February 9, 2001
Toronto
Under a heavy winter blanket, Pepe stirs to the vibration of his digital watch. He presses a button on its side to stop the alarm. He disables an analog alarm clock on a high shelf by his bed that serves as his backup in case he oversleeps. God forbid that it goes off because its shrill mechanical bell is loud enough to wake up his roommates and everyone in the adjacent rooms.
He sits up and yawns. In the dim light, he sees his three roommates sleeping in their bunk beds, gently snoring. They’re all in their mid-twenties, all doing odd jobs. Though he arrived in Canada as a landed immigrant and the others arrived as refugees from Central America, he has bonded with them. He’s the most recent renter in this rooming house on Palmerston Boulevard near Bloor Street. He pays three hundred dollars a month for a bunk bed and access to a shared bathroom and kitchen.
He climbs down and pours himself coffee from a thermos. It’s Nescafé instant, nothing fancy, but it has enough warmth and caffeine to jolt him awake. Boiling water and making coffee the night before saves him a few minutes in the morning.
He walks to the bathroom to piss, wash his face, and brush his teeth. He gets dressed, puts on his winter boots and jacket, then toque, scarf, and gloves. He grabs his backpack, goes downstairs, and he’s out the door.
Toronto is bone chillingly cold in the middle of winter. The forecast is minus fifteen Celsius and minus twenty-something with the wind chill. The two-block walk to the streetcar stop on Harbord Street seems to take forever. The uneven mounds of dirty snow along the icy sidewalks present an unwelcome obstacle course.
He doesn’t see a patch of black ice; he loses his balance but quickly regains it. He grins to himself, remembering that he has managed to avoid slipping since he learned to skate at the Toronto City Hall public rink. He bought the cheapest pair of skates at Canadian Tire as a Christmas gift to himself and spent the weekends learning to skate. Hopefully he’ll soon be good enough to play shinny hockey, but for now his primary goal is to reach the streetcar stop on time. If he misses it, he’ll have to wait fifteen minutes for the next one and he’ll be late for work.
Pepe is waiting alone at the streetcar stop as the 511 tram approaches, right on time. He steps forward as the doors chime open. He gets on and settles in the single seat opposite the middle doors.
Three other passengers are on the streetcar, all brown like him, all staring blankly ahead, probably wondering why they traded the forever-summer of their tropical lands for this bleak winter.
The street lights streak by the wide windows as the red tram rolls south on Bathurst Street. A few more sleepy souls get on at the following stops, none showing enthusiasm for their ungodly work hours.
Pepe gets off on Niagara Street, one stop south of King Street. He trudges along a couple of blocks and arrives at the meat-packing plant. Looking from the outside, this three-storey industrial building looks like any other Victorian-era warehouse that is common along the rail corridor in Toronto. Except that its windows have been bricked over and its roof and walls thickly insulated.
Adjacent to it is a similar building where the hogs are slaughtered — six thousand a day — and the dressed carcasses are transported to the meat-packing plant via a covered conveyor bridge twenty feet above the ground. The owners call the slaughterhouse an abattoir; the French word does not provoke the same aversion as its English counterpart.
A slaughterhouse has existed at this site for over a century. Toronto loves its pork; in fact, one of the city’s nicknames is Hogtown. And Pepe is one of hundreds of immigrants who work here to keep the pork traditions alive.
Pepe joins the lineup by the entrance. He shows his ID to security and walks through the revolving steel door.
He rushes to the men’s lockers; every minute counts. He opens his locker, retrieves his blue hard hat and insulated steel-toe slip-free waterproof boots, and deposits his winter boots, jacket, toque, scarf, and gloves. He sits on a long bench and slips on the specialized boots. They were supplied by the plant; their cost was deducted from his first two paycheques.
He stands and stretches. He doesn’t have to piss but he goes to the toilet anyway and waits for a free urinal. The first thing he learned here was that it’s a pain to get a pee break outside break time, so he goes to piss at every break.
