Lunch Isn’t Ready Because ICE Came

It is almost noon and we’re preparing for the lunch crowd, which is usually pretty big, because we have been in this spot for a long time and everyone knows our tacos are the best. We don’t even have to advertise. People know where to find us. The truck’s open door brings in the fresh Memphis air. It is cold, but surprisingly, not freezing yet. The tropical sounds of Reggaeton blast in our stereos. I can’t stand it, but my brother Bernardo likes it. Says it makes him think of Friday nights, when we sometimes go to the clubs. Or used to, before the raids. Before everyone got scared of going anywhere, even church.

Bernardo is getting a glass of water while I prepare the meat. The new guy, whom we call “El Chino” because he kinda looks Chinese, is scrolling down his phone, pushing his glasses up his nose every five minutes. I don’t know why Bernardo hired him, since the pinche dude doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing half the time.

“Muévete,” I tell him, expecting him to flip me the bird, but he doesn’t. He’s busy checking any of the T’s: Tik Tok, Twitch, Twitter, or the old Tinder. Who knows.

I am about to turn on the stove when four gringos show up at the door. I tell them to go on the other side, and make a line, like any customer. But they don’t move.

“Come here,” says a tall, thick, blond gringo. Old enough to be my father.

For a moment, I wonder if he’s in the wrong place. I don’t think he’s from immigrations because he’s not wearing one of those black jackets with the hated three yellow letters, but a t-shirt and jeans instead. I give Bernardo a confused look, but he’s holding the glass of water in mid-air and doesn’t say anything. Even El Chino has stopped looking at his phone.

“Come here,” the gringo repeats.

A chill has crept up my pants and worked its way up to my head. I shake it and say, “No.”

“No?” he mocks me. “Tienes ID?”

I blink. That’s all I can do.

“Show me your ID and then we’ll get out of here.”

But I can’t.

He climbs in the truck and I take a step back, thinking that maybe this is a bad dream, that this can’t be really happening to me. I look at Bernardo, trying to figure out if he’s seeing the old gringo too, and reassure me that he’s not a figment of my imagination. But my brother is frozen to the ground like an ice statue.

I’m just selling tacos, I want to say, but my mouth doesn’t cooperate. My feet act on instinct, and I try to retreat to the back of the truck, but he blocks me. His six feet towering over me.

“No, no.” He grins.

Stupidly, I make a sign with my hands, trying to explain that I have to make a phone call. To whom, I don’t know. To my boss? To my mom? To a lawyer? But the man doesn’t let me.

“We’re not doing that here. You can make a phone call when you come back,” he fibs and starts pushing me out of the truck.

I wriggle to get free, to fight, but then I hear Bernardo yelling, “No, Antonio,” and I stop.

Another gringo, a younger one, climbs in and pushes Bernardo forward, too. My brother has his phone out, and I hope he has called for help, although I know it won’t make a difference.

We walk past El Chino, who is still pushing the buttons on his phone, his thumbs moving at the speed of light. His eyes stay glued to the screen, as if disappearing into his social media will somehow make him invisible.

The other two white men hold me while the younger gringo hands my brother to the six-foot-tall guy. Then the young guy pushes El Chino, who’s still scrolling down his phone, but whose face is whiter than usual.

When we’re all down, the six-foot man and the younger one climb back in the truck, looking for something. Maybe they think that we have a guy in the freezer? Maybe they think we have drugs? Or guns? Because those are the guys they’re after, right?

I look at Bernardo, and I want him to punch me, to wake me up from this nightmare. Because it has to be. Because people working a taco truck cannot be really taken by ICE, or end up in places like Guantanamo Bay. Because that’s the place for the bad guys, the bad hombres, right?

“I make tacos. I just make tacos,” I finally say. “Let us go.”

But the men hold us tighter. I blink a few times, trying to wake up, still under the illusion that this isn’t really happening. I look at Bernardo, whose defeated face tells me I’m not dreaming. I lift my head up toward the dark sky of Memphis, wondering when I will see it again. They pull us away, and I give one last look at the red truck, with the yellow tacos painted on its side.

Soon, the lunch crowd will form around it, looking for food. I guess they will have to find another place to eat today.