The Shirker
Angus Carruthers stooped to get through the door of the adobe shack, the hovel where Armando Serrano, the foreman at his feed lot, lived. Angus’s six-three frame barely made it. Almost… but not quite. He bumped his noggin then pawed at his forehead with his bearish, calloused left hand. Damned low doors, he cussed as he retrieved his straw Stetson from the bare, but well-scrubbed, floor. What’s with these people? Don’t they know not everyone’s a damned Mexican? Some people are normal sized, not pint-sized.
The room was close, musty, stiflingly hot and crammed with an assortment of unmatched, dilapidated, gaudy, floral-printed pieces of pitifully inexpensive furniture, most likely from Big Lots or K-Mart or God only knows where, someplace cheap—that was all too obvious—unlike the imported-from-Denmark (or so the salesman in Austin had claimed) leather sofa and chairs in Angus’s own spacious living room in his four-bedroom house two miles outside of town.
If only Raylene were here to see this, the owner of Dry River Feeds couldn’t help but think. She’d faint. Her and her phony open-minded nonsense. Her liberal sensitivities. I’d love to see what she thinks of all this. He chuckled. About the sorriest room I’ve ever laid eyes on. That’s for damn sure. I woulda thought better of Mando, what with all that I pay him. At least a damned swamp cooler or one of those window air conditioners. Jesus, it’s got to be ninety degrees in here.
He had the feeling that children, perhaps a slew of children, lived in the house, but Armando, at forty-six or seven, maybe older, was too old to have any young children. Grandchildren? Perhaps. Could be that I’m wrong about that, thought Angus. Armando can’t afford too big of a family. In spite of my generosity.
Yet, in all honesty, before today, Angus had no clue as to where any of his Mexican employees lived. He’d never really given it all that much thought. They just showed up at the feed lot every morning with burrito-and-coffee-laden lunchboxes in hand and went home in the afternoon, after a quick visit to the Jiffy Stop north of town where they purchased a quart or two of Coors to wash away the taste of dust and cow manure. Angus had seen them on his drive home. It disgusted him. But not Mando. Angus had noticed that. His foreman was a straight shooter… as best he could tell.
Raylene always accuses me of mollycoddling my workers, Angus thought as he stood nervously and took in the shabbiness of the dwelling. She says that’s why she married me. That I’ve got a soft heart. In spite of my grumblings. Well, not today, damn it. This afternoon she’s about to see how hard-hearted her husband can be…when I need to be. It won’t be easy, but I’ll be firm, even with Mando. I like the man but I gotta be cold hearted, to set an example for the others. You can’t be a shirker and get away with it. Not if you’re gonna work for me.
He’d found Armando’s address on the employee info sheet, the one all employees, white, brown, legal or illegal, were required to fill out when hired. Those who could read and write.
Those who couldn’t had someone fill out the form for them, a friend or a cousin. Every Mexican in Dos Pesos, or so it seemed, was a cousin to everyone else, except, of course, the Anglos… and even to a few of them.
The gringo workers, at least the ones Angus knew—if only slightly—lived across town on the other side of State Highway 1129. Angus had been in a few of their homes, through the years. Not many, but a few. Really, not that many. And only when he absolutely had to. It’s better not to become overly chummy with employees, he’d often lectured Raylene. No entanglements. No mess. One has to maintain some distance.
Dos Pesos, Texas, his home for the past nine years, since he invested his savings in the faltering feed lot and abandoned East Texas and all that gut-wrenching humidity, was a town in name only, fewer than twelve hundred souls. Hardly what could be called a community, more an unsightly wide spot on the road. Angus had no idea that this pathetic neighborhood with its shacks and hovels even existed. Not until this afternoon. How could he? He lived two miles outside of the county seat of Contreras County and never had occasion to venture into this rundown section of the sad smattering of homes, trailers and junky enterprises, upholstery shops, auto-repair garages, tool-sharpening experts, lawnmower-repair shops. Dos Pesos was a town Angus still detested but Raylene, for some damn reason, was coming to find it almost charming. I just hope that I never have no occasion to come back to this side of State Highway 1129, thought Angus. This neck of the woods is downright pathetic.
The short, emaciated woman who’d opened the door and motioned him in spoke no English, or if she did she’d chosen not to use it. So Angus in his East Texas drawl attempted to explain to her that he wanted to (hell, he needed to) speak with Armando.
“Quiero hablar con Armando,” he’d said. “Me llamo Señor Carruthers. El jefe de Armando.”
