Short Story Three: The American Dream

The American Dream

Roci Herrera

I dreamed about it. Every night. The words ingrained in the back of my mind like they were burned in by a branding iron. Clear. America. The land of the free. The land where anyone can be anything they wanted, for any reason. If I wanted to be a bum, I could. A businessman. Anything I wanted to do, I could. I just needed to get there.

I greeted a man into my home a few days ago. I missed his name, but he was normally called the wolf. He said he was an American businessman who could get me across the border. He doesn’t even charge all that much. It was only 300 USD for me to get in. It would mean a better life for me and my family. It would mean that I could get a paying job, and a good house. A better life. The American dream.

Mexico is a shithole.

Even though parts of it can be good, like Baja, California, it truly is a shithole.I can’t sugarcoat it. It is the most of a shithole, however, near the border. There’s mostly just desert. It’s like going to Arizona.

I grew up near the border, and I know what shit it is. I had to provide for a family of 4. My mother had died when I was young, and the moment I turned 18, my father left me to take care of the burden. It ate away at me. Working hard at a farm just to feed your siblings. Trying to get by, only to have to run and hide when the taxman came around. I got a wife, just so that I could share the load. Share the money. Share the work. Share everything. That sure did happen. But not in my favor. She divorced me, took my money, and married some American guy for the motherfucking green card.

I took the load back on. It was hard. As my brothers got older they wanted more freedom. I gave it to them. Next week, one’s dead and one’s in a cartel. Shouldn’t have turned my head. We cried, sure. But for me, it’s just one less mouth to feed. Now I’m stuck with two sisters that are both under 10. Each one taking more and more of my time.

The farm life is horrible. I want to leave it.

There is one catch for me moving into America. I’m not taking them. They don’t even know I’m going. I’ll just be there one night. Gone the next. Who gives a shit. We’re hardly related.

America.

The name brings thoughts of something large and good to mind. Of a better life. Lit up streets. Times square. Large TVs. It looked great in my mind. The thought itself seemed good.

Entering the country illegally is shunned. I had no family in America that would take me in. I was hoping that I could move to a border town and live there. It has to be better than where I live now. It has to be.

I stood up out of my bed. The thinking was just going to bring me down even more than I already was. I grabbed the bottle of rum off the table and took a pull, holding back vomit. I hate the taste of this shit. My bag was packed in the closet, so I just grabbed it and started walking to the pickup spot. It was dark and cold. I just need to get there.

I only live about 10 miles away from the border. I would get to the pick up spot and try to wait for just a few minutes. They couldn’t be far. It was almost 3 am. I needed to leave.

A truck with a tarp in the back pulled up after only about twenty minutes of waiting. Edwardo was there. He had been my friend from school. Back when I went to school. I was to lay in the back with the tarp over me. An American man was driving, and Edwardo had papers. They would cross, and I should just get smuggled across in an instant.

The truck bed was unprotected. The metal was cold. It was maybe 40 degrees outside and I was only wearing a short sleeve shirt. It wasn’t supposed to be cold. It was supposed to be a nice night. Decent. It seemed like it was goddamn winter.

I could hear the border guard let us through. He didn’t even check the back. They said that they left the tarp back there so they didn’t have to in the cab. I didn’t care. I was in America.

Sierra Vista was the closest town. It was not too much further.

They let me out and I walked over and sat on some pavement. They left me there, in America.

I sat and watched the sun rise.

EXTRA:

Pavement is cold. Hard to sleep on.

People are mean to me.

I don’t speak good English.

I run from cops.

This was a mistake.

I want to go home. See my family. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to leave.

This isn’t what I wanted.

This can’t be it. This can’t be the American dream.

No.