch switchblade that he purchased in Los Angeles's China-Town a few years back. The knife was always strapped in a sheath on his left ankle, just underneath his pant leg. He heard that poorly made blades were perfect for killing since they often broke inside the victim, making it extremely difficult to dislodge.

   Not wanting to make his partner feel threatened, Thomas knelt next to him in the dirt. Nacho rose, only electing a smile of humor from his fellow coyote.    

“Hey, Thomas. What was that?”

“Nacho. It was over. We took them across. We got our money. That’s it. I don’t want to carry anything over…”

“When I’m talking you don’t interrupt me, pendejo! Who do you think runs things, man? You? Fuck, cabron, you don’t even speak Spanish!!!”

   Nacho laughed as he spat an inch from Thomas's foot. Thomas studied his friend's face before asking,                                  

“What’s up, Nacho?”

   The middle-aged man tilted his head to the side, surprised that Thomas even asked such a question. Silence reigned in the desert as both men glared at one another. Just as Thomas thought it might become violent, Nacho whispered in Spanish.

“You don’t know what I know. You don’t know what I know, white boy.”

   Although Thomas wanted to respond triumphantly in Spanish, he quickly eliminated the idea from his mind.

“I don’t understand you, Nacho. You know man, unless you’re gonna tell me what’s up, I’m done. I’ll just take you home.”

   Nacho strutted to the passenger side of the car, collapsed onto the seat, all the while still whispering the same words. Thomas gazed at the family, nearly out of sight by now. He thought about what his partner had told them about the distance. He knew his friend lied.

   Nogales was about four miles away, a good hour and a half or two hours distant by foot. With no water or very little, a person became a perfect victim in the empty desert. The family of four would not be the first ones to perish in the loneliness of the crimson landscape.

   Apparitions of yesteryear's deeds came alive in the desert. Thomas didn't see their bodies but recalled them through Arizona's hot sun, erect cacti and the wind, which blew ever so softly against a red thistle. He refused to possess any new memories. 

   Thomas turned the ignition. Sitting in the driver's seat in the evening Arizona sun, he looked out on the flat and empty landscape. He imagined that if God did exist, every morning upon waking he would sweep lands of the world clean with one giant pass of the hand. Who would be swept up in that movement, Thomas wondered?             -Well, if I am, at least I'll know that I tried. Never again.

   He pressed hard on the gas as he gunned it off the dirt and onto the highway. Nacho kept silent. With his leather wrapped flask in his lap, he kept his eyes straight ahead. Before nearing the family, Thomas grinned.  The car slowed down, pulling right beside the family. The farmer pushed his wife and daughters behind him. Alone, he faced the Plymouth. His eyes darted back and forth while the creases drew tight around his face. Thomas saw the apprehension in the farmer’s eyes as he called out to the family.

“Viejo! Nogales, es quatro millas de aca, no es uno. Quatro millas e esto es tu aqua tambien. Que te vaya bien!”

   Thomas handed the father a gallon of water. The farmer appeared confused but the young coyote was confident they would be fine. He didn’t even bother to look at Nacho. As the Plymouth crawled onto the highway, he felt this latest action might cause the end of their relationship. Yet Thomas had enough. He kept his eyes on the road until Nacho exploded, punching the dashboard as hard as he could.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Thomas? You speak Spanish, now? That was no guero talking back there! You made me look like an idiot! You've contradicted my words! For how long, too? And that was my fucking water, not theirs!”

   Thomas glanced at Nacho, checking to see if he had finished screaming. Feeling amused but also angered by his friend's ranting, Thomas reminded himself that the argument involved a family’s life.

“Nacho, you purposely told those people the wrong directions. You wanna fuck with people, do it on your own time! I’m no fucking saint but I ain’t gonna purposely assist in a family’s death! You know man, what the fuck happened to you?”

  Nacho swung his head from side to side like a lonely town sign blowing in a gusty wind. After a few seconds, Thomas noticed that his friend continued to swing his head and with increasing speed. With a sudden snap of the neck, Nacho brought his forehead straight down onto the dashboard. There was a loud smacking noise, as the sound of skull reached dense plastic. Before Thomas could say a word, a splatter of blood had nicked his mouth and cheek. Out of instinct, he both reared in his seat and licked his lip. He instantly thought he tasted liquid iron, forbidden but recognizable.                                               

"Nacho, what the hell are you…"               Though he tried to finish his words, he froze mid-sentence as Nacho slammed his head for a second, then third, fourth and finally fifth time. Thomas reached across to try and hold his friend from hurting himself further. Nacho broke free from his grip, turned to face him.                "You can't touch me, Tom! I call the shots not you!"            

