Lunch Break
Title
Lunch Break
Creator
Nina Cuesta
Date
09/19/2021
Text
So there I was, a young teen that wanted to make some cash, but soon found herself posted on an upside down pickle bucket next to a dumpster, now part of one of the most diverse work communities possible. My parents being immigrants from Nicaragua and Cuba, the value of a strong work ethic was instilled in me from a young age. Being forced to leave their homes due to the tyrannical governments, my family fled to the United States and started from scratch while hoping to provide a better life for my brothers and I. Thus, hardwork and determination have been defining traits throughout my academic and work life as I now strive to create a better future for myself.
Oddly enough, ever since entering the workforce in my freshman year of high school, dumpsters have become somewhat familiar to me.
My first job as a busser at a small breakfast restaurant was a truly humbling experience, but a good decision considering I was hellbent on making my own money and too young to work at Publix. After scrubbing the floors of the bathrooms, shining the silverware, and dusting the blinds, then came time to take out the trash. So on I went; zipping through the restaurant in my oversized Custom-ink polo, stained apron, and high ponytail, I would pick up the trash bags that seemed to be filled with cinder blocks. With grace, I would swing the muffin-filled sacs around my shoulder and make my way to the back of the building while stubbornly pretending I didn't need my manager’s help taking them out. Walking through the back door, the sun always disoriented me as my eyes struggled to adjust after being inside all day, as if forgetting mid-shift that the sun existed at all. There it was...the dumpster. I'd take a deep breath, use one hand to push open its lid and the other arm to swing the bags with all my might into the bins. Finally, I released my breath and took in the still garbage ridden air as I made my way back inside.
Upon beginning my new job at the Chick-fil-A in Dadeland mall, I thought I had finally escaped the dumpster and all its horrible fumes. However, it wasn't long before I found myself sitting on an upside down pickle bucket in the back of the mall, enjoying a fresh chicken sandwich with my all-too-familiar friend, the dumpster. However, this time there was something different; this time it was somewhat nice. This was a big shift from that maggot ridden, rotten smelling, grimmy looking trash bin I used at my old job. As I sat enjoying my lunch break, I’d watch the fellow food court workers receive ingredient deliveries and talk about how business has been.
The Chinese lady from Mandarin Express would yell incoherent words into her phone while stomping her cigarette bud into the street; I wish I knew what all the commotion was about. The cook from the Tex-Mex place would sit and blast music on his air pods with his eyes closed shut as if trying to escape the madness of the food court lunch rush. The Indian guy that delivered the paper goods to the cafe next door, would always stop to make small talk and relax before heading back on the road. Many days, I'd sit there with my coworker Juan Carlos, a 60-something year old dishwasher with some of the most broken English I had ever heard. He’d tell me stories of how he lived in poverty in Cuba, and even admitted to pigeon soup being one of his favorite “struggle meals.”
Throughout twelve hours shifts, we did our best to keep entertained as our conversations would shift from sports, to art, to music, to family, to passions and dreams. It was as if I had entered the island of misfits; a group of individuals from completely different walks of life, just trying to find some enjoyment in the monotony of their shifts.
Some days, Juan Carlos didn't want to talk and the lady from the Mandarin Express would come back out for another smoke, but we carried on. Clock in, clock out; one step closer to achieving our goals.
I enjoyed every second.
It was simply people from astronomically different pasts, working hard to create something for themselves, while instilling a sense of community where there was none to begin with.
Oddly enough, ever since entering the workforce in my freshman year of high school, dumpsters have become somewhat familiar to me.
My first job as a busser at a small breakfast restaurant was a truly humbling experience, but a good decision considering I was hellbent on making my own money and too young to work at Publix. After scrubbing the floors of the bathrooms, shining the silverware, and dusting the blinds, then came time to take out the trash. So on I went; zipping through the restaurant in my oversized Custom-ink polo, stained apron, and high ponytail, I would pick up the trash bags that seemed to be filled with cinder blocks. With grace, I would swing the muffin-filled sacs around my shoulder and make my way to the back of the building while stubbornly pretending I didn't need my manager’s help taking them out. Walking through the back door, the sun always disoriented me as my eyes struggled to adjust after being inside all day, as if forgetting mid-shift that the sun existed at all. There it was...the dumpster. I'd take a deep breath, use one hand to push open its lid and the other arm to swing the bags with all my might into the bins. Finally, I released my breath and took in the still garbage ridden air as I made my way back inside.
Upon beginning my new job at the Chick-fil-A in Dadeland mall, I thought I had finally escaped the dumpster and all its horrible fumes. However, it wasn't long before I found myself sitting on an upside down pickle bucket in the back of the mall, enjoying a fresh chicken sandwich with my all-too-familiar friend, the dumpster. However, this time there was something different; this time it was somewhat nice. This was a big shift from that maggot ridden, rotten smelling, grimmy looking trash bin I used at my old job. As I sat enjoying my lunch break, I’d watch the fellow food court workers receive ingredient deliveries and talk about how business has been.
The Chinese lady from Mandarin Express would yell incoherent words into her phone while stomping her cigarette bud into the street; I wish I knew what all the commotion was about. The cook from the Tex-Mex place would sit and blast music on his air pods with his eyes closed shut as if trying to escape the madness of the food court lunch rush. The Indian guy that delivered the paper goods to the cafe next door, would always stop to make small talk and relax before heading back on the road. Many days, I'd sit there with my coworker Juan Carlos, a 60-something year old dishwasher with some of the most broken English I had ever heard. He’d tell me stories of how he lived in poverty in Cuba, and even admitted to pigeon soup being one of his favorite “struggle meals.”
Throughout twelve hours shifts, we did our best to keep entertained as our conversations would shift from sports, to art, to music, to family, to passions and dreams. It was as if I had entered the island of misfits; a group of individuals from completely different walks of life, just trying to find some enjoyment in the monotony of their shifts.
Some days, Juan Carlos didn't want to talk and the lady from the Mandarin Express would come back out for another smoke, but we carried on. Clock in, clock out; one step closer to achieving our goals.
I enjoyed every second.
It was simply people from astronomically different pasts, working hard to create something for themselves, while instilling a sense of community where there was none to begin with.
Collection
Citation
Nina Cuesta, “Lunch Break ,” Everything Speaks To Me , accessed September 18, 2026, https://everythingspeakstome.com/items/show/24.