The Sun on My Head

by Geovani Martins

  He soon left home to ride buses and started living off the change he received from those moved or troubled by his speech. It all seemed easy in the beginning, the money rolled in, he knew his story by heart, split perfectly into separate sections. But little by little the truth revealed itself. The experience of reciting his own story day after day grew more and more painful, and living off charity became a kind of torment.

  His loneliness weighed on him. Matias became quite close to a boy everybody called Doodle and who they all assumed would grow up to be a thug. The kid was constantly racing about, working as a runner, bringing meals to the dealers, buying cola for the junkies. Then, he spent his dough rolling blunts at the same boca he’d bought the weed from, to make himself known. One day, Matias invited him to come along with him on the bus. Soon enough, Doodle’s presence was doubling donations. At a quick glance, the boy even looked like Matias—and everybody so pities a blind man’s son. Doodle soon realized he made much more money with Matias on the bus than as a runner on the hill, and that it made his mom much happier.

  As years passed, the kid’s presence began to have less effect, some passengers even went so far as to say that a boy that size should be laying down slabs, putting up walls. Seu Matias decided to continue on his own, his increasingly apparent old age having become handy in his line of work. At sixteen, Doodle managed to rent a bike and started driving a mototaxi. During the time they had worked together, the two of them never had much to say to one another; even so, after they ended their partnership, Doodle didn’t pull away completely from Seu Matias. At the end of his workday, the boy heads to the boca and buys all the weed and cocaine he can with the old man’s money, then they sit around, smoking and snorting the night away in an agonized banter throughout which their eyes never meet.

  TGIF

  When my old lady found out I was smoking, she didn’t chew me out like I thought she would. Instead, she just said she wouldn’t be giving me any money anymore, that if I was old enough to have an addiction, I was old enough to work to support it, too. I was reeling in the moment, but then I understood she was legit. It’s like people say: “If your kid’s ass is hairy, that makes you an ape.”

  The first job I got was as a ball boy for Márcio, a tennis instructor who lived upstairs. He taught at a few condominiums in Barra da Tijuca, and we’d have to leave the house at five thirty a.m. at the latest because after that, between six and ten, Avenida Niemeyer only ran in the opposite direction. Márcio was real fly and we swapped some fine notions on the ride over there. Even though we were on our way to work with tennis, soccer was always our subject of choice.

  With the money I made, I could buy some stuff for myself and also help my ma out with the groceries. On the first night after I bought myself a pair of Nikes, I even wore them to bed. I’d walk down the street staring at my feet, watching the soles touch the ground, buzzing with joy. Better yet was when I stepped into school, I felt cool as shit, seemed like everyone had frozen in place just to watch me walk in. Another thing I remember from back then was the sense that I was helping out around the house for the first time, and how that changed the way my family treated me. It all felt so good, I wanted to keep on working forever, that’s what I thought when I got home; but, when I arrived at the condominiums and grabbed that tube I used to collect tennis balls, stepped onto the court and felt the sun roasting my head, forced to serve people who didn’t even look me in the eyes—in those moments, I never wanted to have to count on anyone in my life.

  I started hating every single one of them. The old folk and the young ones, too, those I hated the most. I’d run after those balls, picturing how I’d respond to the crap they were spewing and that I was forced to listen to. Everything about them rubbed me the wrong way, the way they walked, talked, laughed, how they treated the employees, but what I hated the most was when they moaned about their problems: my maid didn’t show up today, I had to take my car to the mechanic, I can’t stand taking English classes anymore, our neighbor’s dog was yapping all night long.

  Sometimes, I’d still be throbbing with rage when I got to school, but then I’d meet up with my friends, we’d chew the fat, and the feeling would begin to pass. At home, all I remembered was the good stuff: money in my pocket, food on my plate, not having to do the dishes. Until one day on the court, everything exploded. A tennis student more or less my age came up to share a little quip with me, said I looked like some dude in a cartoon. I said to him: “Fuck you, bro. I ain’t one of your lil condo pals!” The kid looked at me all scared, like he couldn’t believe my spunk. Just then, I couldn’t either.

