28: Texas

“Hello,” the caller said. “Anthony?” It was an old man’s voice, ornery and a little confused.

“Sorry,” John replied. “I think you have the wrong number.”

“Is this Anthony?” the caller asked.

“Sorry,” John said again, and hung up.

He was in the kitchenette later, getting a beer, when he heard the phone vibrating against the surface of the desk again. He sprinted the four steps back into his bedroom and picked it up, hoping it would be Gabe this time.

“Hello?” he said.

“My name is Sal Esposito,” the man said. “I’m calling for my son Anthony.”

John closed his eyes. “Wrong number,” he said.

“Please,” the man said, choking up. “I just want to talk to my son.”

After he hung up this time, John flipped through his phone’s settings looking for a “block” feature. He couldn’t find one, so he saved the number to his contacts instead, under “Wrong Number.” When it came up on the caller ID five minutes later, he hit “Ignore” and put the phone back down.

Five beers and two voicemails later it was almost 2300 hours, and John’s shift was coming up. He’d listened to the first voicemail, which started with “Hello? Anthony? Hello?” and sort of trailed off. He deleted the second one without listening to it. Gabe had never called. He got into the shower, turned it on, and gasped as the first burst of cold water hit his skin, then closed his eyes and started jerking off.

Specialist Packard was waiting for him at the guardhouse. “Sergeant Davis is lookin’ for you,” he said in that retarded West Texas drawl.

“Shit,” John said as he signed into the log: 0012 hours. Late again.


John’s phone rang again the next afternoon while he was sleeping. “Motherfucker,” he said as he flipped it open. “Hello?” he mumbled.

“Late shift again, huh bro?” Hank laughed. “You got to get yourself a cushy government job like mine. Forget that Army shit.”

“One year,” John said, “four months, three weeks, two days, and a wake-up.”

“But who’s counting, right?” His brother laughed again. “Look, I gotta go. You should come over for dinner tonight. And bring a fucking girlfriend this time.”

Hank hung up. John put the phone down and went back to sleep.


He woke some time later to the phone buzzing again. He picked it up and stared groggily at the screen but couldn’t make the number out. “Who is this?” he asked.

“What, you don’t know my number by now?” Gabe asked.

“C’mon,” John said, “I told you I can’t put it in my phone.”

Gabe snorted. “Yeah, sure. You coming out tonight, or what?”

“Definitely.” John looked at his bedside clock. “I mean, I agreed to have dinner at my brother’s, but I can probably meet you after that.”

“Well, don’t go out of your fucking way.”

“Hey,” John started, but Gabe had already hung up. “What a bitch,” he muttered, and rolled out of bed, feeling his naked skin peeling off the sweat-soaked sheets.


It was around 1730 hours when John pulled into Homestead Meadows, a loose collection of prefab buildings in the middle of nowhere. His brother was in the driveway working on his red Camaro, leaning over the engine, fat ass sticking up into the air.

“Hey bro,” Hank said, as John started toward him. “Grab a beer and get in,” he gestured to a cooler next to the car. “I need you to pump the gas for a second.”

John took a bottle, popped it open, and took a long drink, then settled into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine sputtered to life just as his phone started vibrating in his pocket. He dug it out. “Wrong Number,” it read. The next thing he knew, Hank was shouting and trying to wave the clouds of smoke away from his face. John shook his head and put his phone away.


They ate in front of the TV, Hank and his wife Amber on their recliners; John next to their three boys on the couch. A UFC match was on. “Hank tells me you’re looking to get a job like his,” Amber said during a commercial break.

“I’d like to,” John said, “I just gotta get my discharge first.”

“Bro, you shoulda told me that was the problem,” Hank called from the kitchen. He walked back into the living room with a couple more bottles of beer in his hands. “I know plenty of girls could help with that.”

“Cut it out, Travis. Ricky.” Amber said, talking to the two older boys wresting on the floor.

“I was thinking that I should shoot for an assignment up in Vermont,” John said. “I read about this town there where the border runs right down the center of the street, cuts through a couple houses, even a library. It must be crazy there, a lot of international disputes over late fees, or people smuggling paperbacks from one side to the other.”

“Hell yeah,” said Hank. “That would be some Super Troopers shit.” He took a swig of beer. “But hey, come out on patrol with me tomorrow. I’ll show you how much fun Texas can be.”

“Yeah, sure.” John looked at his watch. 2115 hours. “Oh shit, I gotta go.”

“Not staying for dessert?” Amber asked. “I made Jello.”


Gabe was waiting across the bar, a white tank-top and faded cut-offs clinging to his body, the light melting on his amber skin. He was by the jukebox, dancing. It was just like the first time John saw him.

“Where you been, amigo?” Gabe asked when John walked over, not looking up. “I haven’t seen you in, like, forever.”

“Working,” John said. “You know.” He crossed his arms, then dropped them back to his sides.

“This is my favorite,” Gabe said as a new song started, “’Amor Prohibido,’ by Selena.” He paused, then added dramatically: “the slain Tejano superstar.” He looked at John at last. “So, you gonna dance with me, or what?” he asked.


