Twenty-Seven Cents

Part 1

His footsteps made these slushy, crackling sounds as his weight penetrated the light dusting of snow that had buried the dried underbrush. 'He would have been useless as a hunter.' he thought to himself. They had walked all night, single file along a stretch of poorly lit road. He had hung back, moving at a slower pace, and avoiding the carefree huddle that his fellow travelers seemed to enjoy. In the cold night air, illuminated only by the faintest of light from the half moon, wisps of frost danced above the heads of the group just ahead of him. He didn't speak Spanish, his Cuban friends would occasionally engage him with their broken English, to offer a sip of whiskey or some Cuban coffee. He never refused the latter as he needed to be alert. Every few minutes he would allow the cold air to blast his face then wrap himself up again. Coffee and cold air would do more to keep him alert than Canadian Whiskey.

Roxham Road wasn't at all what he had expected. Several times he would walk backwards, facing where he had come from, preferring to keep an eye at what may venture from behind. Each step away from Quebec, was a step towards the unknown. But he had been in this position before. Every day was an adventure into the unfamiliar. He had no name, and it was time to think of one. Identity was irrelevant when you had no existence, and no place to call your own. Immigration officials just assigned case numbers and sent you home or took bribes that allowed you disappear back into noise of society's backdrop. The faceless, nameless multitude that did the thankless jobs.

Ray, his best friend back home, had told him not to come to Canada to be a slave to the white man, they had life good in Trinidad. But he dreamed of so much more. Never having finished middle school, his life was one of grind and hustle, play ball, smoke weed and get drunk into the early morning. Night would roll into day, and the monotony continued, a seamless non-existence. Ray was so wrong. There was more to life, than repeating yesterdays. It would be difficult as an uneducated black man to achieve more unless he was willing to break the law. Being an illegal immigrant was as far as he was willing to bend the law.

"Mira, Mira! Shhh" they all said it at the same time, a shaft of frost exploded into the air.

The headlight did not belong to a border patrol. He had been scouting the small immigration post for three weeks. Border security existed, but they were lazy. They slept from midnight to sunrise. The more efficient security was the black bear, and the skittish deer that foraged the area. Twice that night he had seen one cross the road behind them. A glance at his Casio watched purchased at a fair two days earlier said the driver was on time as agreed. For safety they all scrambled deeper into the high grass that skirted Roxham Road. 'It was a Volkswagen type 2.' He could tell the make of a vehicle at a busy traffic intersection just from the sound of the engine. The diver butchered the gear change, as he brought the minibus to a crawl not far from where they were hiding. He wouldn't wait long for them. His companions rushed into the open; muffled grunts and harried footsteps, chasing across the snow-covered ground to the parked vehicle. Still, he waited., glancing nervously in both directions. The sliding door opened noisily from someone on the inside, and as they scrambled aboard, the driver began a sluggish three-point turn in the middle of the road. The Volkswagen had seen a lot more action than this early morning drive. At the last moment, he darted across to the vehicle and handed over what remained of his money to the man straddling the door. He counted it quickly, then gave him access with a nod of his head.

Joining his fellow refugees sitting on the floor of the minibus, he found himself a spot near the wheel hump, and made himself adjust to the irritation. It had poor suspension, a noisy transmission, and damp, molding, rotted plywood where the windows used to be. The vehicle had been used for cargo hauling, perhaps low-grade marijuana and other contraband. He could smell the remnants of scents that had long been absorbed into the wooden floor and the side panels. In the darkness he could make out the faces of happy, yet anxious men. All of them taking a journey into the undetermined.

It had been a nearly a month since his aunt made him unwelcomed. His refusal to secure a more legal status by marrying her daughter, had irritated her so much so, that in a drunken fit she threatened to call the police. He was safer on the road, as a loner. Employment at this time of year was easy to find. Apple picking mostly. It was hard work and it felt like servitude. But he had managed to save the forty dollars needed to get the ride on the minibus, a ride to his freedom and a new life. All he had left were several nickels and some pennies for making a phone call when he got there. A total of twenty-seven cents.

He had an uncle in New York; his mother's little brother, who was more of a best friend than an uncle. Only five years separated the two. He allowed himself to drift off to sleep, a three-hour journey until they got into the city. It would be easy to get lost in a big city and die a nobody, existing on the fringes like so many illegal immigrants. But he would be a somebody, and despite what his best friend had declared, he wouldn't be anyone's slave. He would call himself Ray.