Pana
by Phil Temples
My buddy Pedro and I share cold brews on
the steps of my apartment
building in Queens. Pedro lives next door. It’s almost six-thirty in the
evening and it’s hotter than hell. The night is gonna be a scorcher.
I’ve known Pedro for almost three
months and have come to regard
him as a friend. He’s a good egg. The dude speaks Spanish with a strange
accent, though. I ask Pedro where he’s from, and he replies, “Guatemala.” I
find that odd. I was born in America, but my family is from the bordering
Chiapas state. He’s definitely not Mexican or Guatemalan. He don’t sound
nothin’ like them.
“Pedro, you got any family here in
town?” I ask.
“Naw, man, I’m pretty much on
my own.”
I set down my empty beer and reach for another
bottle and
skillfully pop the cap off against the stoop.
“Hey, it’s none of my business,
man, but . . . you got any papers?”
I’m guessing that Pedro is undocumented. He keeps a low profile and stays out
of trouble. He’s told me that he makes a living doing odd jobs—the kind that
only pay in cash.
Pedro looks around to make sure no one is
eavesdropping on our
conversation. Then he looks at me oddly, his eyes narrowed practically to
slits. His eyes remind me of a lizard’s eyes.
“You’re not gonna report me,
are you?”
He realizes from my reaction that I’m
offended.
“Fuck, no!” I reply. “Bro!
I’d never snitch on another pana. We
brown folk gotta stick together against those ICE putas.”
“Sorry, man,” Pedro replies.
“It’s just, you know, you hear stories
about people ratting on other people in the ‘hood.”
“I hear ya’, man. I don’t
think we got any of those puta madres around here. If
I ever learned that there was one, they’d be in for one hell of a beatdown. ¿Comprende?”
“Good to know, bro.” Pedro
drinks his beer and remains silent for a while. Two hours and a six-pack later,
Pedro begins to open up to me.
“José, I lied when I told you that
I was from Guatemala.”
“’Figured that, bro. Don’t
sweat it. I’m sure you got your
reasons.”
“Actually,” he says, “I’m
from someplace a lot farther away than
Central America.”
“How’s that, bro?”
Pedro pauses. He looks up in the sky for
a moment as though he’s
searching for something, and then he reaches out with his fist and taps me
affectionately on the shoulder.
“Mmm . . . another time, José. Hey,
thanks for the cervezas. See
ya’, man.”
#
There seems to be no pattern for whom ICE
picks up. Last week, they
raided an entire apartment building in Jackson Heights. They didn’t even bother
to ask for names or IDs. The goons just hauled all of the residents out of
their apartments, made ‘em sit on the curb, and slapped the tie-wraps on. It’s
like we got no Fourth Amendment rights! Things are getting really scary. Even
though I’m a US citizen, I figure one can never be too careful. I keep the name
and number of an immigration lawyer in my wallet, and my passport card is handy
at all times in case there’s a knock on the door.
That night, the puta
madres strike our neighborhood. I hear the commotion in the building next door
and look out the window in time to witness several families being dragged out the
front door by thugs wearing flak jackets and masks. Several niñas are screaming
in terror. Their parents are unable to hold and comfort them with their hands
tied behind their backs.
I see Pedro being dragged out
of the front door by two ICE putas. My heart sinks! He’s putting up a real
fight, all right. ¡Bueno para ti, bro!
As they drag Pedro along the
ground, one of the goons is tugging on his pants legs. He pulls down Pedro’s
pants, exposing his underwear. Then I see it! Whoa! Pedro’s got a tail! He’s
got a motherfuckin’ tail! I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it!
The tail whips around,
striking one of the ICE goons in the face. The goon winces in pain, causing him
to release his grip on Pedro. Pedro has just enough time to pull up his pants
and scurry down the street. Those putas are in a state of shock. Not one of
them attempts to give pursuit. Pedro disappears like a bat out of hell into a
nearby park.
I guess Pedro wasn’t kidding.
He is from somewhere a lot farther away than Central America. He’ll need a
really good immigration lawyer.
