SCATTERED LIVES

SCATTERED LIVES

Written by James D. Merrick, January 27, 2005

Prologue: This is Juan's story. It tells of his illegal crossing into the United States on May 14, 1994. At the age of twenty-nine. He dared to believe he could create a life for himself with only the clothes on his back and his self-determination.

7:00 pm. A shiver of excitement zigzags its way through Juan’s body as he boards the time-worn city at dusk. The handrail sticks against his fingers. It reminds him of how much he wants to leave Tijuana, a filthy, hostile town. He swipes his palm against the back of his faded denims and makes his way down the aisle. As instructed, he dissolves among the standing passengers so as not to attract attention and finds an empty seat by a window. To discourage anyone from sitting next to him, he turns sideways and positions his backpack in the empty place. He’s was told that eleven other men would board the bus with him. He recognizes the “leader,” whom he met the day before and now watches take a seat at the front of the bus. The identities of the remaining ten are unknown to him. Juan imagines them to be among those who are staring blindly out the never-washed windows. The bus jerks away from the stop. He turns, faces his reflection in the sun-glazed window across the aisle and watches his image bobble each time a pot hole is hit. He wonders, “Does anyone suspect?”

The miasma of the past two days with its sullen, angry people, tainted air, deafening horns, and incessant neon lights begins to blur in his consciousness. He senses the city is being left behind as his bus plods along a crowded marginal road, clogged by a molasses of late afternoon traffic. It pauses from time to time to take on and let off hardened passengers. In the distance, he hears the unmistakable drone of freeway traffic flushing people out of the city. Determined, he purses his lips, shutters his eyes, and repeats his instructions:

“Don’t lose sight of the leader.”

“Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

“Don’t make eye contact.”

“Don’t talk unless required to do so.”

“Get off when the leader gets off!”

He replays his mantra: “Keep focused. You are not afraid. You can do this.”

The clickety-click-click cadence of tires on asphalt slows. The bus rattles to a halt at one more stop in its seemingly unending chain of interruptions, this one marked only by the usual solitary bench, tattooed with bold gangland graffiti. In a sideways glance, Juan sees the leader stand and step forward toward the front door. Momentarily, he loses sight of him in the aisle. His pulse quickens with panic. “Don’t lose him,” he cautions himself. Stumbling, he squeezes between those pushing to exit.

The doors slap open. He yields to the surge of soiled bodies, letting it carry him downstream toward the rear exit where he steps onto a darkened neighborhood street and into the stale evening air. He is careful not to slip on the curb, slick with sewage. The bus lumbers away. In its wake, oily flotsam, splashes against the sidewalk and sloughs back into the roadbed. He stops momentarily, trying to get his bearings then turns cautiously toward the nearby freeway. He watches as the vehicle traffic races along its macadam. Raising his head, he sees the distant skyline, sucks in a long deep breath through his teeth, and gazes in awe at the spectacle rising beyond the thoroughfare. Silhouetted against the halo of city lights, La Linea stretches fortress-like in its armor of bolted metal planks. It rises as an impenetrable palisade of steel and concrete bollards as far as his eyes can see.

8:00 pm. The bus rattles away. Several of the discharged passengers disappear into rows of faceless buildings. Others may be members of his group. They mill about randomly, pretending to wait for the next bus. All avoid eye contact. All seem to be waiting for a sign, a signal. Minutes pass then an hour it seems. Then it comes! Not as a command or a shout or a push or a shove, but rather by consensus, passed covertly through the knot of men loitering at the stop. He watches the others pair off in cat silence and make their way in the direction of the thinning lanes of freeway traffic. Some cross from a place up the way from the bus stop, others meander to cross below. All move undeniably toward the wall. Juan steps up his pace and weaves across the four lanes of sparse traffic catching up with an older man who seems to be alone.

In the failing light, the two men approach the base of the wall. Nearby, others whisper: “Get down!” “Stop talking!” “Hide!” They pick their way awkwardly along the culvert at the base of the wall and look for cover under which to flatten. They stay on their bellies among the roadside weeds, broken bottles, and tire carcasses with hearts pounding, chests heaving. They wait for a signal. Dirt particles, set in motion by speeding traffic, etch the dust across their faces. Their eyelids spasm in vain attempts to dislodge the debris.

