Work Space

The bakery production manager, Alfredo told me to choose an area on any of the large wooden work tables for my own space each day; all I had to do if someone else got in my way was to tell them to move.  This seemed easy enough, but even as he told me, I knew I didn't have it in me to tell someone who had worked there longer than me, knew what they were doing better than me and had every reason to dislike me to move.

Alfredo had worked his way up from a baker to the production manager.  His father, Epifanio cleaned the bakery at night.  Two of his brothers, Osiel and Misiel worked as bakers.  He and Osiel were the only bakers that spoke any English.  Alfredo had a monochrome somewhat rustic Virgin of Guadalupe tattooed on his chest. He told me he had it done when he was young, by someone in Mexico, a friend who didn't have any training.  I almost always, when glancing at him, assumed it was hair on his chest, then remembered his chest was hairless and smooth and that it was the simply rendered religious icon looking out from his open shirt.

Each day I carried my heavy red tool box into the bakery, looked for the least conspicuous place to stake out an area and began to work, in silence.  Often, I felt the eyes of the curious turned on me.