Election Night, 2008, 20:46 hrs – High over Madison Avenue, tension crackled like saltines in a soup kitchen. On the biggest video screen, a little fellow in an expensive toupee spoke into a microphone beside the Eiffel Tower. A rotund broadcaster in a swivel-chair barked into his headset: “Gimme another react. Cut to Mexico, on five, four, three…”
The big screen shifted to tumbleweeds, rolling behind a muscular brunette who looked too serious to be much fun. “This is Heidi Heidi-Hough for CBS News, here in the Mexican border town of Frijoles Refritos. Is that what you said?” she asked. Her companion nodded vigorously. “And your name is?” she continued.
“Manuel,” he answered. “Manuel Labor.” Something in his eyes suggested that he might be smarter than his interviewer.
“Well, Mr. Labor, in an hour John McCain is expected to declare victory, and immigration has been an important issue in this race, and just as important to a poor Mexican town like this, a mere fifty feet from the American border.”
“Actually, senora,” said the man, pointing behind them, “the mouth of the secret tunnel is about eighty feet further back. So, America is 130 feet away, more or less.”
“But immigration, legal or illegal, has been a major issue in Senator McCain’s bid for the White House.”
“That’s right,” said the Mexican. “I am very grateful to Senator McCain. First he stood up for amnesty for illegal immigrants, then he denied that he said it, then he said that anyone who quoted him accurately was a liar. Then, at the convention, he said he was for and against immigration issues, all at the same time. This proved popular in your political system, where clarity is a big liability. Since then, on undefined immigration issues he said yes 137 times, no 122 times, maybe 756 times, and 1425 times he changed the subject and said his opponent was a secret Muslim in favor of mandatory gay marriage for heterosexuals.”
“Why does this make you grateful to Senator McCain?”
“Senora, trust me. His waffling has made Americans so sick of the immigration issue that no candidate will touch it for years. Meanwhile, you can use our tunnel for 200 pesos.”
“What do your neighbors think?” she continued.
“I have no neighbors,” he said. “They’re all in America. I just stay here to feed their pets and sell tickets to the tunnel.”
“You’re completely alone here?” she asked.
“Just me and my cousin Conchita’s Labrador Retriever, and Uncle Pancho’s tropical fish. Everybody’s gone north.”
“But what about those people over there?” she demanded, pointing to a battered pick-up piled high with furniture and bedding. She ran to the truck, pulling her camera crew on her microphone cord like dogs on a leash.
“You, sir! You, ma’am! Buenos nachos por favor! Can I have a word please?” she shouted.
“You bet your butt, lady,” the young man replied.
The journalist hesitated: “You don’t sound Mexican.”
“Nope,” said the big blonde. “I’m Stosh Wishnubitsky and this is my wife, Stella.” A sweet-faced, porky woman waggled her fingers in greeting. “We’re Polish-Americans from Detroit.”
“On vacation?” she asked.
“Nope. Just like all our neighbors back home, we’re moving to Mexico. That’s where all the jobs are going.”
High above Madison Avenue, the man with the clipboard shook his head and spoke into the headset: “That’s enough. Cut to back to the vote count on five, four, three…”
S.J. Masty is a former Washington, DC, speechwriter now based in London as an international communication adviser.
