In the mid-70s, I was a full-time student at the University of Utah, paying for schooling as a full-time blackjack dealer in Wendover, Nevada. I went to class Monday through Thursday, then drove to Wendover on Thursday afternoon to begin dealing shifts, putting in 40 hours in four days. I'd drive home late Sunday night, catch some sleep, then start over with the books Monday morning.
I was one of the youngest dealers in town, my co-workers comprising the most eclectic mix of people I've ever been around. From good-natured scoundrels to young mothers, from dealers on their last legs who had been booted from every other casino in Nevada to a bevy of equally lost Southern fellows who could have walked off the set of The Flim-Flam Man. I was never far from someone zany, funny or flat-out smart.
On any other night I could learn how to properly fire a M60 machine gun while strapped into a Huey over Vietnam, debate who was more correct—Einstein or Bohr—regarding quantum theory, be shown desert survival techniques, admit to UFO sightings, or be led to where artifacts left by the peoples who lived on the shores of old Lake Bonneville thousands of years ago could still be found. At one turn, I could discuss the author Thomas Wolfe, then be pivoted to a John Coltrane listening session.
It in was Wendover where I first met government conspiracy freaks—the bedrock of what became the Tea Party—when President Ronald Reagan began taxing tips. That was zany. It's small wonder that Trump made eliminating tips a campaign pledge. It wasn't about the people though, he just wanted the votes and got them in Nevada.
Among my best friends in Wendover, though, were the immigrants. And I became pals with many young men who had travelled north to find work. We got along famously—they even taught me Spanish.
They were the janitors, the barbacks and the busboys while their wives, sisters or girlfriends worked as waitresses and maids. They didn't take anyone's job. There were hardly any people living in Wendover in the first place, certainly not scores of people looking to fold blankets or fill ice bins.
There was a house that a number of them shared and I'd go by to sit on the porch and have beers with them. We'd laugh and sing like crazy and I learned the song "Cielito Lindo." The well-known chorus to it begins "ay ay ay ay canta y no llores"—sing, don't cry. I can attest they did sing and they did not cry.
One Friday, I was walking into the casino when there, being led out in handcuffs, was my buddy Jesus, taller than most of the rest, with a red long-sleeved shirt, a tight afro and a small mustache above his wry smile. He was in the arms of immigration officers, "La Migra," who were escorting him to their vehicle prior to sending him back from whence he came.
I said, "hey, wait, leave him alone, he hasn't done anything wrong, we need him and ... ." That's about the time one of the officers got dead zero in my face and asked me for ID and said if I didn't have any, I'd go off too, with "your Mexican buddy."
Jesus just kind of laughed and told me in Spanish, "Don't worry, Juan. I'll be back Monday."
Then he was gone. Everyone was scrambling, but not panicked, not even the Mexican workers who were not picked up. Turns out that most everyone knew Immigration was coming, but poor Jesus and a few others never got the memo to stay away from work or to gather at a predetermined hiding spot outside of town.
I was told it was the casino who tipped off the workers. It was plain as day that without them, the casino couldn't keep its lights on. There seemed to be an uneasy alliance between the casino and the immigration agencies that allowed them to make it seem like everyone was doing their job. I couldn't do much, so I finished my weekend, went to school, then returned for my first shift of the week the following Thursday.
And who should be there to greet me but Jesus! I was thrilled to see him, such a good and pleasant guy. He told me he had indeed been driven to Mexico. Then, with a payment of $1,000 to someone to let him back in (his indication was that people on both sides of the border split that money), he was soon provided transportation back to Wendover. He never missed a shift.
On the rare day I do go to Wendover for some gummies or something, I nearly always see one of my old friends. They're now the bosses, slot managers, security chiefs and all the rest. Wendover has been good to those young men, many of whom hailed from the Mexican state of Zacatecas, from whence they fled due to few opportunities or flat-out corruption which kept them on the lowest rungs of society.
I see that ICE is on the round-up now, only better armed and meaner. It can only be that way when people like Kristi Noem, our new head of Homeland Security, label all immigrants as "dirtbags."
But we know Kristi. She is just talking about the South-of-the-Border variety of immigrants—not the Trump family of similar composition. ICE will show up where the cameras are, but won't disrupt Utah's Republican farmers like Gov. Spencer Cox, who would never himself hire a "criminal."
Nor would he ever sit on a porch with a young Mexican boy and sing, "ay ay ay ay, canta y no llores."
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