I Pack the Meat That Todo el Mundo Eat

SO THERE I WAS, doing what all the top-rated Mexican Americans do on a Wednesday, por supuesto. Just sort of lazily, self-indulgently and unproductively massaging my seductively oily forehead and leaning against a choice telephone pole on the corner. I thought to myself, "It sure would be nice if I had some work. You know? But really, it would be nicer if I didn't." And with each gentle nudge of my temple, I willed all potential employers far away from the curb underneath my wing tips.

The sun glinted off of my cholo-stylie shades and in the still and warm morning, I was content to reflect upon the day while stroking my elegantly-angled mustachio. I could hear a small plane humming in the distance and as I cocked my ear to fully absorb the sound, I found myself (idly) hoping I could start my siesta early. The excitement of the morning was wearing down what little urge I had to contribute to national productivity. And after all, I had to take care of myself. This is very important for Americans. I know. I have a TV. Many expensive lotions and powders and creams and medicines and foods are needed to nurture an hombre's comfort. And it was almost time for my 10 am application of Peaches and Cream.

As I watched the tumbleweeds roll by, I reflected on how fantastico it is that mi papá was born in America (instead of in Mexico, like mi abuelo) and that we (and my family line) have been given such a glorious chance to not live in Mexico and to have a shot at the Great American Dream Life. And this is a thought that regularly occurs to me.

I usually engage in this bit of Mexican Reflection on Wednesdays, and usually near the meat-packing plant up the road from my pad. Because that's where I chill, you know?

Truth is, us Mexicans love meat-packing. Despite the notions to the contrary. Ay, Dios mio, we love it! Mmm-mmm-mmm. Personally, I could pack meat all the live-long day. And that's why so many of us would do just about anything to snag such an esteemed position. I mean it can be a very tough decision, choosing between a life of meat-packing, spinach-yanking, yardwork, and hotel-room cleaning. I have solved this particular dilemma by devoting my life to the maintenance of a very beautiful mustache, and letting other less-important considerations sort of drift. Let history be the decider of who was gainfully employed and who was a ladrón—a thief—stealing from the American people, ¿qué no?

Suddenly, as I was feeling the warming effects of such thoughts spread throughout my entire being like a tidal habanero tingle, La Migra entered the driveway, many vans jamming the space.

ICE vans filled with armed and hostile men and women tipped into the parking lot, and emptied. A clumping cluster of intense jackbooted individuals hit the pavement, one after another. I watched them flood the sidewalk with their dark uniforms, their guns, cuffs, opaque shades, and was immediately furious that all the dust from their spinning tires and flappy movements was clouding up my sunny moment. For a moment I honestly considered crossing to the other side of the street, but found I just didn't have the energy for such a massive effort.

So I relaxed back into my lean. And dug down into my empathy bag a little as I watched the stormtroopers approach the warehouse from multiple sides. What a shame. What a shame, I thought, desiring a tall, icy, well-sweetened slurpee drink. These particular Mexicanos had finally reached the pinnacle of happiness—a life working for humble wages doing mindless American labor in the shadows—and here was Uncle Alberto to take it all away. I sighed. At leeest they were able to feeeel like hard-working, tax-paying Americans for a leeetle while, I thought to myself in a thick Spanish "Three Amigos" type accent. And it was true. Nobody could take that away.

It seemed like the ideal moment for that slurpee. So I bopped up off the telephone pole and prepared to make my way to the nearest 7-11. I figured there was just too much activity on the main road, so I skipped across the property and came out on a parallel street. I spotted a convenience store in the distance, and began to make my way there. It was only then that I noticed one of the ICE vans coming up the road, probably lagging behind the earlier ones. I was walking casually, and not as if in a hurry, but the van did not pass me. It pulled over right as it reached me, so I stood and waited for them to roll down the window. It opened, but only for six inches or so.

A face with black sunglasses appeared in the dim slit. It spoke.

"Where you going? You work at the plant?"

"No, Señohhhhr," I began, to my own horror. I was using my internal Three Amigos® voice out loud! I cleared my throat. "Sorry, officer. Heh. Just, you know. Thinking of a movie I was watching on my General Electric television the other day. It was given to me by my maternal grandmother."

The cop did not move but only stared.

"She was born in New York," I said thoughtfully. "While I was born in California. Interesting."

The cop could have been an angry painting.

"I know all this self-reflection is quite American," I continued, grinning widely so my well-polished teeth could show. The cop seemed to be waiting.

"I hate meat! And those who pack it!" I yelled, happily. I made a "yukky spinach face" to the stoic agent of government. "I WAS ACCEPTED TO CORNELL!"

The face lifted its welder-grade sunglasses a millimeter and peered at my arm.

"You look brown," it said, flatly.

"I, I, I'm part Saudi-Arabian!" I said, suddenly wishing I had different headgear.

"Then what are you doing in such a poor area? And why are you wearing a sombrero?" La Migra asked, gruffly.

I swept the hat off my head with mock-horror.

"I knew that man was not just 'patting my head as a friend'!" I said, smoothing my hair, as I thought carefully. The well-sweetened slurpee was screaming over all the traffic noise, but I knew I had been asked a very important question and I had to concentrate. The answer could mean the difference between going home and who knows what awaited those poor meat-packers.

"Well, Mi-er, officer, I'm on my way to the garage. I just had my Jag winterized. Then, I have to pick up my wife for her Botox appointment, and we're going to get our twins put on Ritalin for their birthday."

There was a mumble from the back of the van. The window rolled up, and it sped away.

I could only sigh with relief as my heart pounded all to hell inside my chest. After a moment, I leaned down and picked up my fine sombrero and placed it back onto my well-coiffed hair. I twirled my mustachio three times for good luck, mumbled a prayer to the Virgen de Guadalupe, and then, such as was my destiny on that fine day, I thanked God I was an American and set out for my luscious dessert.

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Nezua Limón Xolagrafik-Jonez blogs as The Unapologetic Mexican and never, ever drinks Slurpees.

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