  Márcio was really pissed, said I nearly fucked up his job situation. My mom was pissed, everyone was furious. But, for me, the worst thing of all was that Márcio stopped talking to me. He was the one who took me to a soccer stadium for the first time, I’ll never forget. For a while afterward, every time Flamengo kicked one straight into the net, I’d think about him and feel like knocking on his door, yelling together, giving him that hug pals do when their team scores.

  I had several jobs after that one, but it was rough. Not only do you have to shave, cut your hair, be on time all the time, spend most of the day doing stuff for other people, you also got to keep a cool head. I couldn’t hold anything down, and stuff at home got real weird sometimes. Living with my stepdad wasn’t easy; sometimes we’d talk loose, others it seemed like there was only room for one of us in that house. My ma always took my side, in her own way, but she did. I know it drove her crazy how intolerant I could be, she was always saying: “Those who can, give orders, and those who are wise obey them.” Like hell, I thought.

  I came to passing out flyers through a buddy of mine from school. It was supposed to be a quick gig, just to tide me over for a while, but I’ve been at it for nearly a year now. The pay is skimpy, thirty reals a day, Monday to Friday, eight o’clock to four. To compensate, the work’s easy: all I have to do is hand out leaflets to anyone who walks by, if folks take them, great, I don’t care whether they dump them on the ground or go off searching for the offices to ask for a loan. If they don’t take them, life goes on, one thing we’ve plenty of is people to keep trying with. A good thing about this gig is that I don’t have to talk to anybody, I’ve got time to think and to plan and to picture the future.

  The first day was weird. I’d overslept and gotten to the meeting place with seconds to spare. There were already some people waiting around, a bunch of homeless folk, a girl in the family way, an elderly woman who looked older than my grandma. I wasn’t sure that was where I was meant to be waiting, my friend hadn’t arrived yet. I lit a cigarette and tried to make sense of what I was getting myself into. My buddy arrived, confirming that was where we were meant to meet, we waited another ten minutes, and then the boss showed up. He asked for my name, handed me a stack of leaflets, and told me to pass them out on the corner of Rua da Carioca, just before you reach Tiradentes Square. So, there I went.

  At first, I was real embarrassed. People walked past like they felt sorry for me, or were angry, hell knows. Sometimes, when I spotted someone approaching me, I’d make eye contact and gear myself up to hand them the flyer; in a way, in those moments, I felt like those people would’ve preferred I didn’t exist. Trouble was, I took it personally, the way they looked at me. It was a while before I realized that those looks, whatever they meant, weren’t directed at me, but at the leaflet distributor. Which is not who I am, no one is.

  It was smooth sailing once I grasped that difference. Except for when someone I knew walked past. When that happened, I felt like sinking into the pavement. The first time was with a kid I knew from the hill. I spotted him in the distance walking down the sidewalk. I thought of getting out of there, but it was around the time the boss came by. I decided to stay where I was, my head hung low, so he wouldn’t see me. Then I lifted my head, thinking he’d already walked past, and there he was, waiting to talk to me. I tried to hide the leaflets, but there was no use. I said to him
: “I’ve been hustling, cuz.” He told me things were tough for him, he was looking to hustle, too, that he might hit me up, see if I could hook him up with this gig. Then we hugged and he told me to come by his place sometime to play video games. Another time, it was real rough, my heart started racing like crazy, like it was gonna shoot outta my mouth. It was this girl from Cruzada São Sebastião who I’d been chatting up online for ages. It’d been a real struggle getting her to trust me, if she saw me now, I’d be done for. I knew it wouldn’t work to stay put, so I just kept on passing out flyers, business as usual, and everything was fine, she just walked past, dead easy.

