bell, Jose asked, "What'll we do this afternoon?"
Looking down the length of San Ramon, which seemed abandoned, Giron sighed. There was really nothing to do. "If I was back in Los Angeles, I'd probably go sailing with a friend of mine off Long Beach. And I'd take you. But here ... I think we'd better just go back to the camp and lie under the pepper trees. I've got some work to do on my notes."
Jose groaned.
But as they walked away, Giron said, "I hear we'll have a day off next week. Before we shift to picking cucumbers. You and I will go to Salinas, a city north of here. Not as large as Los Angeles or San Francisco but large enough. How's that?"
"Couldn't I be caught?"
Giron laughed. "No, put that out of your mind. You've seen all the Mexicans around here. You look no different from them."
That was true, Jose thought. He just felt different.
That afternoon, Jose took three hours to draw a portrait of Giron and then presented it to him.
"It's terrific, Jose," Giron said. "It looks just like me."
He did not say the ears were too big.
11
T HE TOMATO FIELDS were finished Monday. They worked until dark to load the last lugs. There would be a later pick when more ripened. But now the loading platforms were jammed with boxes labeled "Bright-Pack." Heavy diesel trucks were being filled and lumbered out periodically. The pickers would not work again until Wednesday morning. Some of the men had already left Haines Main to go on to other farms. Not so many would be needed for the cucumbers.
Just past seven on Tuesday morning, Jose and Giron walked and hitched to San Ramon to catch the Greyhound north. Giron wore slacks, a yellow jumper, and expensive-looking shoes. Jose was proud to be with him. He looked more
americano
than Mexican.
As they sat down, far in the back, Jose whispered, "Did you see how the bus driver stared at me?"
Giron laughed it off. "Put it out of your mind." As he dug his shoulders into the soft seat, he added, "As a matter of fact, Mexico used to own this state. You and I are the new Mexican army. We'll take it back again."
Jose laughed, too, feeling less like a criminal.
The bus began to speed along the freeway, skirting the Salinas River. "That is part of the reason the earth is so good here, Jose. But it's a strange river. Sometimes it runs on the surface; sometimes underground for long distances."
"You know a lot of things," Jose said.
Giron smiled. "I know we will conquer Salinas."
Jose decided to pretend, just for the day, that Giron was his father. Giron was dressed so well, and was so confident about everything. Maldonado would not mind, he knew.
The countryside became even more fertile as they went north. In some fields, dozens of irrigation nozzles swished back and forth, sending great sprays of shining water across the crops. Back on the yellowed hills to the east, at the beginning of the mountains, cattle grazed. Jose wondered if Baja would ever look like this.
They rode in silence for a while and then Giron said, "We'll walk around, see the stores, have a good meal. Perhaps we can find a movie this afternoon."
Jose nodded happily. He'd been to the cinema once in Ensenada; the second trip there, when he was eleven.
"You should see Cantinflas. Maybe we can find a Cantinflas film. There are several Spanish movies in Salinas."
Jose had heard of Cantinflas and had seen posters of his films. He was a comedian with a face like an egg and a small mustache.
Giron turned in his seat. "I have an idea. When I was a student at Los Angeles State, we used to try to find everything that was free in town. It's a good game, I'll show you."
The bus ducked down off the freeway to stop for a few minutes in several small towns and then they were in Salinas.
Jose was awed by the city. Salinas made Ensenada appear as small as San Vicente. He couldn't imagine what Los Angeles might be like.
As they moved along the busy street, shops and stores crammed against each other, everyone hurrying somewhere,
Looking down the length of San Ramon, which seemed abandoned, Giron sighed. There was really nothing to do. "If I was back in Los Angeles, I'd probably go sailing with a friend of mine off Long Beach. And I'd take you. But here ... I think we'd better just go back to the camp and lie under the pepper trees. I've got some work to do on my notes."
Jose groaned.
But as they walked away, Giron said, "I hear we'll have a day off next week. Before we shift to picking cucumbers. You and I will go to Salinas, a city north of here. Not as large as Los Angeles or San Francisco but large enough. How's that?"
"Couldn't I be caught?"
Giron laughed. "No, put that out of your mind. You've seen all the Mexicans around here. You look no different from them."
That was true, Jose thought. He just felt different.
That afternoon, Jose took three hours to draw a portrait of Giron and then presented it to him.
"It's terrific, Jose," Giron said. "It looks just like me."
He did not say the ears were too big.
11
T HE TOMATO FIELDS were finished Monday. They worked until dark to load the last lugs. There would be a later pick when more ripened. But now the loading platforms were jammed with boxes labeled "Bright-Pack." Heavy diesel trucks were being filled and lumbered out periodically. The pickers would not work again until Wednesday morning. Some of the men had already left Haines Main to go on to other farms. Not so many would be needed for the cucumbers.
Just past seven on Tuesday morning, Jose and Giron walked and hitched to San Ramon to catch the Greyhound north. Giron wore slacks, a yellow jumper, and expensive-looking shoes. Jose was proud to be with him. He looked more
americano
than Mexican.
As they sat down, far in the back, Jose whispered, "Did you see how the bus driver stared at me?"
Giron laughed it off. "Put it out of your mind." As he dug his shoulders into the soft seat, he added, "As a matter of fact, Mexico used to own this state. You and I are the new Mexican army. We'll take it back again."
Jose laughed, too, feeling less like a criminal.
The bus began to speed along the freeway, skirting the Salinas River. "That is part of the reason the earth is so good here, Jose. But it's a strange river. Sometimes it runs on the surface; sometimes underground for long distances."
"You know a lot of things," Jose said.
Giron smiled. "I know we will conquer Salinas."
Jose decided to pretend, just for the day, that Giron was his father. Giron was dressed so well, and was so confident about everything. Maldonado would not mind, he knew.
The countryside became even more fertile as they went north. In some fields, dozens of irrigation nozzles swished back and forth, sending great sprays of shining water across the crops. Back on the yellowed hills to the east, at the beginning of the mountains, cattle grazed. Jose wondered if Baja would ever look like this.
They rode in silence for a while and then Giron said, "We'll walk around, see the stores, have a good meal. Perhaps we can find a movie this afternoon."
Jose nodded happily. He'd been to the cinema once in Ensenada; the second trip there, when he was eleven.
"You should see Cantinflas. Maybe we can find a Cantinflas film. There are several Spanish movies in Salinas."
Jose had heard of Cantinflas and had seen posters of his films. He was a comedian with a face like an egg and a small mustache.
Giron turned in his seat. "I have an idea. When I was a student at Los Angeles State, we used to try to find everything that was free in town. It's a good game, I'll show you."
The bus ducked down off the freeway to stop for a few minutes in several small towns and then they were in Salinas.
Jose was awed by the city. Salinas made Ensenada appear as small as San Vicente. He couldn't imagine what Los Angeles might be like.
As they moved along the busy street, shops and stores crammed against each other, everyone hurrying somewhere,
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