In the end, it was the laptop.
It had belonged to Mario’s Papa, an outrageous expenditure for a man of his means and one Mama never really got over. “Who do you think you are,” Mario had heard her demand of him, “Mr. Bigshot with a computer?” Papa was the only person in the village with such a thing. He had saved for months to buy it from a used electronics store in Oaxaca De Juarez.
Papa left no will, but after he passed the laptop was given to Mario. Who else would use it? Mario was fifty-seven, too old to travel north for the harvest anymore, and like his Papa he’d always had a way with stories.
Near the end of the month, he decided to write. It was July, the temperature over 100degrees. Mama had roasted beans overnight and the odor clung about the house. Mario sat on the porch and stared at the blank screen. He had a story in mind, but couldn’t think how to tell it, how it should sound. He couldn’t think whose voice to write in. He stared almost three hours at the screen before Mama called him to dinner.
***
A few days later, Mario was again on the porch with the laptop and a beer, staring again at the screen. He had started and stopped writing a few hundred times. He had produced almost an entire paragraph.
Someone said, “Mario Fuentes?”
A smiling young man stood at the base of the porch stairs. He looked just like Rudy Gonzalez. Mario hadn’t known anyone was there. He asked, “Are you related to Rudy Gonzalez?”
The young man said, “He’s my brother.”
“How is Rudy?”
“Fine. He lives near San Marcos with his wife.”
“How many children does he have now?”
“Just the two.”
Mario nodded.
Rudy’s brother said, “I have a field in Guadalupe.”
Mario made an impressed face, “You’re young to have a field.”
“This is my first. My grower approached me after the harvest last year. He said I was a natural leader and should have my own field.”
“Yeah?”
“So now I have my own field.”
“What does your brother Rudy say about it?”
“Rudy says to find you – Mario Fuentes. He says you’re the best man to help me farm strawberries.”
“Rudy’s crazy. I’m fifty-seven.”
Rudy’s brother kept smiling. He had the spritely stoop of the young berry farmer. “That’s what I told him,” he said.
Mario smiled back. He said, “That’s nice of Rudy to say, but I can’t help you with your farm.”
“Rudy said to offer you $200 a day.”
“How much will you get per box?”
Rudy’s brother shrugged.
“You can’t pay me $200 a day without knowing what you’ll get per box.”
“That’s what I’ll pay you. It’s a guarantee. I’ve got a good route across the border.”
“Sonoyta?”
“Imperial Valley. And I’ve got us a nice house to live in. Barsug – the suburbs. And a good crew.”
“You’ve got all this. Why do you need me?”
“Rudy says you’re the best. He says you’ve seen it all.”
“I’ve seen lots of babies try to be farmers. For most of them it doesn’t work out. Picking’s the easy money, kid.”
Rudy’s brother said nothing, but smiled still.
Mario said, “I’m going to Acapulco this December, to sell ice cream to Americans.”
“What will it pay?”
“Not $200 a day.”
***
The drive to Mexicali took four days. Rudy’s brother had a Dodge Charger from the seventies with enormous rear tires with white lettering. The air conditioner did not work most of the time. They drank beers and some tequila on the ride. Mario had the laptop with him, tucked between layers of clothing in his duffle bag so it wouldn’t jounce around too much.
They stayed in a motel outside Mexicali, waiting on four pickers. Most of the guys Rudy’s brother planned to use were already in the states. Rudy’s brother left the Charger at a friend’s house and borrowed a white Dodge Van Ramwagon for the drive across the desert.
The pickers arrived. Three of them were Mixtecs living in Mexicali – all sons of men who’d known Rudy at one time or another. The fourth was a woman in her late thirties named Marta. Marta’s hair was streaked grey and her thighs were bulky with muscle. As they rode in the back of the van out of Mexicali, she told Mario that she had been picking for over twenty years. She said she had picked for every grower in San Diego County, including Coastal Berry and Berryfornia. She said her name was known at the offices of the California Strawberry Grower’s Association, and that her photograph had been used in a brochure published by that organization in the mid-nineties. She said she could pick strawberries as fast as anyone – no matter their age or their gender – and that Rudy’s brother had begged her on his knees to work his farm for him.
