Neither Snow nor Rain nor Heat nor Gloom of Night Stays These Couriers from the Swift Completion of Their Appointed Rounds

My brother, Mando, finally retired, after thirty-two years of sorting, from the United States Postal Service.

He was never a carrier but working the entire time on the graveyard shift in the large Yorba Linda distribution center in Orange County.

I don’t know how he did it, but he raised two sons from very young age, one on a significant autism spectrum journey, as a single father.

Coming home from work, he would get the boys up, get them ready, and drive them to school, then sleep, and get up in time to pick them up from school, and cook dinner each night.

It takes a village, and my entire family stepped in at one point or another when things would fall apart. So today seemed a celebration for everyone involved.

I brought well-earned mustaches for everyone to wear in our family photo. God bless my loud, boisterous, insane clan. They fill life with all the interesting loud colors.

Being true to our working-class roots, we celebrated at the enduring family palace, Shakey’s Pizza Parlor, this one located one block from Disneyland.

This place was gigantic and filled with a bunch of other similar thinking large Mexican families. I thought there would be tourists, but it was all locals.

We all seemed to arrive at the same time, filling the parking lot when it opened, getting first dibs at the Bunch-a-Lunch, which was a seedy cornucopia of all-you-can-eat fried chicken, mojo potatoes, pizza slices, mountains of mashed potatoes, and a well-stocked salad bar.

There was a gigantic arcade for children to spend all their parents’ money, which we fell victim to immediately.

I brought a plate intended for Mrs. Alfaro and me to share, but she dug in on a couple of drumsticks and mashed potatoes, leaving me to my own lunch bunch. She only came up for air on the drink refill.

I could wax poetic on the deficiencies of this seventy-year-old chain with forty-eight of its fifty-one U.S. restaurants located in California. It is a big hit in the Philippines with one hundred and fifty-three restaurants.

But the truth is, the chicken was delicious. Hand breaded and perfectly crispy, along with their addictive seasoned mojo potatoes.

For $15 per person everyone ate to their hearts content. The salad was fresh and crispy, and I loaded up on cucumbers and cherry tomatoes.

Yes, we could have gone to a Ruth Chris’s, indulged in steaks and horseradish, and given my brother a gold watch.

But that’s obviously not who we are.

We piled plates with all manner of chicken, pizza, goopy gravy, and had the nerve to hand my brother a gift certificate to L.A. Fitness gym.

He was thrilled at the idea of going to a gym during the day and sleeping through the night.

The things we take for granted.