A signal shout: “Move!” Juan catapults himself upward, free of the culvert. As he springs for the barricade, he watches for indications of what to do. Others move to the wall’s supporting posts. They frantically search for something to grasp, to pull their bodies upward on the wall. The older man is at his side. Together they grab for the huge bolts that hold the massive metal plates vertically in the fence. They desperately fumble for toe holds in the wall’s metal and for anything else that can serve as foothold on the posts. Adrenalin surges through their bodies as all twelve men scramble, pull, lift, and shove each other up the poles to the top where they attempt to find places for their hands among the rusty barbs. They are oblivious of the snagging and tearing of their skin and clothing. At the top, holding onto the supporting brackets, Juan manipulates his backpack to prop apart two strands of wire. He shoves one leg through the opening to the other side then the rest of him. He tosses his backpack to the ground, pushes away from the wall, and collapses on the earth, ten feet below.

Rising to a wobbly stance, he surveys the landscape below him. ¡Chingao! escapes his lips. There is no promised truck to take him to his journey’s end. He slumps back on the hillside. A sense of doom floods over him. Through the dimness he sees a stream. Along it, a patrol road stretches from east to west. Beyond the road, sand dunes cover the terrain and stretch to the foot of endless mountains, which evaporate into the distance. He is overwhelmed. He realizes the distant obstacles are his new realities. More-immediate dangers lie directly in his path!

Green and white police cars patrol the road along the stream. “So small: they look like jugetes,” he mumbles. The roar of their race car engines makes it clear, they are not toys. He is certain the Rapidos can quickly intercept anyone who dares approach the road on foot. Juan focuses on one car as it speeds to the east. Its halogen searchlights miss nothing in their sweeping illumination of the unpaved roadside. Seconds later, he watches another Rapido speed to the west. Like a pendulum, the two vehicles patrol back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Beyond the road traversed by Los Rapidos, elephantine personnel carriers run down and capture anyone attempting to cross the dunes on foot. They dip and bob like giant ticks as they lumber across the barren hillocks. Their beams of penetrating light illuminate the very bowels of the earth. Los Quads patrol the far reaches of the landscape.

Churning the air with rotors, two Mosquitos crisscross the sky in unmistakable parallel patterns. Their titanium blades whip the air. Mounted to their undercarriages, massive searchlights bathe each quadrant of the landscape in incandescent brilliance. Los Mosquitos patrol the air, the land, and La Linea with precision and split-second timing.

The lilac glow from the distant halo of city fumes splays off the undersides of clouds like a photographer’s foil. Not only does it expose the hillside leading to the stream and the activity of the patrols, but to Juan’s relief, it reveals knots of waiting “crossers” speckling the hillside at the base of the wall. “I am not alone,” he muses.

11:00 pm. While he remains seated on the ground gazing at the activity on the slope around him, the other men from his group thread themselves downhill and begin to assemble near the banks of the stream. Seeing this, he pushes himself upright, brushes his pants with soiled hands, and makes his way after the others. He hunkers down in a space at the apex of the semicircle that has formed near the stream. The leader points out the narrow bridge where Rapidos swarm like hornets, the same bridge that will soon play an important role in the drama set to unfold this night.

All of the men realize their predicament. They have climbed the wall. Behind them is the life they came from, the life without hope. In front of them, Rapidos, Mosquitos, and Quads block the entry to the United States. They are faced with uncertainty, danger, and death. Going back is not an option for anyone. Other groups are scattered along the wall, waiting for a chance to make a run for the other side. If all groups attempt to ford the stream simultaneously, some are bound to get through. There would be too many for the Rapidos to arrest. Some are bound to get to the area of the Quads. If many get as far as the Quads, there may be too many for the Quads to handle and some will get through and proceed to the wilderness beyond. Juan’s group is told to be vigilant and prepared to act at a moment’s notice. Any group that attempts to cross will provide distraction, opportunity, and time for the twelve to take a different route and, perhaps, avoid detection.

At a signal from their leader, the men must do exactly as told. They will wrap their feet and legs with the black plastic sacks they were told to bring; make their way into the water in single file; and wade to the center of the stream, which is about two feet deep at that place. They will immediately and quietly move downstream in single file to the bridge. Only the leader knows that under the bridge the men must form an assistance line at a point in the water where a wire mesh barrier is attached in concrete to the stream bed. He is also the only one that knows the tallest men must drop below the surface of the water, yank up and hold the wire that has been pulled free at the bottom by previous groups. Only the leader knows the shortest men must crawl through first while taller men maintain the wire. Only the tallest men will be able to hold their heads out of the deeper water under the bridge to breathe at the same time they pull up on the wire for others. He also knows one of the tallest men must stay to hold the barrier wire for the last man or the last man will be caught at the bottom and drown.