He washes his hands and joins the rest of the men as they exit the lockers.
Most of the workers make a side trip to the cafeteria; it’s a wide hall with twenty long tables. Pepe leaves his backpack at the Filipino table, beside the Latino table. The four tables closest to the microwave machines are designated as the Portuguese tables. The next four are the East European tables. The others are for Africans, South Asians, Caribbeans, Chinese, and the farthest one is for Muslims. Yes, there are several Muslim workers in this pork meat–packing plant. Good jobs are hard to come by; Allah will understand.
Pepe returns to the corridor, which it is covered with non-slip rubber mats. The mats are interrupted by a shallow, sanitizing boot-bath that smells of lemony disinfectant.
He joins another lineup. Everyone picks their time card from the wall rack, inserts it on the bundy clock, then returns it to the rack. The location of this bundy clock is a source of debate among the workers as they realize that the several minutes from the entrance to the boot-bath are unpaid.
On the side of the next corridor are hangers of freshly laundered thick white butcher coats; he grabs a medium and wears it over his thick flannel jacket. Next to the coats are dispensers of plastic aprons, rubber gloves, hair nets, and face masks. He puts them on and saves extra gloves and masks in his coat pocket.
Everyone enters through the work area doors and heads to their assigned stations.
The buzzer sounds. Work day officially starts.
The work area is impressively massive. It’s a series of cutting and trimming stations that process the whole carcass into standard retail cuts that are then forwarded to packing stations. There are hook chains, conveyor belts, elevated chutes, industrial bone saws, lots of knives, and knife sharpeners. There are large stainless steel bins for various cuts and discarded trimmings, transported by forklifts driven on the aisles between stations.
Pepe waits by his station. From where he stands, he sees the carcasses entering the queue at the far end of the work area. They move through mechanical cutting stations and the resulting primal cuts are directed to different chutes. His task is to wait for the pork legs to emerge from the chute in front of him, grab each one, and throw it into one of three bins: small, medium, large. Each leg weighs between eight and twelve kilos.
He’s been assigned to this station for a month. One of the supervisors saw him at another station, he commented on his broad shoulders and transferred him here. A supervisor walks by every hour and gives him a thumbs-up. Pepe is not certain who’s who as all of them are masked, but their white hard hats distinguish them as supervisors.
The bins in front of him are supposed to be replaced by forklift operators when they’re over three-fourths full, and the operators have been mostly diligent about it. Only twice had he needed to push the big red STOP LINE button suspended from the ceiling near him. And when he did, the whole line stops until the overflowing bins are replaced with empty ones, amid much yelling and name-calling from the stressed-out supervisors.
Pepe watches the pork legs slide to him from the chute; they remind him of Christmas ham and Iberian jamón. Some people say workers at meat-packing plants become vegetarians after witnessing how meat is processed. But not him. To fend off boredom, he imagines new ways to cook the pork leg as he grips and tosses it. Maybe deep-fry it whole — crispy pierna, instead of crispy pata? Braised it for a few hours — pierna tim, instead of pata tim?
Before his two months at this plant, he worked as a shelf stocker at a supermarket, then as an assistant at a retirement home. Working at the supermarket was okay, but it was minimum wage and he hardly got full shifts. The retirement home paid more, but it was particularly, extremely difficult work. On some days he changed soiled adult diapers, on others he was subjected to racist rants from the very residents he was assisting. And then there was that one day when a creepy old man kept grabbing his crotch through his loose scrub uniform as Pepe was feeding him. He offered Pepe five dollars to cop a feel. Five dollars? That’s not even one hundred and fifty pesos, not enough for a movie and snack at Jollibee back home.
But at the same retirement home, there was one old widow who was kind to him, Doña Juana from Argentina. Initially Doña Juana was indifferent to him. One day he greeted her in Spanish, and since then, she had been friendly toward him. When he finished early with the other residents, he brought her tea and listened to her stories of her childhood in Buenos Aires. She loved to tell stories of sus años felices — her happy years.
