I turned my attention to the discussion going on in the corner. Over a dozen people, mostly old, mostly men, occupied a couple of booths and two tables. A man approaching fifty and wearing a jacket that read A-1 Auto on the back was talking loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Ten years ago you’d only see the Mexicans, the Hispanics, in the summer. Working on farms. Now”—he shook his head sadly—“fifteen percent, that’s what they say. Immigrants—the Hispanics and the Somalis—ten years ago they were one percent of the population and now it’s fifteen percent. That’s why we’re doing the Nicholas County Coalition for Immigration Reduction. That’s why we’re askin’ you to join. We can’t just let ’em invade our country like this, take our jobs.
“I was talking to a guy over to the meat plant. He said that immigrants comin’ in, they’re now thirty-five percent of the work force. If that ain’t bad enough, they’re drivin’ down wages. In 1980, a guy could make $17 an hour as a meat packer—that’s in today’s dollars, adjusted for inflation. Now, it’s only $12 an hour.
“This can’t go on. If we don’t do something about these people—We gotta get real Americans back to work. They need jobs, too.”
His audience nodded its collective head.
“As native-born Minnesotans,” the mechanic continued, “we need to protect what we have. These people, bringin’ in their culture, bringin’ in their crime—we didn’t have a drug problem in this city. We didn’t have people dealing meth and cocaine and whatnot to our children. Where do you think that came from?”
I thought of Tapia, the kid across the street at Fit to Print, who worked hard enough to own his own business at age twenty-three. Yeah, I could see how he was a threat to the community, and I laughed. It wasn’t a loud laugh nor did it last very long, but there were two kids about Tapia’s age and dressed in the coveralls of an auto mechanic. They noticed it and instantly took offense. They nudged the mechanic. The mechanic spun around and gave me a hard look. I went back to my burger.
“Hey, you,” said the mechanic. “You think something is funny?”
“Don’t mind me. I’m just passing through.”
“You got a problem?”
“Not at all. Go right ahead with your meeting.”
“We’re fightin’ for the future of our community. Is that all right with you?”
“Honestly, pal. I couldn’t care less. It’s not my town, it’s not my problem.”
“No, but you’re gonna sit there smirkin’, thinkin’ we’re a bunch of dumb hicks who don’t know any better. We deal in facts here and we don’t like it when people, when outsiders treat us like the KKK or somethin’, sayin’ we’re racist.”
He took several steps toward me. At the police academy, I was taught that most people when they get worked up will display a series of behavior warning signals that indicate Assault Is Possible—head back, shoulders back, face is red, lips pushed forward baring teeth, breathing coming fast and shallow. The mechanic was burning through them like a highway flare.
“The things you’re saying, it’s been said by Americans before.” I was trying to sound conciliatory, trying to defuse the situation. “That’s why I was smiling. Not because I think you’re a racist.”
“Then you are sayin’ we’re racists.”
There was no arguing with him because there was no substance to his complaints, only bitterness and defeat. How do you challenge that, and why would you? I gave it a shot, anyway. Silly me.
“No,” I said. I could see his name stenciled in red above his left breast. I used it. “I’m not calling you a racist, Brian. It’s just that what you’re saying about the Hispanics, the Somalis, it’s what people said about the Irish in 1860 and the Scandinavians in 1890. It’s what they said about the Jews and the Germans and the Asians when they came here. Yet things somehow always managed to work out.”
“You think we’re racists and idiots, then.”
“I think you’re bored. I think that not much happens in a small town; there isn’t much to talk about, so you spend all your time talking about this—the Great Immigrant Invasion.”
Okay, that wasn’t very conciliatory, but the mechanic was starting to piss me off with his racist talk. All I wanted was something to eat, not get dragged into his small town squabbles.
He stepped forward. His face went from red to white, his lips tightened over his teeth, his hands were closed and he began rocking back and forth as his eyes darted from my jaw to my stomach to my groin—target glances we call them. I slipped off the stool wishing I had an OC agent, wishing I could Mace the sonuvabitch before he took another step.
The men around him became still. Their eyes looked angry and their faces were rough and tired and disappointed. They seemed poised to take out their frustrations on someone—anyone—and were just waiting for a signal to strike. I was becoming very nervous.
The door to the cafe opened. Officer Mallinger stepped through it. She seemed to understand the situation immediately.
“Brian,” she shouted. “McKenzie.” Using our names, something I was also taught to do at the academy. “Look at me. I said, look at me.”