   Thomas wanted to look at him yet he felt fear. Any type of interaction could be perceived as hostile, he thought. Without knowing it, Thomas increased his speed, nearing seventy miles per hour. He had anxiously pressed hard on the gas pedal but eased off just as he noticed Nacho sit back in his seat. The coyote's forehead bled like a spring because of the thinness of the skin and rich blood supply. As the steady stream ran down the bridge of his nose in a single filed line, beads of blood collected in flowing order.

"Nacho, you got a handkerchief or something? Here, I got one in my pocket. You can have…"        

   The handkerchief hung in the air for only a millisecond before Nacho snatched it up.  He took the cloth and folded it over many times until he tied it, making a headband.

"So, how long have you been doing deals behind my back, Thomas?"         Nacho's sudden question left Thomas buzzing. He was struggling to make sense of the question when he finally responded.

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about. You know that you have all the connections, not me. I couldn't take people across even if I wanted to right now, Nacho. Just because I speak Spanish doesn't mean I'm running shit!"

   Thomas glanced over at his partner before nearly swerving them off the road. He re-gripped the steering wheel as he called out in the most calming voice,

"Why is your gun out, Nacho?"          Nacho held his 9mm Beretta, switching off the safety.

"Wait a minute, buddy! Why are you taking off the safety switch? Can you place that back on, bro?"

"I know you're lying, Thomas. I can always tell because you start acting like a little bitch."          

   Thomas kept his eyes on the road and noticed that his speed neared eighty miles per hour. The engine roared as they approached the outskirts of Nogales. Outside, the sky drew close to pitch black. Thomas's mind flashed to Flagstaff. He needed to get to someone in that city. Most important, though, he needed to get there alive. An image of a woman with dark brown hair came to mind.

-Four more hours. Just four more.          He turned to Nacho and found his eyes locked in on him.

"You know what the real problem is, Tom? There are too many chiefs and not enough Indians. You wanna be a chief, huh, Tom? You wanna wear a big hat or maybe a fucking headdress? I'll stick a few feathers on it."      

   He listened as Nacho’s voice became tenser. They sped closer to Nogales. Thomas hoped that his old partner wouldn’t do anything dangerous in a city. They passed a sign when Nacho chimed in anger,

"Pull in at that rest stop. The one that's half a mile ahead."

"Why? I thought you wanted a motel in Nogales."

"I gotta take a leak."

"We can take all the leaks we want once we get to the city."

"Pull …Over!"                          Thomas flinched as Nacho yelled in his ear. The angry coyote leveled the gun, bringing it toward the younger man’s chest. Driving with one hand on the wheel, Thomas decided now was the time. He looked down at the speedometer and read 84 MPH. With a quick, strong slam of his foot on the brake pedal, he reached out with his right hand to grab the gun. He controlled the wheel with his left. Nacho's body flew forward, smashing against the dashboard. Blood splattered against the windshield. He held onto the gun yet his hand went skyward. Thomas grasped for it with one hand while clasping onto Nacho's wrist. The hanker-chef flew off Nacho's head, allowing the wound to pour more blood like a smashed toilet.                     The Plymouth swayed from one side of the highway and then screeched to the middle lane. Braking tires sent an odor of burnt rubber into the air as Thomas felt he might lose control of the car. Nacho suddenly cracked him straight across the nose with an elbow. Thomas's eyes watered and blood dripped from his face as he refused to let go of Nacho's wrist. Neither man spoke but grunted and heaved, each striving to take control of the weapon.                         Since Thomas kept his foot on the brake, the car finally halted with the frame almost slipping off the chassis. He let go of the wheel and used two hands to seize the gun. Blood flew off both men's faces, spattering over one another and the upholstery. Thomas brought his elbow down upon Nacho's wrist with ferocity. Nacho’s grip loosened. Yet as one hand weakened, Nacho brought his other onto the handle of the Beretta. Before Thomas could defend himself, Nacho leveled the gun and fired. The bullet lodged into Thomas's upper right chest muscle, flinging his body back onto the driver side window. Without a single bit of hesitation and becoming a twitching muscle that only reacts, Thomas ripped the switchblade from his ankle with his left hand and slammed the blade into Nacho's larynx. Blood sprayed just like a soda can fizzing under extremely heavy pressure. Nacho sat paralyzed, gurgling bubbles of blood and his tongue sticking out like a dead animal. Thomas glanced up at the man he once called friend. He immediately vomited onto Nacho's lap. The dying man slumped in his seat, unmoving and seconds from his end. With his eyes closed, Thomas frantically grasped for the door handle. The taste of acidic vomit coupled with remorse forced his body to move. He grabbed the plastic handle and flung himself out of the Plymouth.

"Hey, you alright? Someone get shot?"        

     An overweight trucker came panting from
 his                                            rig. Blood flowed from Thomas's soaked shirt 

and ran across his belly. He didn't say a 

word but focused on the Plymouth. Inside the 

car lay a crumpled man who Thomas now 

realized had died years before.