Luis' Calamity -Joan Shepherd

His heart was pounding, his mouth dry but a smile appeared on his sweating face. It was Luis, 17 years old, strong, daring, and now an illegal (undocumented) Mexican in the U. S. The coyote was $1000 richer but nowhere around and all Luis had was an address of an uncle in San Jose. So with an uncertain bravado, he headed north, acclimated for awhile with his also illegal uncle's family, headed north again and ended up in Boyes Hot Springs.

The corner of Highway 12 and Vallejo is a gathering place for men hoping for work, any work. Their eyes turn in unison every time I drive by in my pickup truck which saddens me as I wait for the stop light avoiding eye contact. Sometimes there is a box of doughnuts or bread on top of a crate and as the weather cools, these mostly young men are scrunched into sweaters or jackets not providing enough warmth as they stand in small groups on either side of the street, hands in their pockets moving quickly to any vehicle that slows down. 

Luis was one of those Spanish speaking young men standing on that corner, just up from the elegant Sonoma Mission Inn, when extraordinary luck came by in a well-used black truck, driven by my neighbor Horace, which picked Luis to help on a construction job. His luck continued as Horace and his partner were so impressed with his eagerness and capabilities they picked him up every morning at the comer where men watched with discouraged expressions, while Luis had a broad smile showing his one wayward tooth. Luis picked up English on the job where the words like "hammer" or "nail" were written on unfinished walls and lunch conversations increased his vocabulary. Luis was eager to learn and took advantage of La Luz (a non-profit that aids immigrants) where he studied English, and later, the computer. More luck came when Horace let him move in with him and have a small bedroom of his own. 

Luis soon managed to buy his own truck and developed a clientele for gardening. I paid him for some jobs he did for me and other times he just helped me, carrying something heavy or digging the hole to bury my cat Clarisa. 

One late afternoon shortly after I had put Clarisa to sleep, I was outdoors and crying, thinking about death whether unexpected or induced. Suddenly, Luis appeared, "Don't cry, don't be sad. You have a beautiful house and yard. Don't be sad", and when I said he never was sad, he replied, "I can't afford to be sad. When you are sad, you make mistakes." He comforted me with words and a hug. Later that night, he brought me a bouquet of flowers from the nursery where he worked part time, and the next night, more flowers.

Luis wanted to have his GED when the time came to return to Mexico which would make a big impression and get him a better job. I got him enrolled in a GED class held in Spanish and he was a loyal student even if it was difficult. He made friends but some resented his good luck in having work, meaning money, and a place to sleep. Those standing on the comer began to brush him off.

He was a good kid, only 18, but more mature than I've seen in many of our local youth. He was a master of his skateboard, going down Highway 12 bending gracefully with movements like a dancer. But Luis did have his erratic moods, rambling in Spanish as he struggled with adjusting to a different world and sometimes arguing with his host, Horace. Afterwards he'd get on his skateboard and sail down Calle del Monte, air moving and soothing his mood and his body, moving so gracefully, even with anger. 

Luis had been here 2 years when he had another wild outburst for some reason. But this time, he took his truck rather than his skateboard. A few hours later, I saw the CHP parked at the end of the driveway, two officers standing casually outside, one leaning against a tree, talking to the occupant which I knew would be Luis. I was worried but waited. Luis finally appeared, mumbling and stumbling toward his house just as Horace returned from a bike ride. Horace talked with the CHP who said Luis was acting a little crazy but not enough to arrest him. However, they had cited him for driving without a license and impounded his truck.

Horace and Luis then had a verbal fight with lots of "Fuck You" and Horace saying Luis had to improve his behavior. It ended with Luis saying Horace wasn't his father and he didn't want to live there anymore. "OK, get out now" I heard Horace say. "OK, I will" Luis responded and he left on his skateboard with a small backpack. By morning, all of his other belongings were distributed in the empty field next door and covered with a big blue tarp.

Luis had managed to collect material things as well as English. 

Two days later, Luis appeared and told me he can get the belongings in his car if he goes to Napa to a police station. I agree to take him. On the way, he tells me he can get a driver's license in Oregon but how would he get there? How indeed, but I didn't offer. At the police station, a woman at the desk was most sympathetic saying Luis was lucky to have someone help him as she gets some Mexicans coming in who don't know the language and have no transportation. An officer going off duty got involved saying they wouldn't honor an Oregon license, it would cost $800-1000 to get his truck, but all he needed for a California license was his birth certificate, a social security number, and of course, pass the test. Luis had his birth certificate and I was sure we could get him a SSN. We found the office in downtown Napa, and waited our turn. "This man would like to apply for a SSN." I said proudly. "Do you have your papers?" she offered to him with a totally uninterested expression, "Your green card?" 

On the way home, Luis ranted that (Governor) Schwarzenegger was an immigrant but made it difficult for Mexicans who only wanted to work at jobs Americans didn't want. He said he'd buy another truck rather then get his out of storage. "How do you do that without any papers?" I asked innocently and he grinned, "You buy it off the street, pay cash". Oooh. "My uncle keeps getting his vehicles impounded and he just goes out and buys another truck. He has to have transportation to work but he'll never make enough money go pay the fines or get his cars back." I'm feeling discouraged but Luis does get his things from his stored truck in Sonoma. He particularly wanted his cell phone and he gave me a new white soccer ball. I dropped him off somewhere in Boyes Springs at a two bedroom apartment where eight people were living. I felt strange coming home to my empty house.

Luis seemed to handling this calamity more objectively than me. 

Two days later, Luis appears at my door, dressed in a new navy blue shirt and trousers and his hat with the visor in front. "I came to say goodbye. I'm leaving tomorrow for Mexico." I was shocked and disappointed. But he had his ticket, thanked me for all I had done for him, apologized for the outburst that brought all this on but didn't explain it, and gave me his mother's phone number in Mexico. "I'll work with my father" he added and I wondered, when it was his father who sent him to the US to make more money, but in weekly phone conversations accused him of just playing around and not working. 

Luis left on his skateboard, turning down Calle del Monte, body swaying with the moves, looking confident, strong, and handsome.

I will miss him. 
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