The leader knows he must quickly instruct each man to stoop down and pull himself under the lifted barrier and through the crawl space provided between the detached wire and the concrete. He knows success will depend largely on the men’s abilities to assist each other as needed. They must keep moving downstream away from the bridge as quickly and quietly as possible toward the distant foothills. Only in the foothills will they be beyond the reach of Quads. If the action succeeds, the men will remain undetected by Mosquitos overhead. Rapidos, of course, cannot maneuver off the road. He knows officers will not enter the water and get wet to capture an illegal. The leader knows the situation will be most dangerous under the bridge when the men are struggling to extrude themselves through the underwater opening in the wire.

1:00 am. It’s cold and damp. Reflected city lights combine with the monotonous sweep of search beacons casting an eerie luminescence over the landscape and the waiting groups of crossers that dot the slope below the wall: “Amazing,” escapes Juan’s lips as his gaze rests for awhile on vendors and buyers in action all along the wall: “What an ingenious way to make money,” he murmurs to himself as he watches the entrepreneurs work the groups. They sell black plastic bags and shoes for inflated prices and pay little for clothing, watches, and other belongings the crossers fear will weigh them down. Juan watches buyers and sellers mill among the clumps of silent people. Some approach the group of twelve and offer to buy anything the men might not want to take with them. For a fee, they offer to exchange Mexican pesos for U.S. dollars. After removing his black plastic bags, Juan gives them his empty backpack.

2:00 am. The twelve begin to unburden themselves. They talk about people they left behind: friends, wives, children, and parents. They say why they came. They share their fears, their failures, and their expectations. As the men swap stories, Juan remains quiet. His thoughts turn to home and why he left La Piedad. He thinks about his hometown’s skyline with its tiled steeples and colorful apartment complexes and fixates for a moment on crisp morning air, friendly people, and clean streets: “A place that wants you.” He whispers to himself: “Why did I leave?” Juan knows why. He had lost his job. His marriage had collapsed. He felt depressed and abandoned. He wanted to find a way to transform his life. El Norte was a chance at a new beginning. It was common belief in his village that anyone could find work and opportunity by crossing over to El Otro Lado. He had nothing to lose.

Juan realizes how grateful he is to his dad for loaning him the money for his trip from La Piedad to Tijuana, where for fifteen hundred dollars he was told he could find a coyote to secret him across the border. “If I had been able to raise twenty-five hundred dollars,” he reflected, “I wouldn’t be in this fix right now. Instead, I would have someone else’s green card and safe passage.” Memories of the day he left La Piedad played over again and again in his thoughts. Before he left home, he had passed the time walking and absorbing every favorite detail, every building, every street, even alleyways, as though it was his last look at home. He snacked all day on tacos, yet felt empty. His favorite food had no flavor. He couldn’t relax. His body tingled with excitement, but he felt no fear. He engaged in only unavoidable conversations. He was too preoccupied with the next day’s bus ride to Guanajuato and the flight from there to Tijuana, the border town.

In Tijuana, he walked the main street, Avenida Revolucion. He sought a coyote who made his living helping pollos like himself cross over. He knew how to dress to signal his intent: dark clothes, sombrero, country belt and work shoes. He knew how to behave like a stranger in town: gaze into shop windows, look as though everything is unfamiliar. When he was approached, he was surprised at how easy it was to close the deal. He had only to provide his brother’s phone number in the United States as a confirmation contact to guarantee payment of fifteen hundred dollars--no money down, payment on delivery. The deal made him feel reassured. At the moment, he was confident that he didn’t have to put up the money he carried with him.

Juan remembered the sleepless hours he spent tossing in the hotel bed where the coyote had taken him and the next morning’s secretive walk to Anna’s safe house where he was provided the first food he had eaten in too many hours. It was there he was assured a truck would be waiting on the other side of the wall to pick him up and take him to safety. The next morning he began the day-long wait. At this moment, he waits again. He waits for the signal to enter the river on the chance that he can complete the crossing safely.

Oblivious of the other men’s talk, Juan removes a small, Zip-Loc bag from his jacket pocket. He retrieves its contents: a small Bible and snapshots of a ten-year-old boy and a girl of eight. The inscriptions on the photos read: “Dad, I’m going to miss you because I love you so much,” from the girl; “To my dad with love,” from the boy. His chest heaves in one enduring breath. A flicker of light glimmers from moisture collecting below his eyelids. As one would gently and tenderly lift a newborn kitten, this young father returns the items to the bag, seals it, praying: “Keep these safe.” He replaces the small package and turns his attention to the others in his group who are laughing and joking in a pact of camaraderie. A sense of “we can do this” permeates their conversation. Some clap their hands.