Mario thought Marta was pretty attractive. He’d never worked with a woman before and wasn’t sure what to make of it. She seemed sure of herself in a way most women he knew were not. Mario’s wife Anna had been prim and withdrawn. She died in 1989.
After midnight Rudy’s brother drove the Dodge Ram Vanwagon over a boulder, tearing off the muffler and much of the undercarriage. It soldiered on another seven miles or so, vomiting smoke and strange noises – Mario, Marta and the Mixtecs coughing in the back – then shuddered and died in the desert.
Rudy’s brother kept smiling. He even made a few jokes. Mario wanted to yell at him, but did not. They had one working flashlight among them, but Mario advised them not to use it. He said their eyes would adjust to the dark.
The next day they walked the Imperial Valley desert. It was August and there were no clouds. The sun rocketed skyward and it became deadly hot. There had been a case of bottled water in the Vanwagon. They all had plastic bottles stuffed in their pockets and the waistbands of their pants. Mario turned his baseball cap to shield the sun but still felt his one cheek bake, then his forehead, then his other cheek. One of the Mixtecs mumbled to himself.
Marta asked Mario why he didn’t just leave his duffle. Mario didn’t want to get into it about the laptop and everything.
They crossed a mountain pass that would have been wide enough for the Vanwagon. Rudy’s brother reminded them this was a good route. The air was silver and hazy. The desert stretched out. Many miles to the west, Mario could see the almost artificial green of housing development lawns and beyond that what may have been the Pacific, or maybe just the horizon. They kept walking.
About three hours later, Marta fell and began to seize. None of them knew what to do. Rudy’s brother knelt beside her, crying and calling her name. Mario looked away, toward the tendrils of San Diego just visible in the far off.
“Marta! Marta!” Rudy’s brother’s shouted. One of the Mixtecs crossed himself and said the Hail Mary. These sounds, along with Marta gagging and her limbs luffing on the desert floor, were all Mario could hear.
Rudy’s brother implored the Mixtecs, “She’s my sister in law’s aunt! What will I tell, Maria?”
Later, there was some discussion over what to do with Marta’s body – carry her, bury her, or whatever. Mario lent no opinion to the debate. In the end, one of the Mixtecs covered her from the chest up with his windbreaker then weighed the edges of the garment down with rocks so it would not blow away. They left her like that, a mound of windblown fabric with legs sticking out.
The Border Patrol found them at dusk. Mario had just finished his last bottle of water, which was the last water any of them had. His mouth felt like gravel. As the Border Patrol pulled up, Mario told Rudy’s brother and the Mixtecs to shut up and let him do the talking. There were two of them in a green Ford Bronco. They had close cropped haircuts. One looked Mexican and wore a cowboy hat and gave them all Snickers bars and said to Mario, “Man, tell me your van broke down. No one your age would be so stupid to cross the desert on foot.”
Mario stared at the ground and chewed the Snickers.
The white one said, “Can’t hear you, amigo!”
The Border Patrol wrote down their names. Mario called himself Carlos Fuentes, thinking that was pretty funny. The Border Patrol fingerprinted them with a type of fancy portable fingerprinting unit Mario had never seen. They handed Mario and his party summonses to appear before a judge in San Diego in four months.
Mario considered telling the Mexican looking Border Patrol about Marta, but decided against it. What could they do about a dead woman in the desert?
***
They took a Greyhound bus from San Diego to Barsug, riding the 5 and the 405, the 101and the 1. Mario had missed these American views of water and city, unseen for so long. Rudy’s brother tried to ask him about Marta at one point, but Mario shushed him and stared out the window.
As they bussed through Oxnard, Mario asked Rudy’s brother about his field.
“It’s twenty three acres,” Rudy’s brother said, like a man waking from a bad, dimly remembered dream.
“And who is the commission merchant?”
“GrowMark Produce. You have heard of them?”
“Of course. Who approached you about becoming a Mexicano, was it Paolo V.?”
Rudy’s brother smiled, “You know Paolo V.?”
“We used to cross together, me and Paolo and Rudy. He’s naturalized now, right?”
“Yes. He’s very well regarded at GrowMark. He runs the entire Guadalupe operation.”
