Part Two: Jorge's Story

They charged the men $110 every two weeks for lodging in the cramped duplex. Once every eight to fifteen days the men were brought to a grocery store to buy food and toiletries. They only would have fifteen minutes to shop. Lawn mowers and other tools were old, rusty, and dangerous. Phone calls had to be made on personal time, and it was a two mile walk to the nearest pay phone. This was life. This was all the life they knew for a while.

Jorge slept fitfully on the cold floor of the basement. Although it was cramped, still it was better than two weeks prior when mighty rains flooded through the foundation and he found himself awake in two inches of water. But the smell of all those bodies, the sweat of long summer days in the sunshine picking up trash and holding the heavy vibrating Weedwacker, it made the air musty and thick. And how were they to bathe? Only one and a half bathrooms were available for the dozens of them staying in the two-bedroom home.

Jorge struggled to fall asleep at night, despite the exhaustion in his bones. And sleep was a fleeting thing. He would have to rise at 5 a.m. to eat and line up for the bathroom before the truck arrived at 6 a.m.

"It seemed like there was no end to the work," he said. "Sometimes, we would not finish until 10 p.m. There were no breaks. We could not stop. Our supervisors didn't care what it took, but we had to get the work done."

Jorge worked in fear. His supervisor claimed to have government contacts and he swore that anyone who left the work site would be arrested. For Jorge, this was not an option since he needed what small money they gave him to send home to his two children.

The supervisor made threats constantly. When Jorge's left arm started to swell and ache from overuse, he begged that they take him to a clinic or a hospital. But his boss didn't care. He said, "If you don't like it, you can go back to Mexico." However, stuck in the middle of America, unable to speak English, with no real resources, how could Jorge go anywhere.

Some nights he would make the long walk to the gas station and call home. He told them all that he was doing fine and work was going fine and they should expect a check soon. He didn't want them to worry over him. His mother could sense that something was not right with her son, and she would ask him what was bothering him. Although he desperately wanted to, Jorge fought the urge to tell her the truth. What good would it do to have her worry?

"Even when I did rest at night, I could not rest my mind," he said. "I couldn't even cry in the rooms with everyone else there. I had no idea what was going to happen. I would stay up at night and wish for all of this to be over."

But the end seemed unreachable. Jorge worked through torrential downpour, without the comfort of a break or shelter or even a hood to protect his head. He toiled under the blistering summer sun, thirsty and worn through with heat. Jorge worked and worked and worked. There were always more lawns. After the highway, there were apartment buildings. After those, there were schools. The work was as limitless as the company's greed.

One night, after making the long walk to the gas station payphone, the exhaustion in Jorge's bones received a further burden to bear. His father had died. Instead of being there with him, Jorge was trapped here, in a foreign land, hundreds and thousands of miles from home. The sadness overwhelmed him.

Jorge knew he could not continue living this way. Soon, he would have to strike out for freedom.

*Names have been changed and images have been simulated to protect the identities of our clients.