The Mexicans
Immigration showed up in the middle of the dinner rush.
They came through the front door in their uniforms, six of
them, and ran straight through the restaurant and back into
the kitchen where Tino and Juan were washing dishes and
they put handcuffs on them. Before any of us understood
what was happening, they had pushed Tino and Juan through
the restaurant, down the lines of tables where tourists
sat, eating fish and drinking wine, and outside. We ran out
after them, Rita the lesbian waitress and me, and stood on
the curb, yelling at the police, but they drove off.
Some Mexicans are illegal, but Tino and Juan were not. They
had their green cards, which means they could work, but
they got arrested anyway. Even if they were illegal it
didn't seem right that people like them didn't belong here
and other people did. Anyhow, they are Indians and the
Indians lived here before us, isn't that right.
My section was full and people were standing in the
doorway, waiting to get in. They didn't give us a break
because of the Mexicans, neither. They just wanted their
food. They saw the guys who washed their dishes get took
off by the police with their hands tied together, but they
were thinking of supper. Should they get the halibut or
salmon? All the Mexicans were doing was working to send
money home to their wives and children and sisters and
mothers.
I didn't ask anybody how their supper was. I gave them the
menu and I didn't mention the crab puffs Trudy always
wanted us to push and I didn't tell them we just got the
salmon off the boat this morning. I gave them menus and I
took their orders and threw their food at them.
The dishes were stacked in the kitchen and we ran out of
forks and had to wash them ourselves. Tenedores, forks.
This is an excerpt of a book I'm currently writing and
anybody who works in a restaurant in the northwest US knows
what I'm talking about.