She was not a statistic. But he knew that the statistics were working against him. When reports of social precariousness came out, it was easy for her to recognize herself. Always under the poverty line. And it’s not that things were especially bad for him. No. He had a job, a flat, a motorcycle … But ever since he could remember, he had never been able to indulge, always with debts, with a mortgage that reduced half his mileurista salary. She was a worker, she had always looked for a life, she got her studies working in bars and other temporary jobs.
In his day to day he did not complain, he got up, went to work, picked up the child from school, food, homework, and started again. Every time an extra expense arose, a motorcycle breakdown, a child’s excursion or a community spill, his accounts were shaking for several months. Then it was time to reduce the cost of food, of the motorcycle, to borrow. As usual. And forever.
And although, we already said, in his day to day he did not complain, when summer came there was a point of itching, of rage. Because they couldn’t go anywhere, maybe some trip nearby carrying sandwiches, some water park that didn’t get very far. And while, on the phone, he received photos of friends who were on trips along the coast, even to other countries. And it hurt him to know that she could never make those trips.
She was not a statistic. But the statistics had locked her under the damn poverty line. And of course she was aware that there were many other people worse than her. Much worse, living in social exclusion and all that. But knowing that didn’t take the sting out of her. He was already, more or less, in the middle of his working life. And at that point I already knew that the other half would be the same, that for people like her there is no promotion, opportunities, or all those milongas of the phrases of the cups.
His son came out of the water smiling. And that smile did take away the itch. And although he knew that statistics also determined his son’s future clearly, he hoped he could manage to break those statistics in favor of his son. That he was already running back to the water. Soon the summer would end and he would return to his routine, work, school, food, homework … and he would again submit to the discipline of statistics. And the rage would disappear until the following summer.
– .