This news calmed Mario. He had been worried about Rudy’s brother, who was likeable despite being a dumb young kid. Every picker knew bad stories about Mexicanos being forced into debt slavery or sent to US prisons or worse. But if Paolo V. was involved the deal must be okay. Mario hadn’t seen Paolo V. since the early nineties but they had been friends once. Paolo V. was a good guy.
***
They had to walk to the house, which was in a suburban development. The neighborhood was lined with berry fields, and beyond the fields were other developments with more houses. Rudy’s brother led them through a gate into the back yard and picked up a funny looking rock which wasn’t a rock at all but a hunk of plastic with a compartment in it and within the compartment a key. The house had two floors, four bedrooms, kitchen, living room, dining room. It was a palace with no furniture. The electricity did not work.
Mario said, “What’s with the electricity?”
And Rudy’s brother said, “I’ll call someone and have them turn it on. You guys find a bedroom. Let’s go to sleep.”
***
The next day, Mario locked the door to the bedroom he’d claimed and turned on his laptop, breathing relief when it started up okay.
Without thinking, he started to write. The words came unimpeded, a new/old voice telling a story that – though unfamiliar – might be his own.
Mario smiled. He kept writing.
***
A week later they planted. Three Tuxpenos had been added to the crew by then, men Rudy’s brother knew from previous seasons. The Tuxpenos didn’t like the Mixtecs and the Mixtecs didn’t like the Tuxpenos. A disagreement over bedroom assignments, the details of which were too complex to decipher but seemed to dovetail with ancient tribal grievances, resulted in strict racial separation in both house and field. All were good workers though, and listened well as Mario and Rudy’s brother instructed them. Of the eight men, only Rudy’s brother and Mario had planted before. The rest had only harvested. Mario showed them how to lay the plastic sheeting and inject the methyl bromide. He showed them how to install the drip irrigation system which, like the Border Patrol’s portable fingerprint machine, was new to him, nifty and unexpectedly convenient. He showed them how to work the plants through another layer of the plastic sheeting so that they were all fit and even. The plants looked hearty. Mario had confidence in them.
All the equipment and the plants appeared at the edge of the field before they arrived each morning, and Rudy’s brother was never surprised. He told Mario that GrowMark provided everything as part of their contract.
“They just give it to you?” Mario said.
“Not exactly.” Rudy’s brother said.
Mario didn’t see his old friend Paolo V. for another three weeks. By this point the strawberry plants had taken root. Twenty three acres was a lot for eight men. Rudy’s brother had wanted to bring on more help, but Mario knew it could be done.
He had said, “It will save you money. You’ll be able to afford more workers for the harvest. You’ll pay them better and they’ll work faster and take better care of the berries.”
Rudy’s brother had said, “My brother was right – you are the best, Mario.”
Paolo V. drove up in a sharp Ford F-150 with the King Ranch package, the truck red and shining in the early sunshine. Paolo V. looked good getting out, tall and narrow as ever, but with a healthy belly hanging over his belt. Even at this hour, he had his hair slicked back and handsome. He didn’t seem to see Mario at first. He walked right by him to get to Rudy’s brother, who stood up straight to shake hands and accept his congratulations on such a fine looking field. Then, while they were speaking, Paolo V. noticed Mario staring at him and stopped in mid sentence and said in English, “Holy shit! Mario Fuentes!” Like Mario was a celebrity or something. Paolo V. hugged him and Mario hugged Paolo V. and felt happy to see this old, good friend he hadn’t seen in so long.
Paolo V. said to Rudy’s brother, “You’re smart, having this one along. No wonder your field is so well maintained!”
Rudy’s brother thanked Paolo V. and told how his brother had insisted he seek out Mario Fuentes of Tejalapam.
“You’re so lucky,” Paolo V. kept saying. “So lucky to have Mario Fuentes.”
Later, Mario and Paolo V. strolled the fields together. They talked about what each had done since the last time they’d been together, Mario explaining how his father’s illness and his own old age had driven him home; Paolo V. talking about the opportunities that finally came his way – reward for having stuck to the strawberry business for so very long, “Since both of us were boys, hey?”
Mario told Paolo V. he had a good feeling about Rudy’s brother’s field and about the season in general. The air felt dry headed into fall. He was sure the rains would spare them.