They fucked in the men’s room like always, Gabe smiling and unbuckling John’s belt; John bending Gabe over and thrusting, sweating, gasping, swearing under his breath. He ran his hands up from Gabe’s hips, along his sides, his neck, into his deep black hair. Afterwards they sat at the bar, drinking. Gabe had one hand on John’s leg, stroking it absently.

“C’mon Gabe, watch it, will ya?” John muttered, without looking down.

“I thought you said nobody from your unit came here,” Gabe said, leaning in, “that it was strictly off-limits.” He smiled and dug his fingers into John’s front pocket, rubbing them slowly up and down. “Or maybe there’s somebody else you don’t want to see.”

He withdrew his hand quickly with John’s phone in it, and flipped it open before John could grab it away. “Ay, carajo,” he said. “’Wrong Number’? Who the fuck is that?”

John reached out for the phone again, but Gabe danced away. “Back off, maricón,” he said over his shoulder as he headed back to the jukebox. John sat back down and watched him feed the machine a dollar and select another Selena song.


John drove straight from the bar to Fort Bliss, and got to the gate just as his shift was starting. Sergeant Davis was waiting for him.

“The CO wants to see you in his office at 0800 tomorrow,” he said, and looked John up and down. “Now unfuck yourself and get your damn uniform on.”

The Captain chewed him out in the morning, John standing at attention in his office, trying not to fall asleep. He could barely pay attention to anything. “Yes sir,” he repeated, again and again.

Afterwards, he drove out to Homestead Meadows. The sun was high above the mountains, the light bending through the waves of heat coming off the car, the road, and the dirt. He squinted and rubbed his eyes. His brother was in the driveway waiting for him.

“I told my partner you’d fill in for him today,” Hank said. “I got you a spare uniform.”

John changed in the backseat on the way to the border, where they both got out and looked around. A long stretch of steel mesh and vertical bars, maybe 20 feet tall, stretched off into the desert for miles. “We find a coupla wetbacks out here every week,” Hank said, as they were climbing back into the car, “so let me know if you see anything brown that’s still alive.”


They spotted them just after noon, a huddle of bodies crouched down on the wrong side of the wall. Hank gunned it and three of them took off running. “Watch those two,” he said, and John jumped out. The SUV tore across the dusty ground.

John walked over to the two Mexicans, a teenager sitting against the fence, an older woman holding him in her arms. It looked like his leg was broken. Nobody moved or said anything. A couple minutes later they heard gunshots.

Hank returned in the SUV eventually, the three runners in the back. “Shit, Hank. You didn’t shoot ‘em, did you?” John asked.

“Nah, just at ‘em.” Hank laughed, and John shook his head. “What’s your problem, bro?” he asked.


The sun was almost setting by the time John got back to his apartment. He’d had to wait while his brother took the Mexicans in for processing, then again while he filled out his paperwork. It felt like there was a layer of sand building up behind his eyes that he couldn’t rub away.

He tried calling Gabe at the last number he called from, but the phone just rang and rang. When the machine finally picked up, it turned out to be a bar.

“Fuck,” John said, flopping down onto his bed. All he wanted to do was fuck someone or kill himself.


Ciudad Juarez was off-limits too, supposedly, but the Mexican guard just waved him through. He parked and started walking – down side streets, into back alleys – until he found the place.

The bartender had just slapped his change from the first shot down on the counter and John was already ordering another. He couldn’t tell if the music was actually familiar or just loud. He looked around.

A young guy was sitting in the corner, slick black hair, a tight button-down shirt open at the cuffs and collar. John slammed his tequila and ordered another.

They were in the bathroom when it happened. John had his pants around his ankles; the boy had John’s cock in his mouth. John half-saw, half-felt a blinding flash of light, then everything went dark.


John called his brother from the border in the morning, and waited in a holding area while he came to pick him up. All Hank said as they drove back into El Paso was that John was fucking lucky to be alive. John wasn’t sure about that.

He picked up a spare key to his apartment from the manager. He dug out his old cell phone from his desk and turned it on, then rummaged around for paperwork from his bank, his car insurance, and his credit cards.

The phone buzzed against the desktop – five missed calls; five new messages. The last four were what he expected: Specialist Packard a little after 0015, then two from Sergeant Davis, then one from the CO. The first message was from Gabe.

“John,” he started, “answer your phone, you fucking puta. I just want you to know…”

The phone beeped, cutting off Gabe’s voice for a second. John lowered it and looked at the screen. “Wrong Number,” it said.

He stared at the phone for a long time, Gabe’s voice buzzing from the speaker, the ringer beeping. He wanted to throw it out the window, to crush it in his hand. Finally, he flipped the phone open. “What the hell do you want?” he asked.

“Hi, I’m calling for Anthony,” a man said, “Anthony Esposito.” It was a young man’s voice, clipped and professional.

“Sorry,” John said. “You have the wrong number.”

“Do you know where I could reach him?” the man asked. “It’s about his father.”


John was lying in bed listening to the phone ring. He couldn’t bring himself to pick it up, to look at it, to think about it. He didn’t want to think about anything.

But he couldn’t help it.

If he never answered again, would it be a tragedy? If he never spoke, would it be a shame? He couldn’t decide whether it was worse that no one would ever ask him, or that there was no one he could tell who would understand.