The woman, no more than five feet tall—if that—smiled warily, nodded then held her veiny hand up for him to wait. Armando’s wife? Or his mother? Hell, his grandmother? Who knows, a curandera, perhaps? As Angus’s eyes adjusted to the darkness of the cramped quarters, the employer of more than a dozen people was caught off guard by the display of spooky, downright creepy crucifixes, some made of wood, others of tin, still others of plastic, that adorned the otherwise blank walls, reminders that even the best of us can have a bad day. He grinned, almost goofily. Some were as large as a yardstick, some as small as his fist. All downright pathetic. Catholics, thought Angus. Goddamned Catholics. That’s just one more thing that holds these people back. Luckily, back in Port Arthur we didn’t have that many Catholics. We didn’t have many Mexicans. We had rednecks. That’s for sure. But at least they weren’t so goddamned superstitious. Just a little on the dimwitted side.
He could hear the muffled voice of the woman who’d let him in telling someone in the other room something in Spanish. He suspected that the voice that responded, though faint and hoarse, was that of Armando. But who knows with these people. They all live together, almost like rabbits in a damned hutch. It could be anyone.
Angus wanted to sit down—it had already been a trying day—but not one piece of furniture looked to be a suitable fit for his two hundred and forty pounds. To say that the sofa and chairs appeared to be dangerously flimsy was an understatement. Then there was the dank, putrid air in the shack. The house reeked of beans, of boiled meat, with a slight tinge of what had to be sewage or perhaps illness. He couldn’t tell which. Probably both. He didn’t need to know. This visit was unpleasant enough. What had to be done had to be done. I can’t run a successful business with one of my best employees calling in sick five days in a row. Especially my trusted foreman.
“Señor Angus,” said the scrawny man as he leaned unsteadily against the door frame to the other room in the hovel.
Aw geez, thought Angus. This fella looks half dead. “Mando, are you all right?” He knew the answer—hell no—but he had to ask. Armando’s dingy once-white t-shirt appeared to be drenched in sweat, his narrow face drawn, nearly cadaverous, his khaki Dickies hung onto his narrow hips like a condemned man’s last hope.
“Estoy enfermo,” said Armando, his voice soft and apologetic. “I’m sick,” he repeated in a heavily accented English.
Aw geez, thought Angus. This ain’t gonna be easy. But I’ve got a business to run. It ain’t no charity. You get sick, and you pay the consequences. That’s just how the world works.
“Señor Angus,” repeated the foreman. “I called and told Lupe estoy enfermo. She told you, no?” The man coughed.
Angus harrumphed. Lupe, he thought. It’s a wonder that that damned secretary of mine can even answer the goddamned phone, let alone get things halfway straight. “Well, yes, she did. I was just concerned.” He paused. “Armando, as you know we’re shorthanded as it is… even when everyone’s showin’ up.” Damn it, how do I tell him that he no longer has a job? That someone else will have to take his place? Angus laced his thick fingers behind his back. He didn’t want to touch anything. No telling what germs lurked on the furniture or, for that matter, hung like unholy spirits in the air.
“When Ana Maria told me that you were here I couldn’t believe it. It’s good of you. You met mi esposa, si?” Again, the foreman coughed. “Lo siento mucho. She’d like to fix you something to eat but we haven’t been to the store.”
Good god, no. Angus winced. “No, Mando. Tell her thanks. Gracias. Pero, no.” He paused. “Have you seen a doctor, Mando? Un doctor?”
The foreman shook his head. “No.” He took a deep breath. “Porque no tengo dinero. Es caro.”
Caro? thought Angus. What the hell’s caro? I know dinero. The son of a bitch has no money. “There’s a clinic in Ft. Stockton,” said Angus. “They’ll see you. For free. No dinero. No es necessario.”
Armando shrugged. “Si, pero no soy Americano. Soy Mexicano.” He grinned. “Y no tengo papeles.”
Angus translated in his head. Shit, the poor bastard is illegal. He has no papers. Not even a goddamned green card. I wouldn’t’ve suspected that of Mando. The others, yes, but not Armando. “They won’t ask you for papers at the clinic,” said Angus.
“No, pero la Migra,” said Armando. “On the road.”
“The border patrol won’t bother you.”
Again, the foreman shrugged. “Y mi esposa esta enferma. Y no tengo un carro. Mi carro es roto.”
“And your wife is sick?” asked Angus. “Is that what you’re sayin’?” She looks sick, he thought. Like you, half dead. I just thought she always looks that way. A lot of these women look like that. And, no car? What the hell do they do with the money I pay them? “En Ingles, que es roto?”
Armando sighed. “No trabajo. Mi carro won’t work.”
“Your car’s broken down? Then how do you normally get to work,” asked Angus.
