What's In the News

Jack brought the paper into the bar, maybe
the morning edition he hadn’t had the chance
to read since breakfast was earlier than the paperboy
slapped the rolled-up thing against the storm door
Jack had finally changed a week before when
the thermometer finally began to read somewhere
south of forty, and he was usually two blocks away
heading toward work when he caught sight of the kid
dawdling up the sidewalk, lugging the sack, looking
himself like a sad-sack—I mean, didn’t he own a bike?
what kind of paperboy doesn’t ride a bike? if he rode
a bike maybe Jack could read the damned depressing
stuff that passed for news while he sopped up the egg
yolk with his whole wheat toast—and still at least
twenty minutes from Jack’s door. So, after dinner, he
comes into the bar, orders a draft and rattles the paper
so everyone in the place can hear him do it, and
everyone in the place glances at him, shakes his head,
and goes back to staring at the bubbles rising in his beer,
and Jack reads something, and, “For fuck’s sake,” he says,
“if that don’t beat all,” he says, and Kevin, sitting two
stools down can’t help but rise to the bait, and says, “What’s
that?” You never say “what’s that” to nobody sitting in
a bar unless you want to open some can of worms you
might not be able, not for another hour or two, be able
to shut, but there it was, sitting right there on the bar
solid as their two mugs and Kevin’s empty shot glass.
“Immigration,” Jack says, “all this holy horseshit they
all have to say about immigration.” “Who’s that,” Kevin
asks, already thinking he’s in deeper than he wanted,
and didn’t he know better than to start talking to some
guy reading a paper? Sometimes you just get what you
deserve. “All these,” and Jack makes a face like he’s eaten
a wad of snot, “politicians.” “Politicians,” Kevin says,
looking for a way to slam the lid down tight, “what the hell
do you want, politicians.” Not a question—a question
opens the door to an answer, and an answer’s the last
thing Kevin wants. He shrugs his shoulders and turns
back away from the slight turn he’d made toward Jack
and goes back to watching the bubbles rising in his beer.
Jack’s so busy being angry with the paper, he doesn’t
notice that Kevin’s tried to shut him out, and he says,
“Yeah, but they keep yappity-yapping on about this shit—
immigration. For Chrissake. Ain’t none of them Red
Indians, all their families come here from someplace else,
just like mine and, from the look of you, yours. Most of
them, probably can’t even count all the places their families
come from on both hands. Immigrants. Taking all
our jobs? Build a goddamn fence?” Jack takes a sip of beer—
more like a slurp—and shakes his head, looks up from
the paper and glances toward Kevin, his eyes a little slit,
and he asks, “How hard d’you work to get your job?”
“What,” Kevin says. “I say, what d’you do for a living?”
“Work at the paper mill,” Kevin says. “Hard work,”
Jack asks. “Hard enough,” Kevin says, not certain where
this is heading but not liking it one bit. “I mean,” Jack says,
“you need to know a lot to do your job?” “The fuck you
asking,” Kevin says, swiveling his stool back around
toward Jack. Jack raises his hands. “Just asking,” he says,
“don’t mean no offense.” “Well,” Kevin says, not sure
why he’s still talking when what he wants to do is loose
a few of this guy’s teeth, “it’s mostly computerized now,
got to make sure everything’s working on the level.” “So,
yeah,” Jack says, “you need to know a lot to do your job.”
“Yeah,” Kevin says, “you put it that way.” “Then why,”
Jack says, “would you be afraid some immigrant’s gonna
take your job away?” “I never said I was afraid of that,” Kevin
says. “But you are, aren’t you?” “I don’t think they got no
business coming over here, taking jobs away from Americans,
even if it ain’t my job they’re after.” Jack nods and takes
another pull off his beer. “How hard you work to get
to your job,” he asks, “you answer some add in a newspaper,
go down to the plant and sit through your interview, drive
there, drive home, got your heater running, maybe it’s
summer, got the air cranking it out?” “Yeah,” Kevin
says, “that’s about how it started, then I, you know,
worked my way up.” “But to start,” Jack insists, “you
drove over, did a sit-down interview, drove home, waited
for the phone to ring.” “Yeah,” Kevin says, “ain’t that
the way most people get their jobs?” “These immigrants,”
Jack says, “they wander in the desert for days, maybe
a week, got sandals on their feet made from worn-out
tires, don’t got nothing to drink, somebody catches them,
takes them back where they came from, they do it all
over again.” Jack drains the glass and taps it on the bar
for another. “So,” Kevin says, “what’s your point?”
“Somebody,” Jack says, sipping the foam off the fresh
mug, “goes to that fucking much trouble to get a job—
week in the sun, tires on their feet—don’t you think that
beats all hell out of how hard most of us worked to get
our goddamn jobs? And they get here, what, they
make wages most of us wouldn’t even spit on, even if
we weren’t within a hundred miles of getting a job.”
Kevin sees that Jack has that kind of look on his
face while he takes another pull on the beer and snaps
the paper for emphasis, and then he sets the mug
back on the bar and says, “Immigrants. Immigrants.
More Americans had that kind of gumption, the whole
damn country wouldn’t be circling the damn toilet.”