  With my first week’s pay, I decided to go to Jacarezinho to get myself some bud. It’d been a while since I had any weed on me, I only ever smoked when a buddy threw some my way. This time I wanted to put down for a fat package so I could give back to everybody who’d helped me through my drought. A fifty-pack of bud. To rest easy. With what was left of the money, I’d pay the internet bill and buy a couple of things we needed around the house. I didn’t care about being broke, the good thing about working days and going to school at night is that you don’t got time to want to spend money.

  A junkie sold me a SuperVia card for two reals. Always a tricky transaction, buying that kind of thing from a crackhead, but he kept hanging around where I was working, and I wasn’t going to move elsewhere on account of two reals. He assured me it had two train rides on it, which made going on the mission easier. It seemed like everything was conspiring in my favor. I even gave up on going to school that day, soon as I arrived on the hill I’d go straight to Cantão terrace, smoke some sick kush, soak up the view.

  I don’t usually take the train and had forgotten how, after five p.m., it’s hell on earth. When I got there it was already full, with nowhere to sit and plenty of folks standing, though at least you could still breathe. Little by little, more people got on and the space around us quickly evaporated. The train doors would close, I’d feel relieved no one else was getting on, then the doors would open again, and people just kept piling in. Some grumbled at the delays in leaving the station, but most folks just kept their heads down, trying to guard their spot.

  The train pulled out, hawkers trying their luck touted their wares, their legs planted in the space they’d conquered for themselves; it was impossible to walk in there, more so if you were carrying a Styrofoam container or a bunch of candy slung on a pole. I kept thinking about how I’d get to the door if the carriage didn’t empty out before we reached my stop. Since it wasn’t far from Central, I knew only a handful of people would get off before I reached my destination. What I hadn’t pictured was that even more bodies could possibly get on when we pulled into São Cristóvão. Folks grumbled, said they should take the next train, there wasn’t any room. The new passengers forced their way in through the doors, the people inside shoved them out. My body was swaying, even though I wasn’t making a single movement when, from one moment to the next, everyone slotted into place, the doors closed, we continued on our way.

  The rain started as we pulled into Maracanã Station. I hadn’t put much faith in the clouds being powerful enough to bring down water, but that’s what happened. I thought of how, sometimes, one person’s perrengue can be another’s joy. My mind went to those two kids I’d met at Campo de Santana that time I’d gone searching for a joint on my lunch break. The two of them were from Fallet, inseparable, like Laurel and Hardy, except they were both so skinny it sometimes seemed they’d break at the slightest breeze. They always worked based on need: if it was hot, they sold water; if it was raining, they sold umbrellas. The day I met them, the guy who usually slung up that way was nowhere in sight, word on the street was he might have been bagged. I was pissed I’d have to spend the rest of the day straight, and the two kids ended up throwing some bud my way, I don’t even know how we started talking. All I remember is that halfway through the joint, lightning started flashing and the wind kicked up. The two boys ran off:

  “Rain! Told ya it’d come down today, I told ya!”

  I yelled after them:

  “Hey, your joint!”

  They responded:

  “Umbrellas are five, jumbos ten!”

  And off they went to make some dough. I chuckled at the scene, smoking my j under a tree, watching the rain fall.

  By the time we reached Triagem, I was itching to get near the door. A near impossible mission. I’d try to squeeze by, say excuse me, no use. I’d try to force my way through, but the bodies stiffened against mine. Someone would whine that I’d stepped on their foot, I’d turn back, consider other avenues. When the train stopped at Jacarezinho, I still wasn’t as close to the door as I would’ve liked, so I elbowed my way there, bulldozing anyone in front of me, shielded by the fact that I wouldn’t be in the carriage to take any lip about my attitude.

  I got out, looked up at the sky, the rain had let up, though it’d come down hard enough to muddy up the station’s floor. I walked through the high-wheel exit; the vibe was weird. Those who are apprised know that on Fry-day Jacaré turns into Paris. At least for the junkies streaming in from all over the city. The favela wasn’t deserted, but there were far fewer people than I’d imagined. I was kinda pissed. If there was a raid going down, I’d have to go over to Manguinhos.

