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Pedro Hernandez

He wears seventy-five years magnificently. In his twenties he'd cultivated a respect in his gestures and stance that was extraordinary for that age. The people of his village didn't understand why they respected him, least of all himself, who until his forties never noticed any respect. His philosophy (a word he'd never use), never spoken, was left in fragments of thought never to be repeated even in his dreams, was remembered, kept in his mind: sitting on the beach he tells himself Mexico is being licked by the ocean like a man licks a woman or a woman licks a man; walking in the jungle, swooshing flies, he tells himself that Mexico is related to paradise, the flies are angels being swatted; traveling through the desert he tells himself Mexico is thirsty, but easily satisfied with a short rain.

He fell in love with a girl when he was in his early teens. She knew he loved her. He knew that by her looks at him, coy and sublime, always inviting. He never spoke to her past pleasantries. By the time they were in their last year at the small schoolhouse her looks at him had waned to the point he knew he could never encourage himself to talk to her, especially of love. Another, a friend of his, was known to be her boyfriend by then. He never fell in love again. It had nothing to do with the girl, he simply never found love in any face besides hers, though there were many beautiful faces, and many longing faces.

Now, he steals through the border fence with some young punks and some women and children late at night. They take off in predetermined directions. He surveys the United States with a sweep of his eyes, and by kicking the dirt. Only the fence is alien, the bush and brown earth are seemingly Mexican. He heads west toward the ocean, and north, so the gringos won't guess his crime. He jogs across the first paved road he comes to; it has no scars, but isn't new, so he worries about it, but he doesn't know why. The sound of whirring engines leads him to the brink of a huge freeway. He knew such roads existed but its appearance still shocks him. He sits with plenty of dark-time before daybreak and watches the headlights advance and pass, though uneven, they form a pleasant pattern.

He decides to follow the great road, to walk along its edge; that he should go along with the vision laid-out before him. This means he walks down the off-ramp, heading north, keeping to the black edge of the freeway so not to startle the speeding vehicles. He tells himself that no law officer will harass him, an old man, walking on the side of the freeway going in the wrong direction. He believes as he walks that just as the United States is a dream, a vision, to him, he must be a dream or vision to its inhabitants, so will be left alone. He walks and walks. He's tired but continues. He senses from the stares he gets from the oncoming drivers that last but an instant, that he appears more of an apparition now than when he started; now he's red-eyed, his clothes stick, his steps short and dull. He figures he's probably twenty miles out from Mexico by now, but he continues walking without that thought hampering the mechanics of his legs.

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