re en act ment

He sits at the edge of the encampment, at a table, near the tent and his bedroll, which is yet unrolled, but slid to the rear of the tent, hiding the TV, which he’ll connect, later, to a 200-foot electrical cord, so he can watch “Saturday Night Live,” for two reasons: one, tonight’s show is not a re-run and, two, because it’s hosted by Taylor Swift, a current, country heartthrob. The field before him has been lit with 8,000 candles, representing the approximate 8,000 who fell during a pivotal battle in the war with Mexico. It is a lovely, peaceful, powerful sight, blessed by a cool night and gentle breeze. By weekday and late evenings he works the evening shift at the IHOP nearest the mall, in the kitchen. He is good at omelets. And they are good, because he adds a dash of pancake batter to the eggs. Tonight, though, he is a mercenary, one who deserted the U.S. forces and joined the Mexicans, at the promise of land and money, and will end up hanged for doing so. Dressed appropriately, he tells his story to the visitors, youths, mostly, armed with video cameras. He spins a good tale. He does a good deed. He has given life to history. Tomorrow, though, it’s back to the griddle and senior citizen 2-for-1 specials, which is better than the gallows, though not nearly so dramatic. His name is Fermin. He is 46.