The Last Stand
Part 1
Rob revved his truck, a brand-new, mud-caked black F-150. In the past ten months, he’d made a small fortune selling Chinese-made phone cases stamped with Trump’s face on Rambo’s body—savvily working around tariffs, selling through Telegram when his ads got shadow-banned.
I’d met Rob only a few hours earlier at Double Whammy, and when he told me about all that money all I could think about was my job as a line cook at Mr. Mexa—wrinkled hands in bleach water, rent late, the crumbling building. I was sure I was as smart as Rob. It wouldn’t be long until my own million-dollar idea.
We talked about football and the border—how the wetbacks were still getting through where the wall wasn’t done, how ICE “couldn’t keep up anymore.” I knew this conversation well. I’d had it a thousand times, even with my Mexican co-workers, at least the ones who spoke English, and everyone agreed—we’d done enough for the Third World. It was time to focus on ourselves.
I could tell Rob was the kind of guy who saw the big picture and trusted his gut. I figured we were in for a long night and, when he mentioned the new Ford, a wild ride.
We decided to go to the Rodeo, a strip club down I-10 past Hope and Sierra Blanca, before Van Horn—where, Rob said, rules were flexible and the girls worked harder to pay their bills.
After an hour, a neon cowgirl riding a cartoon bull beamed over a plain, windowless building with peeling aluminum siding. Before the traffic light even changed, he peeled out, cranked the wheel, and skidded into an open space near the mouth of the lot.
“You ready for some tail?” he said.
He took a small plastic bag out of his wallet, stuck his index finger in the powder and rubbed it on his gums. “Yee-haw.” I took a small bump off his truck key.
When I opened the passenger door, Coors Light cans clattered to the pavement. The bass from inside thumped through the soles of my boots; the air smelled like hot beer and fryer oil. At the entrance a seven-foot bouncer with hands that could crush a coconut greeted us.
“Hey,” he said. “New recruit?”
“We’ll see,” said Rob, looking at me.
“Recruit for what?” I thought, but I didn’t care. It felt like a one-night thing, a breather, before I went back to real life.
“We got a couple new gals tonight,” said the bouncer. “Have fun.”
Inside, Rob greeted a group of men who clearly knew him, all of them wearing a patch on their jackets: a snake wrapped around a sword. At the wooden bar a Bud sign lit the bartender’s pale skin. She was ambiguously aged, and the knot securing her flannel in front of her breasts was slowly coming untied.
“I know it looks cheap,” Rob said, “but the dancers here are the best.” He pointed at the stage, where a brunette danced to “Boogie.” “Prime rib,” he said. Then he pointed at a dancer who looked vaguely Asian. “Wagyu. Exotic.”
Strobe lights shimmered against the poles; a bachelor party hooted near the stage. Tinfoil streamers made a crinkled curtain where the strippers popped out to perform. At the very back a red neon sign read V.I.P. Every few minutes a man came out of a booth smiling, relieved.
Rob got us a table in front and ordered a bottle of Jack. As the waitress poured the whiskey, he said, “Yum,” sucked his teeth, stared at her ass, and slapped it.
“What the fuck!” she said, hoarse, fists clenched.
Rob lifted his glass and smiled.
“Are you gonna pay for that?” she said, her fists easing.
“Here, here,” he said, handing her a twenty. “Be good and find me the new gals. We’ve got a special guest tonight.”
Her gaze dropped. Then she scanned me top to bottom. I felt my face go hot. I wanted to apologize.
“We don’t have all night,” he said.
She folded the twenty, blew Rob a kiss, and skipped off, tassels flapping on her g-string.
“Told you these girls are special,” Rob said, eyes still following her. “The guy at the entrance is my friend, so we can work things out here.”
“Cool, cool,” I said, watching the blush fade on the waitress’s bare ass.
“He’s a vet,” Rob said, sipping. “Iraq. Twice.”
One of the new girls slid onto my lap—two blonde braids, frayed white tank straps. She was scarily young. The other, a topless Latina with a butterfly tattoo on her wrist, brown skin and hair, sat on Rob’s lap. She reminded me of Laura, my ex-girlfriend.