One morning Pepe was pulled aside and told that Doña Juana had died in her sleep. The Filipina nurse attending to her knew the lady was fond of him so she let him say goodbye. He saw her serene face; he leaned into her and whispered.
“Adiós, Doña Juana. Que en paz descanse usted. Que le reúna usted con su esposo, su familia, y todos sus amigos de la infancia.” (Goodbye, Doña Juana. May you rest in peace. May you be reunited with your husband, your family and all your childhood friends.)
The nurse patted Pepe’s shoulder as he walked away from the deathbed.
“Pepe, ibinulong mo ba sa yumao ’yung mga problema mo?” (Pepe, did you whisper your problems to the deceased?)
“Huh? Naku, hindi. Nagpaalam lang ako sa kanya.” (Oh, no. I only said my farewell.)
He left that job when a friend told him about this meat-packing plant: they pay five dollars above the Ontario minimum wage, and full shifts and overtime are the norm.
The buzzer sounds. First morning break.
Five more pork legs exit the chute. He throws them into the bins. He stretches his shoulders and arms and walks through the work station doors.
He discards his gloves, apron, and mask. He keeps his hair net and hard hat. He returns to the corridor, steps on the boot-bath, and heads toward the cafeteria.
The Portuguese tables are the busiest, the immigrants from Madeira and the Azores making up the largest ethnic group among the workers, including the supervisors and managers. They get first dibs on the microwaves to warm up their snacks.
The East Europeans are Serbians, Croatians, Albanians, Romanians, Ukrainians, and Russians, almost all men, almost all taller than six feet. Instead of snacking, they smoke and drink their coffee on the outdoor patio.
Pepe exchanges high-fives with the kababayans at the Filipino table. Most of them are recent immigrants like him. They open their bags and put their merienda in the middle for sharing: pan de sal with Cheez Whiz, ensaymada, hopia, turon. Pepe takes out his thermos and pours himself coffee. He chews on granola bars and dried fruit.
The table beside them is sharing their snacks too. Several Salvadorans, Chileans, Venezuelans, Mexicans, and Dominicans. Lupita, a morena from Mexico City, sits near Pepe. She takes a sip of his coffee and tells him it’s not strong enough.
Behind them are the tables for Blacks, Indians, Islanders, and Chinese. The Muslim brothers at the end, mostly Pakistanis and Bangladeshis, keep among themselves, trying to safeguard their already compromised state of grace. Interspersed among all tables are the few white Canadians who sit wherever they want.
Though the tables are not officially reserved for any ethnic group, the workers converge along shared origin or language. Newcomers see this on their first day and gravitate toward their tribe of choice. The food and drinks on the tables reflect the diversity of the workers in this plant.
Pepe checks his watch; it’s 8:10 a.m. He stands and heads to the toilet inside the men’s lockers. There are six urinals; the first four are already occupied. The sixth has its usual pisser, Vladimir the Serb, who is always at that urinal. He opens the high window above it and he smokes while he pisses. He stands there for a while until his cigarette is finished, oblivious to the lineup behind him. There is no smoking inside the building but he persists; the others are either scared of him or simply don’t care.
Pepe checks his watch. With not a minute to spare, he walks to the fifth urinal and pisses.
Vladimir looks over to him.
“You Asians, you have small dicks.”
Pepe keeps his eyes on the wall.
“We have bigger brains though.”
“If that’s true, why are we both working in this hell hole.”
Pepe laughs. He doesn’t have a witty reply to that one. He finishes up and walks to the sink.
“See ya, Vlad. Don’t forget to wash your hands.”
“See ya, man.”
Everyone here is “man,” “mate,” “buddy,” or “friend.” Except among tablemates, no one really asks for names. With the high turnover among workers, people don’t invest personal time in getting to know others.
Still, the Filipino guys know Vladimir because of his smoking habit at the urinals. They even nicknamed him “Supot” after one of them inadvertently saw his uncircumcised penis while pissing beside him.
