For years in sunny California I never had a problem with the illegal aliens. (Or, to be pc, with the undocumented workers.)
In fact, once, when my regular mechanic and good friend in Baja was unavailable, I approached a knot of the illegals standing on one of street corners where everyone knows they congregate to get jobs. (These impromptu hiring halls have existed in Calif for decades, and are now all over the country.)
I wanted an alternatior replaced. Simple job for someone with any mechanical ability. I could do it, but would take four hours and would need a well-thumbed repair manaul.
There were maybe 40 of them there, but not one had any mechanical expertise. (I speak their language enough to get by comfortably, so they understood me.) All these guys had were weak minds and strong backs, for digging, carrying - mule work. Mexico does not educate its masses.
So last Thanksgiving I found myself again (as in almost every year) on the East Coast, visiting a younger sister and her husband.
I enjoy it. And the brother-in-law is a top exec at one of the major communications companies, so I get both phone and internet service gratis and portable.
The night before turkey day my sister asked me to go to the local supermarket for some last minute items. I took an older pickup truck they usually let me drive when I'm there.
On the way back, in the dusk and wet mist, I had to gently use my brakes when a car pulled out of a side street. That happens frequently on the shit two lane country roads they call State highways there.
Behind me came this big screech. Someone who was following too close had jammed their brakes to the floor. And stopped in time.
My initial thought was to pull off the road, to let the speedster behind me go in front. But I was tired, it was starting to rain hard, so I stayed the course.
Half a block up another SCRRREEEEEEEEEECHHHHH. And the collision. A rear-ender.
Hot in the head, I got out of the truck to confront the freak.
A Mexican with bad English driving a late model Honda. With plates from a neighboring state.
"Mon, why you stop so fast? You make me do that. You at fault." Those were his first words, slurred.
I cursed him out in both English and Spanish. And then I saw that he was fuggin' stone drunk. Borracho!
He handed over his papers, but didn't ask for mine. He was illegal. His drivers licence was from Puebla Mexico, not valid to drive in the US. And the car he was driving (owned by an hispanic female living in the adjacent state) had its insurance expire the week before.
Shit. The damage to my in-laws truck was a dented bumper, which i later found out also made it difficult to close the gate.
His vehicle was even more badly damaged. The front destroyed and the hood partially rolled up.
He lurches out of the car to inspect the damage. "You no have much. Look at mine. I don't drive to have accidents." He went back to sit in his car to avoid the now driving rain and called someone, probably the woman who owned the car.
I estimated I could get a used bumper and the labor to install for about $300. But knew the chance the payaso would have it was next to nil. But I asked him for it anyway.
"I no got," he said.
"Can you call friends to come here with the money?" He shrugged. "Ok, then I'm going to call the cops. You're drunk. Me entiendes? Voy a llamar la policia."
He was still talking on the phone. I couldn't make out much, except I did hear him say "pinche gringo." This translates loosely as "fuckin' American."
That was it. I hadn't taken my phone so had to scoot across the road in this friggin downpour to a small restaurant and use thier phone to call the police. I knew it wouldn't do any good, but this pendejo had me pissed.
In the country illegally, far from his home, driving without a licence, and drunk as the proverbial skunk. And no insurance. Shows what they think of our huevos.
While I was in the restaurant phoning the cops I saw from the window that he pulled out fast and sped off. I gave the cops his direction, and that he was smashed.
They came by to get the info, and told me I could get the accident report at the police station. My brother in law nixed it - it would do no good to file a report with his insurance company as he had no comprehensive on that truck, and it would likely just raise his rates.
Mexico 1, USA 0.
The cop told me that the illegals often register cars in the adjacent state, as it's easier to do so there for them. For some reason.
My righteous brother in law turned down my offer to pay for the damage. He used the truck only to haul crap out of apartments he owned when a tenant moved, so a slightly malfunctioning tailgate wouldn't lose him any sleep. Like I said, a cool guy.