In readiness, the leader tells the men to step into the heavy-duty plastic bags they’ve been carrying and tie them securely around their legs and waists.

Silenced by the approach of two uniformed U.S. officials who emerge from the ether of night, the twelve paralyze. “Do you have drugs or weapons?” one of the officers inquires. Heads shake sideways. A few muffled nos are heard. The men in uniform glance officially over each of the twelve in turn then saunter off toward another group sitting up the slope a ways. Over their shoulders they call back: “Buena suerte.” This gesture of empathy from U.S. officials encourages Juan. He bolsters himself with: “I’m doing the right thing!” A rush of good feelings and a recommitment to the crossing warms him. Still, he complains silently: “It must be nearly morning, when are we going to cross?”

3:00 am. All are wide awake. Anxious talk invades the air. Men’s voices become louder: “Not tonight.” “It’s too late.” “We won’t be able to cross tonight.” “Too dangerous.” Silencing the others with his authority, the leader speaks up, “We’ll stay until 4:00 am and try to cross tonight if we can.” The waiting begins anew.

Suddenly, the men focus their attention on two Rapidos, a Mosquito and two Quads. They hone in as the patrols zoom toward a group of crossers apparently making their move in the distance. “We’re going now! Down river!” shouts the leader, “Single file!” “Stay midstream!” “Follow your man!”

Fast! Fast! Fast! All twelve are in the river. They struggle against the water and head toward the narrow bridge. Plastic leggings fill and drag at every step. The added weight slows the men’s bodies. The patrol’s attention still seems to be focused on the attempted crossing up the road from the bridge. The twelve press on in the water, fighting the drag and pull on legs and feet. Finally, the bridge is overhead. The wire barrier fronts them. The leader and one other man bend and submerge themselves. The water is now four feet deep. From the other side of the barrier, they stand to assist. A third man drops down and lifts the detached wire from the upstream side. He screams to Juan: “Hold this for the rest of the men!” Quickly, this man drops down and passes through to the other side. He leaves Juan holding the wire for the next to wriggle through then the next, and the next, and the next.

As the seventh man drops into the chill and struggles to work his way through the breach. A Rapido shrieks to a stop overhead. Officers burst out. They grab long poles from a rack atop the vehicle. At once, they begin to batter the water, penetrating the surface over and over and over again. They yell and scream profanities. Every utterance froths with anger. Gun shots punctuate the air. In the dark water, hands defend blindly against the poles. The remaining men struggle to get through the barrier and move away from the attack. In spite of the maelstrom around him, Juan continues to pull up on the wire and assist the remaining men. His hands burn from the shards of rust embedded in them. His head twists and turns. It tosses his face this way and that in a desperate attempt to keep the churning water out of his lungs and his body away from the splashing, shouting, screaming, coughing, and heart thumping chaos. He asks himself: “Will the other man hold the wire for me or let it drop and pin me below to drown?” At last, its Juan’s turn! Down he goes to the bottom, tearing skin and cloth as he passes through the breach to the other side and up to the surface.

“Run! Keep going! Move!” Panic stricken, the twelve splash helter-skelter downstream and away from the bridge. Each expects to momentarily be spotted and pinned down by the tracking devices of Mosquitos and the sweeping search lights of Quads. Fleeing wildly and wading thigh-deep, like mallards battling the surface of a lake in a vain attempt to lift off, the men assail the water with their arms. Torsos twist and arms flail as the twelve frantically distance themselves from the madness. At every plunging step, the river resists. It drags them down, holds them back. The slippery stone-studded riverbed undulates against their every move. They struggle forward, yanking off the leggings as they surge onward. Every moment, they expect to be encircled in blinding light.

Unexpectedly, their pursuers disappear; perhaps distracted by easier game.

After enduring a mile and a half of knee-deep wetness, the men revel in unbelievable silence. No engines roar, no helicopter blades beat, no beams of light illuminate the land, no angry shouts of warning follow them. The leader signals the men to leave the water. They step up onto a worn trail. Like cattle following in single file on a mountain path, the twelve make their way across the gentle, rolling landscape. The faint aura of approaching dawn greets them.