Pepe makes his way back to the work area and puts on a new apron, face mask, and gloves.
The buzzer sounds. Work restarts.
Pepe has a couple of minutes free as the pig parts make their way through the line. But soon enough, the pork legs race their way toward him, one every four to six seconds, sometimes faster.
Where he is, this is the first stage. It’s physical and mechanical work. They’re all men here, and he’s one of the few Asians. The output from here goes to the second stage where they perform deboning and precise cutting and trimming by hand. The company offers a course on butchery techniques; it teaches the industry standard to prepare bacon, ribs, shoulders, loin, ham, and other retail cuts.
The output from the second stage goes to different packing lines on the third and final stage. There are different sizes of plastic bags and carton boxes. Some cuts are packed with absorbent pads. Each bag is electronically weighed and labelled before going into a box, which is likewise labelled and then carried onto a pallet. A full pallet is wrapped with industrial-strength stretch wrap and moved by forklift to a holding area before it is loaded to a refrigerated truck.
The only parts of the carcass that go straight from the first to the third stage are the head, trotters, and tail. They are accumulated in a special bin and are shipped, together with the bones and trimmings from the second stage, to another plant in Brampton, northwest of Toronto. That plant produces hot dogs, among other things.
From start to finish, the pork meat travels through the three sterile stages, all maintained at minus four degrees Celsius. All stages are scrubbed clean, power washed, and sterilized every evening.
When Pepe was hired, he started at the third stage. He picked up the boxes from the end of the packing line conveyor belt and stacked them on a pallet. It was grunt work, but he didn’t have to wear aprons, hair nets, and face masks, so it wasn’t all bad. The mostly Portuguese guys he worked with even had a boom box playing MuchMusic dance CDs.
Lupita and most of the women work at the second stage. Those who complete and pass the butchery course are paid a slightly higher hourly rate. At the first stage, the men who were trained to operate the industrial bone saws also enjoy extra pay to compensate for the risk of serious injury.
The buzzer sounds. Second morning break.
Pepe again waits until the last pork leg exits from the chute.
He exits the work area, discards the hygiene kit, returns to the cafeteria, and sits down at the Filipino table. He takes his thermos and slides his chair toward Lupita on the neighbouring Latino table. She takes the thermos from him and pours coffee on the cap.
“¿Ya está frío?” (Is it already cold?)
Lupita takes a sip and passes it to Pepe.
“No, está bien.” (No, it’s all right.)
Buboy, a chatty thirtysomething Manileño, teases him across the table.
“Hoy, Pepe, sinagot ka na ba ng Mexicana?” (Hey, Pepe, has the Mexican agreed to be your girlfriend?)
Pepe grins and brushes off Buboy’s comment.
“¿Qué te dijo tu paisano, Pepe?” (What did your countryman say, Pepe?)
Pepe puts his arm on her shoulders.
“Es nada, no le hagas caso.” (It’s nothing, don’t pay attention to him.)
Buboy doesn’t give up. He picks a turon with a napkin. He slides his chair closer to the couple and offers the turon to Lupita. She readily accepts and bites it. The flaky wrapper and sweet fried banana hit the spot.
Buboy tries to make small talk with Lupita.
“Turon. Turon de … Turon de banana. Hoy, Pepe, ano sa kastila’yung saging?” (Turon. Turon made of … Turon made of banana. Hey, Pepe, how do you say banana in Spanish?)
“Plátano. Turrón de plátano.”
Lupita takes another bite and gives the rest to Pepe while licking her lips and fingertips.
“Es riquísimo.” (It’s really good.)
Pepe sees Remedios looking at him. She’s one of two Filipinas in their group.
He smiles at her.
“Remedios, binata pa pala itong si Alvaro na taga-Venezuela. Gusto mo ba na ipakilala kita?” (Remedios, Alvaro from Venezuela is still single, would you like me to introduce you?)
