Brinkley’s Tower: A Novel { 5 } JUST BEYOND THE NORTHEAST CORNER OF TOWN was the rickety wood-planked bridge separating México from Los Estados Unidos. At most hours of the day customs guards sat on either end of the little bridge. The American guard had a small cabin in which he kept a radio, a fan, a stack of pulp novels, back issues of the Saturday Evening Post, and a small icebox in which he stored his lunch, a roster of snack items, and a variety of soft drinks. His Mexican counterpart had nothing more than a hat to keep the sun off his head and a three-legged kitchen chair he’d salvaged from the municipal dump, an operation that had exposed him to odour and crow attack. While both guards were theoretically in place to control the flow of commerce and immigration between the two countries, they functioned mostly to collect bribes from those powerless enough to feel intimidated by their presence. Most of Corazón’s residents, when needing to visit los Estados, simply chose to swim for it.
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