Legal and Alive  

She came at me friendly but with too much patchouli force. We had in common checking out groceries. 

“Saw you in the parking lot, saw your California plates. I just moved here, from Topanga. You like North Carolina? I’m BrassyLady - one word.” 

“Yes,” I elaborated. 

“We were smart to leave, you and me,” she said, moving even patchouli closer. 

“Oh, that drought, yeah, I was getting all dried out.” 

“Yeah. But more than that, the illegals ripping everybody off.” 

“In what sense?” 

She gave me a blank look. On top of the other one. 

I loaded my groceries on the black conveyor belt and rolled my eyes at the hispanic checker (name tag: Guadalupe) who BrassyLady didn’t see at all. Guadalupe was a shopping cart. 

“In - the sense - that the aliens are upsetting our economy, stealing our jobs.”

Guadalupe bagged my bagels and batteries and Perrier bottles. 

“Oh come on, BrassyLady. Are you listening to your parents again? You can tell me.”

“This is America. My parents are American. I am an American.”

 Now Guadalupe was rolling her eyes at me. 

“You’re an immigrant,” I said, “like your parents. Like me. The only people not illegal in America are the Mexicans. Or the Indians, and they’re all dead.” 

I checked Guadalupe’s reaction to this one. We smiled together, did that funny rolling thing again. 

We could’ve shot craps with our eyeballs that day.