Stories, Thoughts and Snippets
Going Home 1 Going Home 2 Going Home 3 Going Home 4
Jorge. I crawled around to put my good hand on his chest.
Jorge, wake up. He lay immobile, his breath still came, but it was shallow and very fast. I pounded on his chest once more and then fell beside him the world fading out around me.
My name is Jesus Monzon. My friends and family call me Chuito, or Chui, for short. My family resides in Mexico City, though four years ago I left my son and daughter in the care of my wife, who is living with her widowed mother. I traveled north, and after a brief wait and negotiations with an American man named John Baker I was smuggled into the United States in a kayak strapped to the top of a sports utility vehicle. I had arranged, through Mr. Baker, a position with a landscaping company, and I worked mowing lawns and trimming hedges for two years until suspicion was cast on my employer and I was forced to leave. I have obtained forgeries which suffice to get me most jobs, but they will not stand up under a check of official records. After working construction as a day laborer I met Jorge Sanchez, he knew about several different employers who would pay in cash and ask no questions, and since that day I have traveled with him as opportunities opened, and sent as much money to my family as I could.
With my support, my wife has been able to rent a decent apartment, and my son has completed his third year at school, my daughter will begin in the next fall. With little option open to me at home, my intention has been to work until my children have completed their educations, and then retire on the savings that will have accumulated by that time, which my wife ensures me whenever we speak will be ample for many years, after which, my children should have no trouble supporting us. Jorge has been my one constant companion during this time, it does not often pay to travel in too large a group, as it is not always certain how many spaces an employer will offer.
I opened my eyes, but the world remained fuzzy to me. I could hear someone speaking in English, which I was getting a little better at, but I could not concentrate to make out any of the words. Finally the world was clearing enough for me to recognize shapes, but though my left was open I could not see anything on that side, and I had to tilt my head to survey my room. Finally I was beginning to see the details of the faces around me. There were two young Asian men in white jackets, and a black woman who turned to me when I looked at her.
How do you feel? She began in a Spanish that sounded far more Puerto Rican than Mexican.