Remedios furtively glances at the handsome Alvaro. She giggles with Consolación, the other Filipina. Buboy slides back to his seat and rejoins the ladies.
“O ano, Remedios, Consolación, guapo si Alvaro, ’di ba?” (So what do you think, Remedios, Consolación, Alvaro’s handsome, no?)
From the Latino table, the Venezuelan turns to them and smiles.
“Oye, escuché mi nombre y la palabra ‘guapo.’ ¿Ustedes hablan de mí?” (Hey, I heard my name and the word “guapo.” Are you talking about me?)
Pepe replies as the ladies giggle even more.
“Alvaro, eres soltero, ¿no? Pues, tengo dos amigas solteras aquí, Remedios y Consolación.” (Alvaro, you are single, right? Well, I have two single lady friends here, Remedios and Consolación.)
Alvaro waves at the ladies. Pepe encourages him to join them.
“Platica con ellas, ándale.” (Chat with them, go ahead.)
Alvaro takes the vacant seat across the ladies and tries to break the ice, albeit haltingly, in English. Remedios insists on being called Remy, and Consolación asks him to call her Siony. Buboy tries to join the chat, but Alvaro is focused on the two Filipinas.
Pepe checks his watch; it’s 10:30 a.m. He stands and tells Lupita he’ll see her at lunch.
At the toilets, Vladimir is at his usual spot, but fortunately the first urinal is free so Pepe doesn’t have to stand beside the Serb and inhale his cigarette smoke.
He washes his hands and makes his way back.
The buzzer sounds. Work restarts.
Pepe stands at his station. Someone pats his shoulder. He turns toward the masked guy beside him. The guy temporarily lowers his mask and smiles. It’s Alvaro.
“Pepe, ¿de verdad son solteras?” (Pepe, are they really single?)
“¿Remedios y Consolación? Sí, son solteras. ¿Te gusta una de ellas?” (Remedios and Consolación? Yes, they’re both single. Do you like any of them?)
“Pues sí, de hecho las dos me gustan.” (Well, yes. In fact I like both of them.)
The first pork leg exits the chute and Pepe prods Alvaro to go to his own station.
“Hablamos luego. A trabajar.” (We’ll talk later. Time to work.)
Pepe’s mind wanders as he does his task. It would be great if either Remedios or Consolación ends up dating and even marrying Alvaro. Imagine the beautiful babies.
Both ladies are in their early thirties, same as Alvaro. They were all here by the time Pepe started. They were sitting at the same tables but those tables never intersected until Pepe arrived and began chatting with Lupita. She initially viewed him as a novelty as she had never met a Filipino before, but they hit it off.
Being a good Catholic boy, Pepe invited Lupita to attend mass at St. Michael’s Cathedral downtown. She loved how old that church was but told Pepe that they have churches in Mexico that are five hundred years old. He told her that they have centuries-old churches in the Philippines too, though a lot of them have been damaged by war, earthquakes, and volcanoes.
One Sunday after mass, Pepe and Lupita took the subway north and he brought her to Sampaguita, one of the oldest Filipino restaurants in Toronto. They had pancit and crispy pata. And even though it was already autumn, Pepe ordered one halo-halo and they shared it; she finished most of it, she especially loved the red and green nata de coco.
Lupita is living with a spinster aunt. She’s hoping to move out and find her own place and eventually find a better job that matches her skills. She was a grade school teacher in Mexico City. Her aunt sponsored her to come as her personal caregiver with the understanding that she’d find her luck once she was here. It’s a story not unlike that of many Filipinos in Canada.
Remedios and Consolación were sales ladies at ShoeMart in Manila. They are taller than average and are quite easy on the eyes. They also started out as caregivers. Buboy hangs out with them on weekends; there’s a karaoke bar on St. Clair Avenue West that they frequent on Saturday evenings. Pepe thought that Buboy was pursuing one of the ladies, though he wasn’t sure which one.
The buzzer sounds. Lunch break.