Paolo V. laughed and said, “I hope you’re right, Mario!” Paolo V. only ever seemed to exclaim things now, a quality Mario could not recall from their youth.
He told Paolo V. how profitable he thought the field would be; what a high quality berry he planned to cultivate – “No Cat’s faces” – and what an able manager Rudy’s brother was. “You picked a good one with that kid,” he said.
Paolo V. nodded and smiled and said, “Has anyone been bothering you out here? Guys coming around?”
Mario didn’t know what he was talking about. He said, “Guys?”
Paolo V. smiled and patted Mario’s shoulder, “Forget it, Mario. Don’t worry about anything.”
***
For the next few months, the eight men worked every day in the fields. They watched the berries go from green red buds to bright red fruit. They tested and checked the irrigation system. They administered a non-chemical pesticide of Mario’s own creation to battle back an eelworm infestation. The Mixtecs and Tuxpenos, while never growing to like each other, at least achieved mutual toleration. At night everyone drank together in the living room, sitting in a circle on scavenged folding chairs and fruit crates, telling stories of their childhoods – all the girls they’d fucked and men they’d fought.
Mario heard them downstairs as he typed. The story he told the laptop grew and grew. It was far beyond what Mario had imagined it might become, almost 200 pages. There were nights where he’d never stop typing. He’d look up and see the sky lightening and know it was time to go to the fields and that he’d lost his chance to sleep, and he wouldn’t care.
Rudy’s brother paid each of them every two weeks in American cash. Mario didn’t ask where the money came from.
In late November Mario left the field early to get pork for their dinner. When the rest returned home after 6:00 pm, they carried bright yellow flyers. The flyers said that migrant strawberry workers were an oppressed population, and that the only way to safeguard the workers was through unionization.
“What’s it all about?” Rudy’s brother asked Mario.
Mario concentrated on the pork. He had cut the lean belly into strips and been simmering it for hours in oil, onion, garlic and lime juice. He said, “Don’t worry about it.”
After that, new people showed up at the field every day. Most of them were white. Some drove jalopies with political bumper stickers and had dreadlocked hair. Some drove shining SUV’s and wore suits. All of them distributed bright colored flyers with such devotion the workers felt guilty not taking them. Mario told the workers not to speak to the people with the flyers, to pretend to only understand Spanish.
They kept all the flyers in a stack on the kitchen counter. They were all handed out by different organizations, The United Farm Workers, The Strawberry Workers of California, The American Berry Pickers Union, The American Farm Union, Strawberry Growers United. Each group had its own flyer with its own message. Mario didn’t know what to make of it. He tried not to read the flyers, lest they distract him from more important things. He encouraged the others to do the same.
***
Mario woke up one morning in December and went downstairs and there were nineteen new men in the house. They had all arrived in a group, bringing beers and microwave burritos from the convenience store four blocks over. Rudy’s brother introduced him around, calling him “Mario the head man,” or “Mario the Foreman.”
The harvest was still a month away, but Rudy’s brother had decided to bring the pickers on early.
“They’re all good guys,” he told Mario. “I’ve known them all for years.”
“But we don’t need them yet.”
“But they need the place to stay, and the money.”
“You’re paying them already?”
The new guys weren’t bad, but they were many. They slept in the halls and on the kitchen floor and even in the room which used to be Mario’s alone. He had to stow his laptop for fear one of them might ask about it. The house’s two tiny bathrooms soon broke under the relentless use. The men played loud norteno music at all hours. They drank and made raucous conversation. Mario had trouble sleeping. Leaving for the fields in the morning he saw white neighbors throwing curious looks toward the house. At least they ate well because the new men, appreciative of Rudy’s brother’s generosity, kept the house stocked with beer and food.
When it was time for the new men to start work in late December they proved an asset, energetic and eager to help, waking early and preparing migas and coffee for breakfast. They took Mario’s instruction on how to harvest – to twist the berry off the vine, to be ever so careful with the skin of the fruit, to leave the smallest touch of green on the berry’s crown, to arrange the berries in the tray just so – even though they’d probably taken such instruction many times from many different foremen.
