Gonzalez, Ramos, Trujillo, Guerrero, Menendez, Marquez, Suarez, Perez… The -ezes and addresses began to blur in Cordero’s eyes. It could be that it’s 4 am. Or that he’s been standing upright for an hour (on very little sleep) sorting small packages with nothing to lean on but rather tan remnants of Café Bustelo.
Cordero and his wife Carmelita just added a little Moreno to their familia. The love he feels for his newborn baby does not align with the amount of rest she allows him. His supervisor sees him nodding off and gently tugs Cordero’s uniform shirt, “Go take a break before you fall over, Papá Rellena.”
Trudging across the wood-grained floorboards to the breakroom, Cordero slumps onto a bench and digs into his packed lunch a little early. Carmelita toasted up a pumpernickel bagel for him with some ham and eggs just the way he likes it. He reaches into the paper bag to grab the Yoo-hoo he tossed in there this morning from the fridge door.
A wide smile peeks out from behind his bushy goatee. He snaps a pic of the bottle he pulled out with the brown bag in the background and texts his wife: “Hope la niñita likes my chocolate-y drink… I got hers.”
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