IGMS Issue 9 by IGMS

Author:IGMS
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Hatrack River Enterprises
Published: 2008-06-30T16:00:00+00:00

Miguel woke with a screaming headache. It'd been quite a while since he'd last woken up still drunk from the night before, but not so long ago that he didn't remember how miserable it felt. Only after scrubbing his face for five minutes did it strike him that the sun was awfully bright outside. It was after nine already.

The rental he had arranged for was waiting for him in the hotel parking structure. He hopped in and rushed south to the wall, and though he tried to use his Press ID to grease the skids, it still took over an hour to make it through.

It was amazing how third-world Mexico seemed, even this close to the border -- maybe especially this close to the border. There were so many migrants using Nogales as a launching point for crossings that huge portions of the shanty towns were little more than temporary housing.

In some ways Mexico's predicament was understandable. NAFTA had been disbanded thirty years ago as an almost complete failure. Global warming had plodded on at a steady pace despite the ever-tightening global controls over greenhouse gases. Mexico's farming industry had been crushed, and its Gulf-side tourism had been pummeled to the point of collapse by the incessant arrival of hurricanes storming in from the Atlantic.

It was a shame, too, because the United States, ever since the wall had been upgraded in the mid part of the century, had become progressively wealthier, both technologically and monetarily. Various administrations paid lip service to helping their southern neighbors, but those initiatives, no matter how heartfelt, would often be dismantled within a decade of their conception, leaving Mexico in the same place it had been a century earlier.

It was well after eleven by the time Miguel found the old square which held the bakery. Miguel knew in his gut that Sandro had already come and gone, and sure enough, no one was in the cramped bakery when he arrived except a hunched old Mexican woman who eyed him suspiciously from the far side of the counter. Over her shoulder, a squeaky air conditioner fought vainly against the oppressive heat. It was hot, but Miguel liked the ancient and fragrant smell of the bakery.

Miguel took out a hundred-peso note and laid it on the counter. "Café y dos churros, por favor."

Miguel took his coffee and churros and sat down to regroup. A few minutes later, while Miguel was nursing his hangover with the scent of the coffee, Sandro entered the bakery. He used his cane -- more heavily than usual -- to make his way between the tables and sit across from Miguel.

Miguel snapped a photo immediately.

Sandro's cane leans against a nearby chair as he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his faded denim jacket. His disheveled gray hair, his baggy eyes, his listless face -- all telltale signs of a man who hadn't slept in days.

"You look like hell," Miguel said.

"Back atcha," Sandro replied.

They both managed a weak smile.

An uncomfortable

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