This story was inspired, today, by my morning trip to Ike's Coffee & Tea, at 100 N. Stone in Tucson. It was a jury-duty Friday, and I had to keep up my caffeine levels in order to stay alert. The line was long, but even with plenty of time to kill I was sufficiently dead to the world that it took me a while to notice the extraordinary looking man standing just ahead of me. I managed not to stare, but his appearance was highly suggestive and sent my imagination running wild. I hope the ideas come through clearly, despite the hasty writing. As always, comments are welcome. Compliments are MORE welcome, of course, but anything constructive goes down well. The title is in reference to the uneasy border situation that affects all of us, especially in Arizona, whether we want it or not. Also,  I should add, the Spanish phrase was supplied by one of my jury colleagues, an elegant bilingual lady, who politely assured me that the phrase means "Shut the **** up."

The Border

I stood behind him at the coffee shop. He was a tall, heavy-set Hispanic man—you could sense the type-2 diabetes getting ready to take over his body. How long before he lost his feet? He ordered coffee and a huge, gooey pecan roll, and I stepped forward to order my cappuccino. At that point I looked up at him, and noticed.

It’s then that the machete flashes, seemingly out of nowhere. Suddenly someone is screaming, a gut-wrenched explosion of unbearable pain—no, not unbearable, after all, we are all still here, talking about it. So let’s call it a startling pain, a body-shocking, fear-making, deep-down, fundamental, something-is-terribly-wrong sort of pain, the sort that most of us are fortunate enough never to know. All the pain that led up to this, the shattered eye-socket, the extracted toe-nail, all that is nothing. This is the important pain. Nobody can forget it. Nobody should. Blood gushes from the wound—how could anyone survive such a wound?

And yet, there he was, ordering coffee.

An ear lies on the floor, in a pool of red. It’s deep, that red pool, surprisingly so, and it’s already starting to thicken. Amazing how quickly that happens. A voice cuts through the chaos of blows and screams. “Callate el osico.” Despite the speaker's continuing exertion, it’s a disciplined, unexcited voice, one that doesn’t bother to be angry—anger would require too much emotional energy. The speaker expends only the violent, physical kind of energy, the kind that takes no toll on him. He can work long hours without tiring. But despite his words the screams start again—they can’t help themselves. “Callate el osico.” The litany continues over the screams which carry on, regardless, “callate el osico.”

But that was long ago. Months, surely, probably a year or two before we stood in line at the coffee shop, the Hispanic man and I. There was a hole, about as big around as a child’s finger, on the right side of his head, amid scars that screamed the silent memories of a body broken. On the left side was an ear. It looked perky, even jaunty or defiant. Sort of happy, as it stood there on the big man’s head. What did they want from him? What did they learn? How much did somebody give to get him back?

He left the shop, turned to the left. I went straight ahead and didn’t watch him disappear. Intact. No screams followed us. Blessed are the survivors.