The path moves away from the river and threads along two miles of barbed wire livestock fence to where houses, cars, and storefronts dot the horizon line amid faint pin points of street light. Business signs protrude like lollipops above the town. Juan trudges along, head down, longing to be warm and in dry clothes. With a newfound sense of hope, he fills his lungs with the morning’s salt air and remembers, childlike: “I smell the ocean; it’s like La Paz!”

6:00 am. The twelve pause in a clump of trees. “Wait here,” they are told. Shortly, they hear the terse instructions: “Break into twos. Head for the Motel 6 sign in the distance. Enter room 107.” They pair off as instructed and thread their way through the brush toward the motel at five-minute intervals. As they enter the room, they eagerly shower, wring the water out of their wet clothes, and put them back on. They are instructed to form groups of three, wait for a knock on the door, and leave in turn for the next stop with whomever appears.

The first group leaves. Shortly afterward, a second knock. Group two leaves. When the third knock comes, Juan and the two others in his group move outdoors and follow a women of about thirty who seems oddly out of place in this part of town. She’s attired like a bank teller: modest navy polyester dress, faux pearl necklace, brown leather shoes with medium heels, and a mauve jacket. She leads the men to her Volkswagen where she asks them to cover the seats with bath towels to keep the upholstery dry. She instructs them to fasten their safety belts. The VW bumps over the speed hump at the exit and purrs out of the hotel parking lot into a line of traffic on the outskirts of town. Along the way, McDonald’s and Jack in the Box buildings pop into view. The VW eventually jolts through the entrance arch of a small apartment complex and into a parking slot. “You are safe here,” she says. “Stay where I take you and wait for more instructions.”

The young woman leads them to an apartment on the ground floor where they are admitted by a disinterested short-armed matronly woman with denatured brown eyes. Each man receives the stub of a pencil and a pad of lined paper. “Clothing sizes,” she says. The lists she hands to the waiting woman who slides the notes into her jacket pocket and leaves. Without talking, the matron sets the table and begins to fix the men something to eat.

Juan notes: “This place is clearly set up to prepare and dispense food quickly to several people at a time. There are no ethnic aromas coming from the kitchen where the woman has begun to prepare breakfast. There is no hint of Mexican spice, no pungent seasonings, no welcoming coffee. No telltale, airborne, signatures waft about. No clue to outsiders as to the real purpose of this apartment.”

In silence, the men sit on worn plastic seat covers on chrome chairs at a dinette table. The woman scrapes portions of scrambled eggs from an oversized skillet onto the paper plates. With flimsy plastic utensils, the men eagerly devour the hot food and wash it down with soda pop, water, or milk. They top it off with cold cereal and refried beans. They express their appreciation to the woman with a round of polite utterances.

11:00 am. Someone slips several bags of clothing inside the front door and disappears. Without making eye contact or entering into a conversation, the women in the apartment nods at the men to change clothing. She leaves to a back room. From inside the bags, the trio retrieves new white work socks, white undershirts, tee shirts, blue denim pants, hooded gray sweat shirts, blue gym shoes, and baseball caps. Juan goes into the bathroom and slips into his new pants and tucks the hem of his Fruit of the Loom undershirt around his waist. He dons his “84 Olympics” tee shirt, and pushes his “Dodgers” baseball cap over his hair. Lastly, he puts on the new sneakers and admires himself in the mirror. He boasts: “Looks like I’ve lived here all my life.” He then retrieves the small Zip-Loc bag he kept for safety in his other coat. Momentarily, he presses it to his lips then slips it inside one of his damp work shoes, pushing it up against the toe. The package of money he secretly kept in his right pocket, he shoves into the toe of the other shoe, pushing it deep inside. He places both shoes into a plastic shopping bag and ties the ends securely to prevent the contents from escaping. The clothes on his back and the pair of wet work shoes with their precious content are now his only possessions.

The woman attendant reenters and lets the men know they have several hours to wait: “Use this time to rest. Someone will come for you tonight.” The men sleep. Shortly after sunset, the woman tells the trio to get ready.

