You are waiting.

And as you are waiting, you notice the crisp morning air, the way sounds carry themselves in such air, just as crisp, but also lazy, still sleepy. It is morning, early, just before sunrise. You can see the first glows of day break behind the apartment complexes in the distance. Cement and dust, blue and dawn shaded gold. You are standing on a corner with others, silent. One of them is from Guatemala, where his aunt is a movie star. When he smiles, the gold cap in the front part of his lower jaw is dull. He is wearing worn jeans speckled with bits of plaster and paint, calloused hands tucked in the front pockets, grey sweater zipped halfway up, smudges at the elbows. His eyes are young, dark irises, chips of red from late night drinking at the edges, black hair cropped close at the sides. The other is older and understanding. He too had been somewhat important in his country, before he came to America. The older one listens and nods his head, speaking in a tone that is neither condescending nor lecturing. He is dressed in much the same way but is wearing a warmer jacket, zipped to the day’s growth on his neck, grey streaks in his longer hair.

You do not look that much different from them. Your skin is lighter, your hair is covering much of your face, scraggly, brushing your shoulders, black also. For a number of days, you have not shaved, and even if you are aware of each coarse hair on your cheek, you are not uncomfortable. The clothes you are in are worn thin and a size too large, jeans that have been patched with a back pocket torn, creases white at the knees and hips, a t-shirt with a ‘I love New York’ logo over a condensed skyline on its front, a barn jacket
taken from the Salvation Army, oil stained. You have done this before.

The three of you are standing on a corner of a main roadway that many trucks pass on, near a ramp for an expressway. The two are looking for work, falling silent when pick-up trucks, loaded with wood and workers turn, raising their hands. Both men indicate with their fingers how much they would work for, usually three, as the pick-ups swing by, hopeful, forced expressions of calm as the picks-ups continue without stopping, waiting a beat, each in their own minds, before resuming in Spanish. Three dollars an hour, and still one stops, says the older man, the younger man spews a number of litanies, contrasting his country and America. You do not speak with them and they do not mind, it is not unusual for someone to choose not to speak.

When you see the truck you have been waiting for, you wearily raise your hand, two fingers up. The younger and older man stare at you as the truck turns, then do the same. The truck stops, the three of you run, the two men smiling as they hop onto the back, greeting the few others that have gotten on before. In a flurry of hellos, how are yous, and good days, the two men you had been with also ask for how much the others are working for. A Mexican man, his hair unusually light brown, round face, dark, flat nose, crows feet at the corners of his eyes, spits, two, disgusted, but he is here. The chatter drifts into the rumbling and rattling of the truck, lost and dead. They are here to work, not for introductions. You do not take your eyes off the target, who is driving, for the first few minutes, there is always the chance you might be where you are not meant to.

It is a number of miles before the truck will reach its destination and it will not pick other workers. The target does not look into his rearview. You crouch along the bed of the truck, the others noticing your movement, most probably finding it strange, but say nothing and do not ask you questions that you would not answer. Kneeling at the back window of the cab, behind the driver, you remove the gun from the waistband of the jeans at the small of your back. One of the workers nervously mentions his children, but still nobody speaks to you. You imagine, despite their lack of vocal alarm, all their eyes are on you. With the gun in one hand, you shoulder off the coat, wrapping it around your arm, the barrel jutting out from it. The sun itself has not appeared over the horizon. You smash the back window, glass shattering, the truck jerks with the driver’s surprise, warm steel behind his ear, the driver steadies the wheel. He pays much attention to the rearview mirror.

“What the fuck is this shit? What the fuck? Who areWhat the fuck-” the target’s tone is indignant, so you gentle rub the muzzle against the hairline of his neck.

“..you are not in the position to ask questions.” you whisper, the target’s eyes jumping to the corners of his eyes, towards you, and the mirror and the road.

“Okay, okay, what’s this about, huh? What the fuck is this about?”

“‘..pay the men.”

“This about money? Some fuckin’ campecinos put you up to this, scrambled some pesos together for this shit?”

You repeat yourself, cocking the hammer of the gun, loud and harsh behind the target’s ear. “..pay the men.”

The target, one hand on the wheel, eyes on the road, reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a roll of bills, fives on the outside, hundreds within, a common practice. Just as the target is about to toss the roll through the broken window, you reach over and take it from his hands, the gun never leaving the target’s head. Without looking behind you, you roll the money in front of the worker’s feet, and without saying another word, they quietly divide the roll amongst themselves. The target, is at this point, driving in circles. One of the workers, the actress’ nephew from Guatemala, carefully taps your shoulder with your share.

“.. no gusto.” you wave the money away.

You tell the target to stop, the workers get off, stunned, perhaps feeling a bit dirtier even though they will be cleaner when they arrive home, with a week’s pays, instead of the normal, meager, day’s worth. They will not forget you and they will not speak of you, they do not understand much of this place called America, let alone your actions.

You tell the target to drive, you have a specific place in mind, and you tell where, and how to get there, warning him to not deviate from your instructions. By this point, the target is nervous, you have not answered any of his questions. The sun is bright, sharp, to your right. When you finally reach the car pound that does not open until nine, underneath a bridge, you tell the target to turn off the engine.

“..there was a general.” you begin.

“I have no fucking idea-this is crazy-”

“..who abandoned his troops-” your fingers touch his hair.

“Shut the fuck up, I don’t know-“, the target is beginning to sweat.

You grab the hair just above his neck tightly. “..it is impolite to-”

“You weren’t fucking there! You don’t know shit!”

“..your son was.”

The target’s eyes are wild, caged. Warm sun through the steel girders of the bridge.

You add, “..he lived.”

He breathes deeply, closing his eyes. “Where is, where is he?”

“”where you left him, legless.” you let go.

The target rests his head onto the steering wheel, shudders, sun and shadow across his back. His head snaps up, his back straightens, he turns to you. “Give me your gun.”

You shake your head.

“Give me the fucking gun!”, intense, determined, pathetic.

You raise the gun, inches from the target’s lips which have drawn themselves tightly. “..’don’t cry for me, Argentina’.”

“It was so long ago.” the target whispers, closing his eyes..

“..and imagine, he still cannot walk.”

The target opens his eyes, some new hope at the corners of his lips, “Tell him I love-”

You pull the trigger.