Berg saw the ad in the Help Wanted section and didn’t have to contemplate long.
“Bandito Wanted” is what he read, along with contact details. Berg had been a mortgage broker who’d lost his job in the financial collapse. He owed three months alimony and $8,000 in credit cards. He was a step above eating road kill.
He stopped the mail, made sure all the windows were locked, the oven shut off, the blinds closed. He was off to New Mexico, where the interviews were to take place. He figured it would take three months of bandito work to get him back on his feet.
It was in a small border town where his journey ended. He had driven three days straight from New Jersey and was groggy, a bit unkempt. He checked into a cheap motel, showered, took a nap and by 8 a.m. The next morning he found himself sitting in a shabbily furnished waiting room contained in a small office at a strip mall, squeezed between a dentist and a taco joint.
His name was called; he stood, glanced at the other candidates, many with bulging bellies, poorly shaven, and needing a haircut. There was only one woman wearing a Mohawk, spitting tobacco into a dirty spittoon. He cleared his throat and walked through the door.
Two men sat at a rickety folding table. Neither was over 5’2, but their bearded, oversized heads conveyed intimidation. They had one long, dark eyebrow across their forehead and traces of corn flakes in their beards. A pistol lay in front of each. They motioned for him to sit.
The interview
“So you want to be a bandito,” the older one asked gruffly.
“That’s correct. Always, the thought of riding around, shooting a rifle in the air, yelling threats was something that sent shivers of excitement up my spine.”
Berg smiled.
The other one glowered. “We are not here to play games, señor. Banditos are serious men. We frighten and pillage and sometimes raze entire towns. Our torches are currently on back order. Only the best of us get rifles. You will get a pistol.”
“A pistol is fine.”
“Stop acting like you’ve already got the job. You saw 20 people in that waiting room. Now I want you to tell us what you can bring to this position all those others can’t.”
Berg had prepared well, especially for this question.
“I’m in much better shape than them. No belly. Yoga has given me flexibility. I’ve never fired a weapon, but I’m pretty good with a wrench and a fast learner. One Halloween I dressed up as a bandit, and at the risk of sounding immodest, I wear a sombrero with a panache that left people gasping. Will I get my own horse?”
“You are a funny man, señor. So funny I want to shoot you in the foot.”
The man touched his pistol and Berg flinched.
“You are frightened by guns?”
Berg, furious at himself, shook his head.
“It was only a tic. I am fearless.”
“Could you pistol whip somebody?”
“Show me the technique and step back.”
“Could you flog someone?”
“Shirt off, shirt on, I would be a flogging machine.”
“Do you enjoy greasy food?”
“Not particularly. I heat up one frozen sausage with my breakfast. I like tuna in oil over tuna in water.”
“We live on greasy food. How fast can you grow a beard?”
“Give me three weeks.”
“Too long. We need people by next week.”
“What about my shoulder hair? Does that count?”
They leaned into each other and whispered. Berg prayed he hadn’t said the wrong thing.
“Take off your shirt, señor.”
Berg stood and did as told.
“That is disgusting,” one remarked, examining Berg’s shoulders. “But disgusting is what we banditos are. There is one more thing I need to know.”
The man quickly kneed Berg in the testicles. Berg doubled over, howling, gasping.
The man smiled, revealing spaces where front teeth should be.
“Could you do that to another man? A local law officer, perhaps?”
Berg nodded, still holding his groin.
“You are nothing more than a desperate gringo. I see on your application you set up mortgages for other gringos. You are a bigger criminal than all of us combined. We need that greed and viciousness.”
“I’m in?”
“You are in, señor.”
“Will I get a gun and whip?”
“Do not rush things. For now you will gas up the Volvo and pick up cheap beer and groceries. Walmart has a sale on spicy salsa dip. You like spicy foods?”
“I can be flexible.”
The other one, who had remained quiet throughout most of the interview, leaned forward.
“Tell me about this yoga. My legs stiffen when I sit too long.”
“It’s a process. You have to start slow. We haven’t discussed salary and benefits.”
Both men burst into raucous laughter.
“You will get a share of our booty. The only benefit, senor, is you get to frighten entire towns and fire weapons.”
“Will I be ravaging women?”
“In the past, we would hoist women onto our stallions and ride away whooping and shouting in deep, masculine voices. Because horses are too expensive, we switched to small, economical cars. You can’t fit women into a Volvo.”
“What about the trunk?”
“Foolish gringo; that is where we keep our camcorder and tri-pod.”
“You record your attacks?”
“Do not make me smack you for your ignorance. We got over three million hits on You Tube. We have a brand to maintain.”
Berg signed some papers, shook hands, followed their lead by spitting on the floor, and walked out. The Mohawk woman was next, and as they crossed paths she cackled. Berg knew he must work on his own cackle. From now until the weekend, when his first raid was scheduled, he needed to get used to cheap alcohol and smoking cheaper cigars. He’d always wondered what a beard would do for his profile. Maybe, if he displayed enough viciousness and cold cruelty, they’d let him drive. He’d heard Volvos are good on curves.
For practice, he went next door and glared at the taco joint owner, who stood there puzzled.
“You wish to order, señor?”
“I wish you to take a good look at me, fella. Because the next time I burst in here I just may be wearing a sombrero and carrying a loaded weapon.”
The man seemed impressed.
“For now,” Berg said, “I’ll have two tacos with plenty of spicy sauce. But no MSG.”
As soon as he was done eating, he would confront the dentist in the nearby office, maybe smack him around just for practice.
He grimaced. His testicles still hurt. – Joe Del Priore
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