Sometimes, A Labor Day
Five-thirty a.m. A damp chill in the air. Figures hunched on the pavement outside a locked trailer, hoods up, waiting. A man approaches on a bicycle, nearly invisible in the dark. "Hola, 'mano."
Headlights pass. Faces turn sharply, then relax.
Finally, the car they've been waiting for. It's Fernando Garavito, the manager, with the key. The men scramble up the steps and crowd inside. The trailer is flooded with warm light. Someone turns on the coffee pot, the weather report. Someone passes around a sign-up sheet with two numbered lists: "Labor" and "Skilled."
PAMELA CONSTABLE in the Washington Post.