The winter was uncommonly mild and dry. The berries ripened early – fat, juice-filled, blood red fruit. Mario and the men were bent in the field from first light, Rudy’s brother among them, everyone pitching in. The early harvest was ready January 15th and presented well. They would be a great success and fetch a good price. Paolo V. claimed them with a huge smile.
As the Mixtecs loaded berries into the King Ranch, Mario bragged, “Have you ever seen fruit like that, Paolo V.? They will bring $12.00 a box!”
Paolo V. nodded but said nothing. He asked, “Is that one of those union fuckers?”
One of the hippy kids from the UFW was standing around talking with some of Mario’s workers. The hippy kid’s name was Brad. They all liked him. You had to. Brad with his goofy rainbow painted pickup truck and floppy clothes. Brad gave them flyers two or three times a week, asked the men to spread them around but didn’t press too much. He mainly asked where the guys were from and how they got here.
Mario said, “That’s just Brad.” But Paolo V. was already walking over. The wind kicked up and Mario couldn’t hear what Paolo V. said to Brad, but he sounded agitated. Brad turned to Paolo V. and smiled, the workers around him smiling as well; then he stuck his hand out to shake and Paolo V. hit him in the mouth. The workers kept smiling a minute before they realized there had been a change.
Mario ran over and grabbed Paolo V. who cursed Brad in Spanish and English. Brad stood with his hand on his jaw. He made the stink eye at Paolo V., but didn’t seem to even consider punching back. Paolo V. was not so big, but there was something in the design of his body – a springloadedness in his chest and arms – that dissuaded other men from challenging him; it had always been so.
Mario said, “Take it easy, Paolo!”
“You let these union fucks on your field?!” Paolo V. demanded this of Rudy’s brother, who had run over to see what the problem was.
“He’s alright.” Rudy’s brother said. “Brad’s alright.”
The workers milled around, looking curious. Mario walked up to Brad and the younger white man leaned his head back so Mario could look at his chin. It was swollen, but his eyes showed no fear.
“I told you to keep these union fucks out of here! Don’t we have a good thing going?!"
“Sure we do, Paolo V.” Rudy’s brother said, “Sure we do.”
Brad spoke softly, so only Mario could hear him amidst the commotion. He said, “How much are you getting per box, Mario?”
Mario just looked at him.
***
They got home that night to find a skinny blonde white woman in a business suit waiting outside the house. She called, “Senior Gonzalez? Senior Gonzalez?” and the workers flowed around her like a boulder in a river until Rudy’s brother said, “That’s me!”
He wore a big smile while he shook her hand, the same he’d worn at Mario’s house in Tejalapam. He took her gently by the elbow and guided her down the walk away from the house.
That night was their first sleeping in the field. Someone had discarded some lumber by the road and they used it and a blue tarp to build a shelter. They slept in rows, the smell of strawberries in their hair. Rudy’s brother had presented it to them as an opportunity rather that a setback, saying that the savings in rent would mean increases in all their wages, plus they’d not have to worry about being too loud anymore late at night, and they could sleep an extra twenty minutes every morning. Some of the men were angry. Most had slept in worse. And Rudy’s brother’s confidence was infectious. He even had Mario convinced that the move wasn’t a complete nightmare – at least until it started to rain.
Mario woke to the tarp collapsing, to a blue and wet world like underneath the ocean. Around him men cursed and shouted. This was about 4:30 am. He dug himself out from under the tarp and stood in the downpour.
Though the sun rose that day over the purple hills of Ventura County, the men never saw it through the clouds. It kept raining. Mario stowed his duffle under bags of fertilizer, hoping to keep the laptop dry.
It rained all that week. They tried to protect the strawberries, but it was impossible, many would be lost to bruising. They would have to be harvested early and sold cheaply. At least they had harvested a good amount of high grade berries before the rain.
It was a long week. They ate frozen burritos and drank cans of Coke and beer. Some workers fell ill from being outside in the elements. Brad from the UFW came with some other guys and a motor home. They set up an awning and cooked a hot meal and let the men sleep inside the motor home and on the ground under the awning. They had a fire and even a television to watch the Angels.
