Lance Newman

 
Convenience

 

Los indocumentados lock their bikes to chain link behind the touchless carwash and line up in the c-store lot like strikers to flag down Fords for day work bagging trash. Every Tuesday morning the mayor halts his limousine for a bag of corn chips. You’d never i.d. him, I guarantee. His driver wears new suits and always tips. The mayor waits--his flashing red hazards back up cars like water in the storm drains. He rolls his window down and his plump hand waves them past with a pink Financial Times. He grunts and snuffles in the big back seat. His fat head lolls in a broadcloth collar, topped with a crisp wedge of lacquered black hair. His face is blank as a steak on a plate.

  (c)Newman 2006