Pepe chats with Alvaro on their way back to the cafeteria. He suggests that he should get to know each one of the Filipinas first before making up his mind who to pursue, if at all.
Pepe opens his backpack, retrieves a Tupperware box, and walks to the microwaves. All ten of them are being used by the Portuguese. He waits in line. Lupita joins him with her own lunch box and rubs Pepe’s back.
“¿Qué hay para comer?” (What’s for lunch?)
“Arroz blanco con pedacitos de Spam. No he tenido tiempo para cocinar algo.” (White rice with slices of Spam. I didn’t have time to cook anything.)
Lupita makes a face. She doesn’t like Spam.
“La próxima vez me avisas y te cocino algo.” (Next time, tell me so I can cook something for you.)
“Gracias, mi Lupita.” (Thanks, Lupita.)
After heating their food, Pepe pulls Lupita’s chair and they both sit at the Filipino table, her hand resting on his thigh. Upon seeing Pepe’s Spam, Buboy offers him catsup packets. Pepe accepts and squeezes them on his lunch. He notices the McDonald’s branding.
“Nagnakaw ka ba ng catsup sa McDo?” (Did you steal catsup from McDonald’s?)
Remedios interjects before Buboy could respond.
“Iyan pa? Pati asukal, asin, paminta. At napkin, sangkaterbang napkin ang inuuwi niyan galing McDo.” (He’s the one to do it. He steals sugar, salt, and pepper packets. And napkins too, he brings home loads of napkins from McDonald’s.)
“Sobra ka naman. Masigasig na pagtitipid ’yan.” (You’re exaggerating. That’s resourceful frugality.)
The other Filipinos chuckle at Buboy’s defense of himself. Pepe translates this for Lupita and she laughs, saying that Mexicans bring home condiments from McDonald’s too.
After finishing his lunch, Pepe takes out his thermos and pours the remaining coffee on the cap. It’s already lukewarm. Lupita takes the cap and volunteers to heat it up in the microwave.
Buboy nods at Pepe and points to Lupita with his lips.
“Pepe, kayo na ba? Obvious naman e.” (Pepe, are you two officially a couple? It’s already obvious.)
“Masaya kami sa isa’t isa.” (We’re happy with each other.)
“At bakit naman hindi Pinay ang niligawan mo?” (And why didn’t you pursue a Filipina?)
Remedios and Consolación join in and insist that Pepe answer the question.
Pepe grins at the three, then replies to the ladies.
“Sa totoo lang, akala ko kasi nililigawan na kayo ni Buboy kaya hindi na ako nakisawsaw.” (The truth is, I thought Buboy was already pursuing you so I didn’t bother to get involved.)
Remedios, sitting beside Pepe, leans and pinches him on the arm and admonishes him in a low voice. He pretends to recoil at the pain.
“Naku, Pepe, hindi kami talo niyang si Buboy. Hindi mo ba alam?” (Oh Pepe, Buboy and us, we’re like sisters. Didn’t you know?)
Buboy’s eyes open wide on realizing that Remedios has just outed him. He opens his mouth but is speechless. He dismisses her with a wave and tells Pepe to ignore her.
Lupita returns with the reheated coffee and gives it to Pepe. He sips it while reassuring Buboy.
“Ano ba naman, Buboy? Taong 2001 na, okay lang kung kapwa mo lalaki ang gusto mo. Anong pakialam ng ibang tao?” (What’s the matter, Buboy? It’s 2001, it’s okay if you fancy guys. Who cares what other people think?)
Buboy looks at Pepe, then at Remedios and Consolación.
Remedios offers Buboy the peace sign.
“Peace na tayo?” (So all is forgiven?)
Buboy’s scowl slowly turns into a smile and he gives a high-five to Remedios, then Consolación. And finally to Pepe. And to Lupita.
“Espera, espera, ¿qué pasa?” (Wait, wait, what’s happening?)
Pepe whispers to Lupita that Buboy just came out.
