The Job Hunt

Humility tastes like lukewarm empanadas and diesel fumes.

I had spent the morning walking. I couldn't afford a taxi, and I hadn't figured out the guagua (bus) routes yet.

I was wearing my white guayabera—washed in the sink by Sofía the night before—and my one pair of dress shoes, which were scuffed from the construction site.

I had visited three architectural firms in the business district.

Firm 1: The receptionist Googled my name while I was standing there. She saw the "Arsonist Architect" headline. She told me the partners were "in a meeting" indefinitely.

Firm 2: They actually let me into the office. The hiring manager, a smug guy in a polyester suit, laughed in my face. "You want to work here? Mr. DeLuca, our insurance premiums would triple if you walked into the drafting room."

Firm 3: They didn't even open the door.

Now, it was 2:00 PM. I was sitting on a bench in Parque Independencia, eating a fifty-peso chicken empanada.

My feet hurt. My ego hurt.

I watched a group of tourists taking photos of the Altar of the Fatherland. They looked so clean. So unburdened. A week ago, I was them.

Now, I was calculating if I could afford a bottle of water.

"I need money," I muttered to a pigeon. "Fast."

I couldn't fight Vila's eviction notice without cash for filing fees. I couldn't buy food. I couldn't even contribute to the rent for the apartment Sofía was letting me stay in.

I checked my burner phone.

Tony: Sold three refurbished iPhones today! We have grocery money! Yulissa says bring plantains.

Tony was hustling. He was fixing screens, hacking iCloud locks, earning his keep.

I was the only dead weight.

I finished the empanada. I wiped the grease on my pants—because who cared anymore?—and stood up.

I couldn't get a job as an architect. Fine.

I walked south, toward the port. Toward the industrial zone.

I found a construction site. It wasn't a luxury hotel. It was a mid-rise apartment complex. Concrete. Rebar. Dust.

I walked to the gate.

"I'm looking for the foreman," I told the guard.

The guard pointed to a man in a yellow vest screaming at a cement truck driver.

I walked over.

"Excuse me," I said. "I'm looking for work."

The foreman turned. He was a big man, sweating profusely. He looked at my guayabera. He looked at my soft hands.

"Office jobs are downtown, blanquito," he sneered.

"I don't want an office job," I said. "I want labor. I can carry rebar. I can mix cement. I can read blueprints better than anyone on this site."

The foreman laughed. "You? You look like you faint if you miss lunch."

"Try me," I said. "Put me on a shift. If I slow you down, don't pay me."

The foreman spat on the ground. "We are full. Go home."

He turned his back on me.

I walked away.

I tried two more sites. Same result. Too white. Too clean. Too gringo.

I was walking back toward the Zona Colonial, defeated, when a truck honked at me.

Beep-beep-beep.

I looked up. It was a battered Ford pickup loaded with scaffolding.

The driver leaned out.

"Don Max?"

It was Raúl. The foreman from the Hotel San Nicolás.

My heart jumped. "Raúl."

He pulled over. He was wearing a shirt covered in dust.

"I heard about the Gala," Raúl grinned, showing a gold tooth. "You smashed the rock. Bam! The fire inspector shut the site down this morning. Indefinitely."

"I know," I said. "I'm sorry about your job, Raúl."

"Eh," Raúl shrugged. "The job was cursed. The pay was late. I am working for a new contractor now. Renovating a warehouse in Villa Juana."

He looked at me. He saw the sweat, the dust on my shoes, the desperation in my eyes.

"What are you doing walking in the sun, Jefe?"

"Looking for work," I admitted. "Nobody is hiring."

Raúl looked at his steering wheel. He tapped his fingers.

"You shoveled mud good," he said thoughtfully. "You have... respect for the dirt."

"I need a job, Raúl," I said. "Anything. Drafting. Carrying bricks. Coffee runs. I don't care."

Raúl sighed.

"I cannot pay you Architect money, Max. I can pay you Laborer money. Fifteen hundred pesos a day (approx $24 USD). Cash. Under the table."

Fifteen hundred pesos. In my old life, that was a cappuccino.

Now, it was a lifeline.

"I'll take it," I said instantly.

Raúl nodded. "Hop in. We have a slab to pour before sunset."

I climbed into the passenger seat. The truck smelled of stale tobacco and wet cement.

"You know," Raúl said as we merged into traffic. "My guys... they are going to make fun of you. The Gringo carrying buckets."

"Let them," I said, looking out the window at the chaotic city that was slowly becoming mine. "I'm done with being special, Raúl. I just want to be useful."

Raúl handed me a spare yellow vest from the dashboard.

"Put this on, Obrero (Worker)," he said. "Welcome to the crew."

I put on the vest. It was stained and smelled of sweat.

It fit perfectly.