So, today is my last day at this job. I’ll never have to make that drive again. Usually, I take IH-35 up to the first exit just before you get to the river, just north of Riverside. I don’t even know what exit it is. The only thing off that exit is the RBJ Hospital and a handful of small backstreets of lower East Austin. A little further north, just before you get to Cesar Chavez Street, there’s a vacant lot with a big wrought iron fence around it. Every morning, rain or shine, there are packs of men standing there. These are the day laborers waiting for their chance to earn a few bucks. Men will be standing there facing the traffic, watching for a truck. It doesn’t matter which truck. If it’s big and is being driven toward them, there’s a chance they may get lucky, so they get ready. You’ve gotta be on your toes and ready to jump at the snap of fingers to get a job around here. I’ve only seen the pick-up once in my year and a half of driving this route. The truck pulled up, a burly hand poked out of the passenger window and flashed first five and then three fingers. The five was palm out. The three was palm in, like if he just lowered the index finger and the third finger he’d be flipping them off. All the men on the corner scrambled and practically trampled each other to get into the back of the truck. But the driver only wanted eight. The ninth, tenth, eleventh and however many others who were just a step too slow had to stay behind. No job for them today.

One of the guys left behind that day was an Anglo guy who wore a floppy fishing hat and always carried a backpack with him. Over my many months of driving by, I’ve come up with several ideas about that pack. Maybe he’s got his lunch and a couple magazines in there. Maybe he’s got medicine, maybe he’s sick. Maybe there’s a blanket and a radio. More than likely, considering that he’s always there on the corner at the crack of dawn with that pack, I’d wager he’s got all the above in there, probably everything he owns. And I’ve rarely not seen him there. A few weeks ago, I noticed this, that he’s almost always there. Is he always too slow to get the job, I wondered? Is it the pack that’s holding him back? When the eight fingers flashed out of the truck that morning, most of the men were already running while he was still gathering his pack. I wondered how he ever survived if he always missed his chance? (Of course, it’s likely that he gets the job that rolls through after I’ve already passed by. I mean, obviously he was surviving somehow.)

Well today, my last day driving here, a truck was pulling around the corner freshly packed with coated and baseball-capped men. And there he was, the guy with the floppy fishing hat, sitting on top of the toolbox up against the cab of the truck holding his pack against his chest. He sat taller than the rest of the men on that toolbox perch. I watched as the truck sped off to the job site.. Way to go, pal, I thought and saluted him. The future promises to be brighter for both of us.