Lupita’s jaw drops and she raises her hands to her face. She stands up and walks to where Buboy sits and hugs him from behind. And in her limited English she cheers on Buboy.
“We are happy for you.”
Buboy smiles, takes Lupita’s hands, and thanks her.
From the other table, Alvaro turns toward them and asks what the excitement is all about. Lupita tells him.
“Es que Buboy acaba de salir del closet.” (Buboy just came out of the closet.)
Alvaro also stands and pats Buboy’s shoulder.
“Muy bien, Buboy, muy bien.” (Very good, Buboy, well done.)
Buboy awkwardly thanks Alvaro but raises his hands in protest.
“Stop, that’s it. Please don’t tell anyone else or the whole cafeteria may start a pride parade for me.”
Pepe checks his watch; it’s 1:10 p.m. He packs up his Tupperware and thermos, then he squeezes Lupita’s hand before getting on his feet. He goes to the lockers.
Vladimir is at his usual spot, and there’s a haze of cigarette smoke enveloping him.
Pepe takes the first urinal and yells at the tall Serb.
“Open the window, Vlad, the cigarette smoke stinks!”
The haze quickly dissipates as soon as the window is opened.
Pepe stretches and burps as he stands at his station. The supervisor walks by and gives him a thumbs-up.
Last week, during a lull in processing, the supervisor stood beside him for a quick chat. He told Pepe that he could stay in this station as long as he wanted. Or he could take a forklift operation training course or take the bone sawing course. Both of those positions pay a higher rate. Pepe told him he’d think about the forklift course. The supervisor, a native of the Azores, also commented that he spoke excellent English for an Oriental. It’s the first time that he’s been called an Oriental. He let it pass; he was called worse things at the retirement home.
Pepe now thinks about the forklift course. If he completes that, he can work at other warehouses, maybe even at construction sites. That would be good and reliable money.
Driving the forklift in this plant is probably the least physically taxing of all the jobs here. The operators are not on their feet the whole day like him, they don’t risk losing fingers or hands to the bone saw, they’re not in danger of getting cut by knives, and it’s unlikely they will suffer from repetitive movement injuries. They just have to be cautious in transporting bins and not crashing into corners or other forklifts as they navigate about the plant.
Not half an hour passes when Pepe hears an alarm much louder than the buzzer. He sees red lights flashing in the ceiling and walls, followed by an automated announcement:
“SAFETY ALERT! PLEASE REMAIN CALM AND EVACUATE THE BUILDING NOW!”
The line is stopped and they evacuate quickly. They walk out with their aprons, masks, and gloves all the way to the parking lot inside the building compound. Based on an earlier experience, Pepe guesses that this may be another nitrogen leak. It happened in his first month, when they were herded and kept here for thirty minutes while the building interior was flushed with fresh air and retested for toxicity.
Pepe walks through the crowd and finds the workers from the second stage. He sees Lupita huddling with Buboy, Remedios, and Consolación. He and Alvaro wait with them. It is cold, maybe minus ten degrees Celsius. It’s worse when the wind blows. After fifteen minutes, they are led to the cafeteria for further waiting. They sit at their tables and in hushed tones the workers confirm it’s another nitrogen leak. Liquid nitrogen is used to refrigerate the building. It has neither colour nor odour and is extremely cold. It can cause serious physical injury and even death without warning. If the building did not have an advanced warning system, they’d all be dead by now.
Pepe holds Lupita’s hand as he checks his watch. It’s 2:20 p.m. He wonders if they will have to work overtime to make up for the delay.
The safety manager and the union representative enter the cafeteria. The manager stands on a stool and announces that the safety of the work stations has been re-established and that work will resume in ten minutes.
Pepe goes for one last piss and hand wash. He returns to his station with fresh gloves, a fresh mask, and a fresh apron.
The buzzer sounds. Work restarts.
Pepe sorts the pork legs abandoned earlier at his station and tosses each into the appropriate bin. The supervisor walks by and gives him a thumbs-up.