Late that night Mario sat in the cockpit with Brad and Rudy’s brother. They’d all been drinking for a long time, even Mario, and why not? So long as it rained, there was nothing else to do.
Brad asked Rudy’s brother, “How much will Paolo V. pay you for those early berries?”
Mario said, “GrowMark will charge at least $12.00 a box for those beauties. What did you get, $7.00, $8.00?”
Water coursed down the expansive windshield. Rudy’s brother said, “$4.00 a box.”
Mario coughed, “$4.00?!”
“That’s the contract.”
Brad echoed, “That’s the contract.”
“The contract says how much you get a box, no matter what?”
“Don’t worry, Mario.”
“How do you pay for all the equipment, our wages?”
“GrowMark loans me the money. You’ve gotten paid, haven’t you? They’ve all gotten paid.”
All the time Mario knew him, Rudy’s brother never seemed to stop smiling like that.
***
The sun came out two days later and Brad called more UFW guys in. They came with tables and pens and pins and Mario lined up his workers and they signed – as employees of GrowMark Farms – a petition demanding the formation of a union. This happened early and fast and they were out in the fields by 7:00 am, inspecting the damage from the rains.
It could have been worse. The plants were hearty and thickly leafed. Some larger berries at ground level were unaffected. Mario suspected a few thousand boxes might still come out of this, though he didn’t see how – at such a miniscule price – Rudy’s brother could possibly break even, never mind the interest on the loans.
At 11:00 am the men were all bent in the rows, picking. That’s when Paolo V. showed up, driving his Ford F-150 King Ranch ahead of three Caterpillars and a bulldozer. Mario told his men to keep working, but they were all too distracted. Rudy’s brother’s smile actually slipped for a second – Mario saw this clearly – then reassembled itself. They walked out to meet Paolo V.
Paolo V. skidded to a halt and got out shouting, “You’re a liar! You’re a liar!” and brandishing a short folded stack of papers.
Rudy’s brother said, “I know… I know…”
“It’s in your contract, fucker. You’re not to talk to these union fucks!”
Brad walked up saying, “Just take it easy, Paolo. They already signed.”
“Who signed? These guys? These guys aren’t GrowMark employees. These guys work for him.” He pointed at Rudy’s brother, who kept smiling. “The contract states! These guys work for him, and not for us!”
“It’s your equipment, Paolo V.” Mario hated the pleading sound in his own voice. “It says GrowMark all over it.”
“He rents it from us, and he owes us for all of it. You owe, fucker!” Paolo V. had a bullhorn slung over his chest. He used it to shout in Spanish toward the men in the big machines who, upon hearing him, began to drive onto the field. Paolo V. turned his bullhorn toward Mario’s workers, who had gathered to see what was happening, “This field is closed! GrowMark Farms is closing this field for contract violations!”
Mario watched the lead Caterpillar dig its blade into his strawberries, so lovingly cultivated. Rows of his fruit climbed high into the air then fell, their almost sexually red flesh buried in curds of brown. The other machines joined in. The field dug under and buried.
Paolo V. exhorted the workers, waving the contract, pointing out Rudy’s brother. “This guy did this to you! And these guys too!” he pointed out the UFW volunteers, “Now you have no jobs!” Everyone’s attention was divided and confused. They watched the bulldozers tear apart the field. They watched Paolo V. rail.
Mario swung a shovel at the back of Paolo V.’s head and grabbed the bullhorn strap as he fell. He brought the bullhorn to his lips and pressed the button and Mario knew just what to say and how to say it. He would explain everything so it could be understood. He would set everyone at ease, the workers, the union guys, the men in the big machines. Even the death of the woman Marta in the desert would make sense once Mario’s words, his voice, were heard.
But someone hit him and he fell. He saw frantic legs and feet squelching California soil.
***
It was the laptop in the end.
Not the bullies or the bulldozers, or the pickers or the unions. It was the laptop, Mario’s story.
He deleted all 273 pages, highlighting it line by line and jabbing the delete key and saying yes when the laptop asked if he was sure. The story may have been right but the words were all wrong – the voice, his voice. All wrong.
He sat on his porch in Tejalapam. He heard his mother rummaging in the house.
He stared at the screen, fingers hovering.
He waited for the words to come.
He waited to be able to speak.
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