Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

204 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Jeremy B. Jones
when I pass the park, it is full, and people are waving blue flags. There
are long lines to plates with meat on them. When you eat beans for
breakfast, lunch, and supper, meat is reason enough to climb in the
back of a truck and curve down the mountain road with the dust and
wind wetting your eyes to tears. I don’t get in line for food; I am an
observer after all. I have no vote.
There are games and comedians and prizes. Everyone gets a flag
and banner with Miguel’s name or face on it. Then the man comes back
on stage, and I recognize his voice from my laundry this morning. He
talks about running water and roads. He talks about poverty. He talks
about this nuevo tiempo that Miguel will bring. He says remember this
on February 20 th . He smiles; a gold tooth flickers.
The people turn away, full. The stage starts closing down, and
the political “party” will load up on its bus and head to another town
tomorrow. I wonder how effective the day was for Miguel. Many
people have dropped their flags; plastic plates are all over the ground
and street. Tomorrow morning Miguel’s name will line the road,
as his banners and flags and trash are left, and I wonder how much
money was spent to bring all of this equipment and food. For all of
the empty promises politicians leave hanging in the air, the people
seem savvy to it all. They’ve eaten, and now they’re waiting for a ride
back home. They’ll come into town again in a few weeks when Pepe’s
crew comes through. They’ll take his poster and food and egg him on.
They’ll cheer. For today they will get a little richer and the politician
will get a little poorer.
It’s almost dark, and the trucks have mostly stopped with the
noise. I walk further south to a pulpería—a corner store—where
I plan to buy my supper. I see one of my students and her mother.
They are going my direction—or, I am going their direction; I am an
outsider today. We talk about the day’s events, and I tell them that I
am trying to sell my guitar and that I put up some fliers around town,
but I haven’t found too much interest. I’ve thought about borrowing
a truck and driving around town screaming that I am selling a
TAKAMINE ELECTRIC/ACOUSTIC GUITAR! I don’t make that
joke with Raquel and her mom, Melani. Melani tells me that her
church may be interested in buying it. They are on their way there
now, and she will ask one of the guitarists. I say that would be great.
We turn the corner, and I hear their church. It has started, and the
music is loud and exciting. The building looks like a warehouse. This
is probably the wealthiest evangelical church in town. Good news for