He’s still thinking of the nitrogen leak. The danger is real. One day the warning system may malfunction and the colourless and odourless gas could flow through the building and put everyone to permanent deep sleep. At least it’ll be quick.
If he and Lupita are to move forward, he needs to be more ambitious and work toward his and their next level. The forklift course is looking more promising now; it’s a stepping stone to a better job in construction. That has its own work hazards, but at least not with nitrogen.
The buzzer sounds. Work ends.
He waits for the remaining pork legs to arrive and tosses them to the bins. He looks up toward the beginning of the line; there are no more carcasses in the queue.
He and Alvaro head out and they stamp their time cards. The timestamp indicates at least an hour of overtime.
Pepe sees Lupita gathering her lunch bag at the cafeteria. He hugs and kisses her. She smiles and tells him she’ll wait for him outside.
He gathers his backpack. He’s about to walk out when the union representative asks for a few minutes with him. Carlos is from Chile, and he’s a bit older than Pepe. He fled Santiago with his parents when he was a kid; his activist parents would have been imprisoned by the dictator Augusto Pinochet had they not escaped. He hung out with Carlos in his first month here; they both worked at the third stage together, stacking boxes on pallets. Then Carlos was recruited to be a union representative for the United Food and Commercial Workers, then he became very busy after that.
“¿Podemos platicar en el vestuario? Tengo prisa, Lupita me espera.” (Can we chat in the lockers? I’m in a rush, Lupita is waiting for me.)
Carlos walks with Pepe and sits beside him as he changes his boots.
“Pepe, ¿has pensado en ser representante de la UFCW? Como viste esta tarde, necesitamos más representación en las decisiones sobre la seguridad para esta planta. Necesitamos personas como tú, especialmente tú que andas en ambos círculos de los filipinos e hispanos.” (Pepe, have you thought about being a representative of the UFCW? As you’ve seen today, we need more representation in the safety decisions for this plant. We need people like you, especially you who form part of both Filipino and Hispanic circles.)
“Gracias mi amigo, pero no he pensado en eso. No creo que me quede aquí por largo plazo.” (Thank you my friend, but I haven’t thought about it. I don’t think I’ll be here for the long term.)
Pepe stands and closes his locker. Carlos walks with him to the exit.
“Nunca hemos tenido un representante filipino. Vas a hacer un gran servicio para tu comunidad si aceptas la posición.” (We’ve never had a Filipino representative. You’ll be doing a great service for your community if you accept the position.)
Carlos places his hand on Pepe’s shoulder.
“Piénsalo, mi amigo. Seguiremos los pasos de César Chávez y Larry Itliong.” (Think about it, my friend. We’ll be following the footsteps of César Chávez and Larry Itliong.)
Pepe smiles. Larry Itliong was the legendary Filipino labour leader who fought for Filipino farm workers in California from the 1930s to the 1970s. To walk in his footsteps is something he never even dares to think of. He’s only an ordinary guy trying to survive in this new land. But life is more than a paycheque. Maybe he can do more.
He sees Lupita waiting outside the door with Remedios, Consolación, Buboy, and Alvaro. Snow is falling heavily, so they all have their hoods up.
“Bueno, Carlitos, vamos a ver. Tengo que consultar a la jefa.” (All right, Carlitos, we’ll see. I’ll run it by the girlfriend.)
Pepe and Carlos part ways with an abrazo.
He exits through the revolving door and takes Lupita’s hand. They follow Remedios and Consolación as they cling on to Buboy’s arms for support. Alvaro walks alongside them and points to the slippery spots to avoid.
He had always dreamt of snow since he was a kid, but now that he’s here, winter is simply another challenge in an already long list of challenges in an immigrant’s life. Still, he revels in how picturesque everything looks when covered with freshly fallen snow. Even this trashy alleyway they’re trudging on looks like a postcard.
Pepe fondly watches the gleeful reaction of his friends to the wintry scene. He pulls Lupita closer to him, she who holds his hand and warms his heart.