“Border Bros” by Dan Grossman
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Border Bros
It was at the bar at the Black Horse Lounge in Del Rio, Texas, where I met the Border Bros.
“We’re headed to the river tomorrow,” the first one said to me after our mutual introductions, while flagging the bartender down for another Mai Tai. He was a big guy with a bolo tie and a MAGA hat. “We’re repairing this rancher’s fence that the cartel cut to get migrants through. His name’s Edsel, like the cars Ford used to put out.”
MAGA’s cell phone rang, and he stepped away from the bar to take it.
The Stetson-wearing dude to my right, rolling his eyes a little, didn’t seem impressed with MAGA.
“I want to test out my new AK tomorrow,” he told me. “We just so happen to have our bullseyes on the border wall.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’re going to kill migrants?” I asked.
Stetson, whose name was Jim—I was able to tell by the nametag on his shirt saying “Hi, my name is Jim”—gave me some serious side-eye. “Migrants? They’re fucking illegals.”
“I’m well aware that crossing the border between ports of entry is illegal, but I prefer to call them migrants.”
“Lemme guess,” he said. “You’re a libtard.”
“No, I’m a journalist,” I said, feeling a little reckless after the three Bud Lights I had already imbibed. “I just finished a review of the book The Border is Bi by Jeff Marti. Have you heard of it?”
Jim almost spat out his first sip of beer.
“I mean ‘bi’ as in ‘binational,’” I said. “But as the author noted in his introduction, national identity is not necessarily a concept devoid of sexuality.”
“Listen,” he spat. “I’m going down to the river to do what the Border Patrol needs to do, what the border needs done. How do you feel about that as a fucking bisexual?”
Before I had a chance to consider the question, Jim called out for the bartender.
“I want a Wetback,” he spat. “You know how to make that? The red-cheeked boy of a bartender seems confused. He caught me looking him over and I averted my gaze, which lands on two off dudes at the corner table who strike me as cops despite their being out of uniform. Something about their 10-gallon hats and mustaches.
It’s at this point MAGA sat back down on his stool.
Jim repeated his order, louder now, and the guys at the corner table seem none too pleased. Neither did the bartender who said, “That’s not a drink we carry here.”
“It’s a Wetback,” he repeated. “Two shots of Tequila cut with Rio Grande water.” He started laughing at his own joke.
MAGA, who seemed on the verge of falling asleep at the bar, suddenly perked up. “My wife is Mexican, you asshole,” he said. “Don’t use that word.”
"Let me guess, dude, you speak Spanglish at home.”
“I do sometimes because this is Del Rio, not fucking Austin,” MAGA said. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business.”
“Actually, it is my business, seeing that I also live in South Texas. I pay my taxes expecting my children will learn English in school. Instead, they come home speaking mixed breed shit. I can’t understand a word.”
“You know what my wife says about South Texas?” MAGA asked.
“You think I give a fuck?”
“She says we didn’t cross the border. The border crossed us.”
“Well, why doesn’t she cross the border back now, you RINO loser?”
Rather than try to make sense of this remark, MAGA threw his drink in Jim’s face.
Jim responded with an uppercut to MAGA’s jaw and both fell to the floor in an explosion of blood mist and broken teeth.
It took all of 45 seconds for the two off-duty cops to slap the cuffs on both men, speaking Spanish all the while.
I caught the gist of their conversation. Something about racists being more common than pig shit in Texas.