But for me, three months later, I'm still warm under the collar about it.
In fact, once, when my regular mechanic and good friend in Baja was unavailable, I approached a knot of the illegals standing on one of street corners where everyone knows they congregate to get jobs. (These impromptu hiring halls have existed in Calif for decades, and are now all over the country.)
I wanted an alternatior replaced. Simple job for someone with any mechanical ability. I could do it, but would take four hours and would need a well-thumbed repair manaul.
There were maybe 40 of them there, but not one had any mechanical expertise. (I speak their language enough to get by comfortably, so they understood me.) All these guys had were weak minds and strong backs, for digging, carrying - mule work. Mexico does not educate its masses.
So last Thanksgiving I found myself again (as in almost every year) on the East Coast, visiting a younger sister and her husband.
I enjoy it. And the brother-in-law is a top exec at one of the major communications companies, so I get both phone and internet service gratis and portable.
The night before turkey day my sister asked me to go to the local supermarket for some last minute items. I took an older pickup truck they usually let me drive when I'm there.
On the way back, in the dusk and wet mist, I had to gently use my brakes when a car pulled out of a side street. That happens frequently on the shit two lane country roads they call State highways there.
Behind me came this big screech. Someone who was following too close had jammed their brakes to the floor. And stopped in time.
My initial thought was to pull off the road, to let the speedster behind me go in front. But I was tired, it was starting to rain hard, so I stayed the course.
Half a block up another SCRRREEEEEEEEEECHHHHH. And the collision. A rear-ender.
Hot in the head, I got out of the truck to confront the freak.
A Mexican with bad English driving a late model Honda. With plates from a neighboring state.
"Mon, why you stop so fast? You make me do that. You at fault." Those were his first words, slurred.
I cursed him out in both English and Spanish. And then I saw that he was fuggin' stone drunk. Borracho!
He handed over his papers, but didn't ask for mine. He was illegal. His drivers licence was from Puebla Mexico, not valid to drive in the US. And the car he was driving (owned by an hispanic female living in the adjacent state) had its insurance expire the week before.
Shit. The damage to my in-laws truck was a dented bumper, which i later found out also made it difficult to close the gate.
His vehicle was even more badly damaged. The front destroyed and the hood partially rolled up.
He lurches out of the car to inspect the damage. "You no have much. Look at mine. I don't drive to have accidents." He went back to sit in his car to avoid the now driving rain and called someone, probably the woman who owned the car.
I estimated I could get a used bumper and the labor to install for about $300. But knew the chance the payaso would have it was next to nil. But I asked him for it anyway.
"I no got," he said.
"Can you call friends to come here with the money?" He shrugged. "Ok, then I'm going to call the cops. You're drunk. Me entiendes? Voy a llamar la policia."
He was still talking on the phone. I couldn't make out much, except I did hear him say "pinche gringo." This translates loosely as "fuckin' American."
That was it. I hadn't taken my phone so had to scoot across the road in this friggin downpour to a small restaurant and use thier phone to call the police. I knew it wouldn't do any good, but this pendejo had me pissed.
In the country illegally, far from his home, driving without a licence, and drunk as the proverbial skunk. And no insurance. Shows what they think of our huevos.
While I was in the restaurant phoning the cops I saw from the window that he pulled out fast and sped off. I gave the cops his direction, and that he was smashed.
They came by to get the info, and told me I could get the accident report at the police station. My brother in law nixed it - it would do no good to file a report with his insurance company as he had no comprehensive on that truck, and it would likely just raise his rates.
Mexico 1, USA 0.
The cop told me that the illegals often register cars in the adjacent state, as it's easier to do so there for them. For some reason.
My righteous brother in law turned down my offer to pay for the damage. He used the truck only to haul crap out of apartments he owned when a tenant moved, so a slightly malfunctioning tailgate wouldn't lose him any sleep. Like I said, a cool guy.
But for me, three months later, I'm still warm under the collar about it.