  There was a time when Jacaré bud was so hot, like fucking sizzling, that folks would queue up at the boca to get their hands on some. This one time, there I was bent over picking at some bud from a five-real bundle, when I looked to the side and there’s Amaral, a buddy from the hill who works as a mototaxi driver. It was hilarious—never thought I’d bump into anyone from the hill in the favela, much less a dude terrified of stepping onto another faction’s turf. We shot the breeze on the train tracks and fired one up in honor of our encounter. Only reason I didn’t catch a ride on his bike was he only had one helmet and everybody knows it’s rough carrying drugs across town when you’re in the wrong.

  I thought it was weird that there weren’t any kids blazing on the street, which is the thing you most see when you walk into a favela. The bud’s so copious here that looking down at the ground you’ll find blunt ends big as your thumb. Which just didn’t happen in places where the cost of weed was steeper, like in Vidigal, where folks smoke until their fingers and lips start to singe. Another strange thing was that no crackheads had rolled up to me when I’d walked out of the station. Usually they waste no time. They always want something from you, first they want some bud to mix with their crack so they can roll themselves a zirrê, then when you say no, they ask for a cigarette, a skin, a coin so they can buy some Guaravita. It’s rough.

  I walked to the boca. Nobody there. The tables and parasols were still out, but no trade in sight. I looked around, no cops, no caveirões rolling by, folks were walking along the street, taking it easy. I was straight-up confused: if the boca was deserted, how could everything be so quiet? I walked over to another boca I knew about up the way. A kid ran past me, must’ve been about twelve years old.

  “What d’you need? Weed?”

  “Yeah. Where everybody at?”

  “They hiding! Tell me what you need.”

  “Gimme a bundle of fifty.”

  “We only got tens, take five, c’mon!”

  I handed him the cash, and two seconds later, the kid had vanished into the back alleys.

  I lit a cigarette and looked around me. The whole situation had me spooked. I’d come to Jacarezinho plenty of times before with slugs flying solid, but all you had to do then was walk over to Manguinhos or take the bus to another favela from Avenida Suburbana so the trip wasn’t wasted. But I’d never seen it like that, it felt like shots might start whizzing past any minute now, with me smack in the middle of the cross fire, standing there like bait, not knowing which way to run, in a favela that’s not even my own.

  The kid came by with the weed. It wasn’t as richly served as usual, but, even so, better than the stuff you could get on the hill. I asked him:

&nb
sp; “Is it busted here, mano?”

  He said:

  “Cops came through earlier, but they gone now. Shots fired, but everybody’s cleared out. It’s cool, take it easy.”

  I spread the bud across several pockets then walked back to the station. Stopped at a bar to buy skins. If the SuperVia hadn’t arrived, I’d fire one up by the tracks while I waited for the train. I took the skins, handed the woman the cash. She said something I didn’t catch, I thanked her and walked off. I’d spend the other ride on my card instead of jumping the turnstile. I didn’t wanna jump and get my clothes all mucked up with mud ’cause cops at Central might catch on. As I come up to the station entrance, that’s when I understand what the lady had tried to tell me: “Watch out for the five-o!”

  The MP pointed his gun at my face. It wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last time somebody pointed a weapon at me.

  “Hands above your head,” he said.

  I raised them, another MP went and put his hand on my waist, checking if I was strapped. The .40 staring straight at me.

  “He’s clean,” the other guy said.

  “You got drugs on you?”

  I realized I was surrounded by four military cops.

  “Yes, I do, officer. Five bundles of ten.”

  I took them out of my pocket one by one and handed them over to the blue blood.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Leblon,” I said. And seeing he didn’t believe me, I added: “My dad’s the doorman of a building there.”

  In these kinds of situations, it’s always best to say you live down on the blacktop, especially if you’re caught on another faction’s turf. ’Cause if the cops catch on, you better be ready to face a mad fury.