It had only been a couple weeks since she dumped me. She said she was sick of my tiny apartment and that she deserved better, but I knew the real reason. That last visit to her parents’ place—they spoke only Spanish and I sat through lunch catching only the occasional “gringo.” “English, please,” I’d said. “You’ve been here how long?” I tried to keep it halfway between a joke and a judgment. Laura laughed the way she always laughed, pretending it was just cable-news bleed. At the start she’d agreed with me about her parents; she’d even tried to convince them to learn English. Now it was an insult, and me saying it was an atrocity. That’s where my frustration came from.
“My dad was in the Army too,” I said, sipping and watching a dancer in a neon-orange thong lick the pole. I tried to picture my dad—blond hair, reddish nose. He’d moved to Japan to start a business fixing and reselling American cars. At first he’d call once a week, sometimes about Mom and how she’d vanished when I was young, or some big news. My favorite were the drunk calls, about the Shinkansen or tourists asking for a picture with him. Then the calls got sporadic and drunker. On my plan, they were expensive. The last time, for his birthday, I had to leave a voicemail.
The dancer on my lap played with my hair; long acrylics scratched my scalp. “I thought about joining the Army, back in high school.”
“God bless our forces,” Rob said. “Can’t believe people want to gut the cops too.”
“Boring!” the blonde cried. “Let’s get drinks.”
“You know what,” Rob said, offering her his glass, “you’re right. Why don’t you and your friend here switch?”
She downed the glass, shivered. “Switch what?” she said, still grinding on my leg.
“You come with me,” he said, pointing at me, “and she goes there.”
The Latina looked at him the way Laura used to look at me—fire, then down to her toes.
“Nothing personal, honey,” Rob said. “You’re just not my type.” He turned to the blonde. “Sweetie, what’s your name?”
“Glory,” she said.
“Sure is,” Rob said, pouring another drink.
Once we ran out of whiskey, Rob declared it was time for the V.I.P. booths. We followed him through the club. The bachelor party was still front-row, tongues out, blowing kisses at a veteran dancer who caught bills mid-spin. At the V.I.P. sign Rob took out his wallet—a fat stack of singles wrapped in Franklins. I thought about how many hours at Mr. Mexa he was holding in his hand. He handed four crisp hundreds to a bulky guy in a tight black shirt and gold chain.
“Have fun, kid,” Rob said, already grabbing his girl’s ass as he disappeared into a booth.
“What’s your name?” I asked the Latina before we went in.
She grabbed my hand and led me inside without answering.
I sat on a black couch. “What’s yours?” she said. “Daddy’s boy?”
She circled her hips slowly. Arms up, fingers swaying to the music. The whiskey was kicking in, the coke wearing off. My jaw locked; my heart thumped. I looked at her face and thought of Laura slamming the door after I’d called her parents a couple of fucking wetbacks and wished they’d drowned in the river. I hadn’t meant it. I’d already forgotten it—just pissed about all the bullshit she kept schooling me on about refugee camps and Mexicans treating Central Americans like shit. What was I supposed to do?
She got closer, her shoulder almost touching my nose. My breath warmed my lip; sweat pricked the tip of my nose. She sat on my lap and all I could think of was Laura. I wrapped my arms around her back and tried to kiss her. She jerked away and rose tall in front of me. I fumbled my wallet, pulled out a ten—the only cash I had. “Here. Take this.”
“Pendejo,” she said, and left.
I sat there, still wondering what her name was. I knew I’d fucked it up, but at least it wasn’t my money, and Rob looked like the kind of guy who’d been through this before.
A minute later the guy Rob had given the four hundreds to was inside with me, his biceps strangled by his shirt. “You’re lucky Rob’s with ya,” he said, grabbing my wrist. He pushed me toward the exit by the shoulder. Before we reached the door I said, “What’s that bitch’s name?” He pressed his fingers into my collarbone until my head dropped. The bar came into view—rows of bottles, two old guys on stools, the bartender pouring, her knot just on the verge of coming untied.
Outside I circled the lot, cursing, wanting to punch something. After a few laps I leaned against Rob’s F-150. The door was cool against my back.
