Each morning in Brooklyn, men from many nations gather on corners in hopes of finding work as day laborers .

By JAVIER C. HERNANDEZ

The sun had barely pierced the indigo morning sky when Francisco J. Perez made the call. He gripped the street pay phone and spoke of his skill at spreading concrete, his expertise in carpentry, his love for painting. He paced and fidgeted, picking at his jagged, mud-encrusted fingernails, and then slammed down the receiver in triumph.
On this day, unlike the week before or that day in March when the bosses tricked him into working without pay, he would make money.
By 6:30 a.m. on a recent Wednesday, the street pageant of day laborers had begun. Dozens of burly men in dusty boots joined Mr. Perez on the four corners of a busy intersection in Brooklyn. They rolled up their sleeves and tightened their belts, hoping that a flash of muscle would bring passing construction vans to a halt. The less robust among them whipped out immigration papers, praying that on this day, their legal status might give them an advantage.
To watch the lineup of day laborers at one New York City intersection is to glimpse desperation, entrepreneurship and clannishness take form and then dissolve in three hours.
Mr. Perez, a 22-year-old Honduran immigrant, sat alone in the shade . Within the group of day laborers that formed on this day, Mr. Perez’s success bred quiet jealousy. On his corner, men from Guatemala, Ecuador, and Mexico stood at a distance, chatting about the outrageous joke on the radio the day before, the good-looking girl in the supermarket, and how hard it was to get jobs.
Mr. Perez, electrified by the $85 in sight for 10 hours of work, was optimistic. “For me, this is a good life, he said in Spanish. “If I knew English, I would have a better job, but this isn’t bad at all. At 6:45, a black construction van came and whisked him away.
The remaining men arranged themselves by region, Latin Americans in one spot, Pakistanis in another, Nepalese and Tibetans in their own huddle.
The group of Pakistani men began their morning ritual of smoking and snacking. Standing at a distance was the group’s reclusive, white-whiskered elder. They called him Beardman, and he tried to wave down vans with his hitchhiker’s thumb. In the middle of the gathering stood Jacky Sing, a homeless man who seemed hopeful of getting a job, but in the meantime drank a Budweiser and showed off his overgrown toenails.
The eight Pakistani men talked about the hard life in America - how everything was fine until this year, when the construction jobs began to vanish. Mohammad Ejaz, 58, said he was getting about half the number of jobs he did last year. Zahid Shad, 41, said he had worked four days in the past two months.
Tariq Bukhari, 45, said he came to America five years ago looking for a way to support his five children back home.
“People have a dream that America has big money, Mr. Bukhari said.
“You shake a tree and money falls. That’s a big dream. It’s not true.
Across the street, 19-year-old Lucas Puac waited with three other Guatemalans hoping that youth and flexibility would make them stand out. Mr. Puac, an illegal immigrant, said he had built a reputation with several contractors and typically worked four or five days a week, usually painting or helping spread concrete. But he said he felt abused by the low wages, which amounted to $600 to $1,000 a month.
“The bosses know we’re illegal, Mr. Puac said in Spanish, “but they don’t think we’re entitled to a decent living.
The intersection’s center of gravity lay outside the Three Star Food Mart. The food market is also a nexus of daily conflict. At least once a week, Shiraz Azam, a cashier who works the 10 p.m. to 10 a.m. shift, calls the police to break up the swarm gathered at the storefront. The crowds have become so rowdy, he said, that the store moved its fruit and vegetable stand inside.
“Sure, everyone needs a job, he said. “But what do they do- They throw garbage and bother customers. Don’t interfere in someone else’s job.
On the same corner, Pasang N. Sherpa, 35, stood in a huddle of Tibetans and Nepalis. They helped each other with the foreign English phrases, passing them down their line, each one contributing a word or two of translation.
Mr. Sherpa, who tries to send money every three months or so to his four children and wife in Tibet, was pessimistic from the beginning. “There are no jobs, he said. “No good.