8:00 pm. It’s dark and moonless. With the wave of an arm, the woman indicates it’s time to leave. She instructs the three to go to the parking lot where a man in a red 1984 Toyota pickup is waiting for them. “He will drive you to LA.” The men gather their meager possessions and head outside. At the far end of the parking area, a portly Latino stands alongside the truck, a gun tucked blatantly into the waistband of his Levis. In a head coach manner, he commands: “Get in back. Don‘t move. Don‘t talk. I’ll cover you with a tarp. Don‘t look out. Don‘t uncover yourself. I’ll make one stop and pick up more “pollos.” He describes how he will proceed to LA as soon as he gets a cell call letting him know the San Clemente check point is closed for the night. As though running out of time, the operator briskly choreographs the men on the bare metal truck bed: like sardines in a can, head to foot, each on one hip, knees slightly bent. He pulls the heavy green tarp over them. Four bungee cords snap into place and the canvas cover stretches taut. The men lie there in sudden blackness. Juan rotates on his hip trying to escape the pain that had already begun. He holds the plastic shopping bag close to his chest.

The truck’s cab door bangs shut. A muffled cell phone conversation takes place. The ignition clicks. The engine bucks and starts. Juan feels the truck shift into gear. He winces as his head is thrust against the cab. The truck moves forward out of the driveway onto a city street. The men jostle along for forty hip-pounding minutes. As though running out of gas, the truck chugs to a stop. The cab door scrapes open and bungee cords snap loose. The escort pulls the tarp away. Crisp night air rushes in. With a jerk of his arm, he signals the men to get out and stretch. “Better pee now. It’s two and a half hours to LA,” he advises. Like men old beyond their years, more slug-like than human, the three move up and over the tailgate to the ground. They flex and stretch to bring circulation back into their bruised limbs. They move zombie like into the bushes.

Four other men emerge from the shadows and make their way to the truck where they engage in negotiations with the driver. As the trio returns from the bushes, the escort confronts each member in a similar conversation regarding payment. Juan fears he may be robbed if he reveals he is carrying money with him. Instead of the truth, he says his brother will meet the pickup at the designated place in LA--with the payment.

“Load up!” directs the driver, evidently satisfied he’ll receive his expected tariff. Gingerly, the seven pack themselves onto the bed of the pickup; each positioned on one hip, knees bent. The tarp conceals them in darkness. For twenty minutes, the vehicle jogs its way along decaying urban streets. Then it rattles up a freeway on-ramp and heads north to LA, five miles an hour below the speed limit.

Pain torments him as he attempts in vain to change his position. The thump, thump, thump of freeway concrete batters his hip bone. Pain radiates down his legs through his knees to his ankles. It works its way across his shoulders and into his neck: “Oh, God Almighty, what am I doing here?” he chastises himself in angry frustration. Tears dribble sideways down his face and pool in the dust near his cheek: “Hold on a little longer. Put up with this a few more miles,” he thinks and clenches his teeth.

Midnight. The pickup leaves the freeway and clicks its way along city streets. It comes to a stop amid sounds of passing traffic. Distant voices and luring food odors hover in the air. The cab door creaks open and clicks shut. One bungee cord at the rear of the truck snaps free and releases a corner of the tarp. At the operator’s instructions, the men climb out of the pickup, creaking and groaning in pain. Each in turn hands over his agreed-upon payment and vanishes into the city. Using his hands to lift his numb legs over the tailgate and onto the bumper, Juan climbs out last. He lowers himself to the pavement as though ossified and cautiously withdraws fifteen hundred dollars from the package hidden earlier inside the shoe, inside the shopping bag. Payment is complete.

He leaves the pickup truck and steps onto a sidewalk that encircles a large city park. Excited to be there and relieved to be out of the painful truck bed, he stretches his arms above his head, twists his shoulders to flex his spine, breathes in the city air, and gazes at the multitude of people buying and selling. His stroll gradually becomes leisurely as he mingles with the vendors selling green cards, licenses, IDs, Social Security cards, birth certificates, transportation, and food of all kinds. “Incredible! It’s so easy to get what you want here,” he says to himself. What he needs now is a ride to his brother’s home. He looks around at the maze of people filling the area and steps up to a van that has a “Bakersfield” sign leaning against the windshield. It leaves in an hour.

With time to kill before his next ride, Juan meanders stiffly along the park’s perimeter. Fascinated by the park’s centerpiece, a three-tiered fountain of water and light, he slumps onto a bench to gaze. Juan pulls his tiny bag of possessions to his chest and stares at the soaring display. He is mesmerized as it catapults glorious auroras of water toward the heavens then calls them back in glimmering cascades of sparkling dervishes that pirouette across the skyline. The waters race upward to explode again and again and again into the night. Like the first champagne of an evening, they toast the heavens with a radiance of bubbles, dazzling the darkness in a sequined mist. In a bewilderment of florescence, they bathe their luminescent tower in rainbow gossamer as they cascade from tier, to tier, to tier in a magnificence of light.