“You waiting for Rob?” the tall bouncer said, walking toward me.
“Yeah,” I said when he was close. “Got bored in there.”
“Rob’s a good guy,” he said, smiling. “A good friend, y’know.” He offered me a cigarette and lit his own.
“Sure is,” I nodded. “How do you know him?”
“It’s a long story,” he said, stretching “long.” “Came back from Iraq in 2010, broke as fuck. Couldn’t find a job. One day I’m at a diner, alone—army cap, boots, the whole thing. Eating a bacon burger when Rob sits down and says, ‘You look like shit.’ He got me a job here.” He thumbed at the entrance.
“Where were you? In Iraq?”
“Baqubah, ’07. Diyala, northeast of Baghdad.” He took the cigarette out of his mouth. “I still hear those two five-hundred-pounders they dropped.”
“M-16?” I said.
“That’s right.” He smiled. “You ever shoot one?”
I shook my head. “Big gun. Just .22s, shotguns. That kind of stuff.”
Rob came out the front door and walked toward us.
“That new girl,” he said, pausing. “Worth every penny.” He smiled at me. “I see you met Dillon.”
Dillon pulled a cigarette from his pack and gave it to Rob. “They told me you went a bit crazy with that mare.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“Trouble?” Rob said as Dillon lit his smoke. Then he laughed. “That’s why we’re here.” He shrugged. “And what can I say about her… it’s just the way they are.”
“True,” Dillon said, offering me a second cigarette. “Nothing to do about it.”
I thought about Laura yelling when I was late to pick her up in my busted 2006 Corolla. “I used to date a Latina,” I said.
Rob and Dillon looked at me, waiting.
“It’s true, they’ve got that spice,” I said. “They like to yell, throw their hands.”
“What happened?” Dillon said, smiling. “She get deported?”
“Nah,” I said. “American passport. Just… didn’t work out.”
“We give those out like bread,” Rob said. “Should be harder to get one.”
I pictured mornings waking up next to her, huevos con salsa and pan dulce. Me telling her I wanted to go to college and get a degree in agriculture, and her humoring me—scholarships, federal loans, the applications that already felt impossible. Who has fifty grand to spare?
“Hey, buddy,” Dillon said, patting my shoulder. “You with us?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I exhaled, watching smoke curl in the light.
“I was thinking you could help us with a project,” Rob said. “You said you’re a line cook. Wouldn’t it be nice to do something else?”
“How would I help?” I said, a flash of sadness running through me. “I didn’t even go to college.”
“Me neither,” Dillon said. “Shit’s overrated.”
“That’s what Julio always says,” I said. “What would I be doing?”
“Who?” Rob said. “Your little boyfriend?”
“No,” I said. “Co-worker. He introduced me to my ex.”
“That never works,” Dillon said. “He still talking to her?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, though I knew Julio was still talking with her. He kept me up to date, even after he told me to stop asking. “He’s cool about it.”
“I’ll bet you a hundred he’s fucking her right now,” Rob said.
Heat rose in my face. I pictured Julio touching Laura. He had told me she’d been by his place a couple times to help with some shit his cousin had done.
“So what’s the job about?” I said.
“You don’t wanna go check?” Rob said. “I’ll drive you to that cocksucker’s place right now.”
“We need someone to take care of our social media,” Dillon said. “We can manage it, but we want someone on it full-time. With the election coming, demand’s gonna surge—and it’s not just phone cases anymore.” He tapped the snake-and-saber patch. “Platforms keep throttling us. We just go around.”
“Why don’t we take him to the shooting range next weekend?” Dillon added. “We were talking guns before you showed.”
“I like how you think,” Rob said, whiskey in his voice. “Next Sunday. We’ll talk more about your new job.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said, relieved he’d forgotten about Julio.
We got in the F-150. I could barely stay awake. I prayed Rob wouldn’t kill us as he started the engine. By sunrise we were halfway back. The highways felt like rivers. At Socorro Boulevard my building stood in front of us, paint peeling, a group of teenagers loitering at the entrance.
“We need to get you out of here,” Rob said, patting the wheel. “Soon enough you’ll be driving one of these. See you next Sunday.”