(a tangent story to Ashram III, "Shacked Up")
The swarm of mosquitoes over the swamp’s surface kept the night from total silence. The four native Indians, on guard at the swamp’s northern bank, covered all entry points to Harvest Quarter.
Protecting us from immigration authorities. What a laugh! Starving for three days with no food or kitchen to cook. At least, they used to hand out food packets at night from the casino’s leftovers. But that damn kid with the camera ruined that too. "Too much suspicion, no more food trucks", the guard announced without emotion. "A few more days and all of you will be out of here. This is all for your good, for your own protection". Without other people’s good intentions my family would be eating now.
Everything seemed simple the way brother-in-law Garcia explained in his letter from Miami--a letter which was smuggled in by an American tourist. Give a box of cigars to the guard at Guantanamo Bay Marine base, give your bicycle to the laundry truck driver in return for a ride to the dock where a silver truck with a picture of hills and mist and the big words Frontier Casino written across the landscape in Red will wait for your family.
Angel Lopez shook his head to bring himself back to the present, back to his plan. He timed his plan without the benefit of a watch. He had studied the guards’ rituals for three days, the guards never wavered from their routine.
The guards carried conversations with their walkie-talkies. Every fifteen minutes or so they take cigarette breaks. When the second night train going east coos its arrival, I have to make my break. Around that time, a jeep pulls up with the new guards as the watch changes hands. A five-minute relief I have to capitalize on.
Crunched over and peering out the one-foot hole in the makeshift shack where he ended up with his family, Angel grew restless. He took another deep breath as he looked around the place. His wife lying in a fetal position, had her hand over their five year old boy’s stomach. The boy’s stomach had a wet rag on it. Despite Angel’s warnings, the boy had loaded up on tamarind nuts from the trees on the banks to an upset stomach.
Can’t blame a six-year old for trying to feed himself. No more starving. Angel had a plan. More an idea from that Vietnamese guy Boun in the next shack. He picked up a bag full of food for his family from a restaurant dumpster in the section with the casino and strip joints. He stole out last night and returned unnoticed. It’s my turn tonight.
Angel’s memory recreated the way to the restaurant from when Boun drew the direction with a stick on the mud. Whatever, he pulls off the dumpster, he’ll give a part of it to Boun, Angel assured his conscience. Angel felt the shack tremble a bit. The distant coo of the train prompted him to action. He slid out the shack and wiggled down the foundation post like a squirrel on a tree trunk.