“Mi tio,” said Mando. “My uncle. He takes me.”
If not a cousin, then an uncle, Angus wanted to say, but didn’t. “Which one’s your uncle.”
“Tengo dos. Ruly Barcena y Flaco Rios. They both work for you.”
Two losers, thought Angus. They’re the ones I should be firing. But at least they show up. “I didn’t know they’re your uncles. Anyone else?” He really wanted to know.
Mando shook his head. “No, just friends. Compadres. Todos.”
Angus exhaled heavily. The last thing he wanted was to inhale any more than he had to. “Well, Mando, today’s Wednesday and you’ve missed last Thursday, Friday, this Monday, yesterday and today.”
The foreman’s eyes dropped. “Estoy enfermo. Tengo fiebre.”
“What does that mean?”
“Mucho calor, Señor Angus.” The foreman fanned himself with an invisible fan.
“You have a fever?” asked Angus. “How high? Cuantos?”
Mando shrugged. “No se.”
“Y tu esposa?” asked Angus, proud of himself for doing as well as he was in the odd language.
“Si,” said Mando. “Mi esposa tampien. Y mis nietos.”
“Your children?”
The foreman shook his head. Beads of sweat popped onto his forehead. It was hot in the shack. Hideously hot. Mando could barely stand. “No, mis nietos.” He frowned. “Mis nietos. Como se dice? Soy el abuelo.”
“Grandchildren?” asked Angus. “You’re their grandfather?”
“Si. Mis nietos.”
“How many? Cuantos?”
“Tres.” Mando held up three trembling fingers.
Jesus, thought Angus, I can’t fit five sick people in my damned pickup. And who knows? They could be contagious. What with Covid and all. It ain’t over. What the hell, I could take Mando… and Raylene could take the wife and kids in the Buick. She’s the goddamned do-gooder. See how she likes this.
“Mando, get dressed. I’ll drive you to the doctor in Ft. Stockton. And my wife, mi esposa, will take your wife and the niños.”
The foreman shook his head. “No, Señor Angus. La migra.”
“I told you not to worry about the Border Patrol. No problema.” Shoot, thought Angus, with the new president, all these people are spooked. Over nothing.
“No, Señor Angus. We’ll be good. Aqui.”
“But you’re sick. You need a doctor. Es necessario.” Angus frowned. “Donde esta los niños father?”
“Se fue. La migra.”
“What does se fue mean?”
“Gone. La migra took Ramiro. Y Consuela.”
“When?”
“One month ago. They were caught on the highway.”
Aw, geez, thought Angus. Finally, he said, “I know the border patrol. They won’t bother us. Trust me.”
“No, Señor Angus. Es dificil.”
Hell, thought Angus. I voted for the president three times. He’s not out to get some poor schmuck like Armando. He’s after the bad guys. “It’ll be all right, Mando. I’ll drive you, and my wife will drive your wife. And the children. You’ll see.”
The foreman shook his head. “We’ll stay here. Agui. Gracias, pero. I can’t go.”
“The kids,” said Angus. “What about the kids?”
“Son Americanos. Pero la migra.” The foreman again shook his head.
Geez, thought Angus. These people just don’t get it. The president wants to close the border, not to harass someone like Mando. All this talk about deportations. They’re safe. And Mando’s son will be all right. A few mistakes are bound to happen. “What if I call the doctor in Ft. Stockton…and he came out here to take care of you?”
“No, Señor Angus. No tengo papeles. O dinero.”
“What do you do with the money I pay you? It’s a lot.”
The foreman smiled. “Si, pero, but you pay the white workers more. I’ve never understood that?”
True, thought Angus, but the circumstances are different with each worker. Though, shoveling shit is shoveling shit, no matter how you look at it. Only these people always want more.
“I’ll pay for the doctor, man, said Angus. “You need to see a doctor.”
“Es peligroso. No doctor.”
The two men stared at each other, each with a long, drawn-out face.
Finally, Mando said quietly, “Señor Angus, Estoy enfermo, y estoy consado. Lo siente mucho. I must go back to bed.”
Outside, Angus breathed heavily. The fresh air felt like a gift. I’ll tell Raylene, and she’ll call a doctor. I know her. But these people… I don’t think they’ll open the damned door. They’ll cower in their bedroom all because they just don’t get it. The president’s not out to get them. He’s after the bad guys, for Christ’s sake. Hell, Raylene doesn’t get it. She voted for both of those nasty women and for that doddering old fool. They’re all overreacting to what needs to be done. In spite of what’s best for ’em. You can only do so much for people like these. You do your best, but it’s never enough.
~