The alarm clock sounds at ten thirty at night. While most of them turn off the lights to rest, in my house the silence is broken with the smell of freshly strained coffee and the creaking of the safety boots when adjusting the laces.
I am thirty-one years old and I am an urban waste collector. I have been working in this trade for six years, the same honest employment that allows me to pay rent, secure my children’s studies and bring food to the table.
I arrive at the municipal base shortly before midnight. The atmosphere in the maneuvering yard smells like diesel, reheated coffee and heavy jokes between companions trying to chase away the dream. There I meet Manolo and Andrés, the veterans of my gang. They have been on the rear platform of the truck for more than two decades and their hands, tanned by calluses and scars, they are the best survival manual a rookie can have.
