Need

by Nadia Silva Castro

The alarm goes off on my phone. I’m tempted to snooze it, but immediately reminded of how crazy the São Paulo traffic is in the morning. If I catch the 5:50 bus, I will be very likely to get a seat and be in the office near metrô[1] Brigadeiro around 7:00, an hour before work starts. This is what I usually do, because I have a pair of keys to the building and to the office. Then I can reset the modem for everybody working from home. This modem needs to be restarted every morning for some weird reason. Where I live, at the Raposo Tavares quilômetro[2] 18.5, there is a bus every five to ten minutes. I know the 6:10 bus will get me to the office by 8:00, but I’ll have to stand for most of the trip, furthermore inside a crowded bus. And that assumes nothing goes wrong. Any later bus will result in considerable delays of 40 minutes to an hour and a half due to traffic on Raposo Tavares. That is why I do not press snooze, get up, dress, and look in the mirror. My hair is a mess, so I put it up in a bun. I’ll apply some makeup at the end, if I have any time left. First, I need to measure my grandma’s blood sugar level and inject the insulina.[3] She’s already awake when I enter her room, which is messy as always. Books, clothes, plastic bags filled with random things all piled up around her bed, leaving very little space in the room to walk around. She smiles at me and says “bom dia, filha[4]!”

She calls me daughter because she has always been much more than my vó[5], my grandma. She raised me after my mom died in a car accident, on the Raposo Tavares quilometro 15. I pass by it every day and think of my mother and what could have been if she hadn’t died. She was only 22, 2 years younger than I am now. When she died, I was only a toddler, so I wouldn’t remember much at all. All I associate with this tragic accident is the smell of candles after they are blown out. That is why I cannot stand candles.

I carefully take my grandma’s left hand and prick the side of her ring finger to draw a drop of blood for the morning measurement. It’s not terrible today. I get the insulin from the refrigerator, measure out the correct quantity, and inject it as gently as possible into the fragile brown skin of her upper arm. I give her a hug; she grips both my hands. “You have the hands of an angel; only you can apply this medicine without hurting me. You have mãos de ouro[6], everything you touch turns out perfect.” I suggest we order a pizza in the evening, half Catupiry[7] half Baiana[8], after all it’s Friday, and she agrees.

It’s 5:35. I’m ready to leave, dressed professionally – white suit pants, dark blue blouse; only the Havaianas[9] don’t match the rest of the outfit very well. But I’m carrying my high heels in my purse, to swap shoes when I arrive at the office. It’s so much easier to stand in the crowded bus and metrô, and to walk from the bus to the subway station if you aren’t wearing high heels. Just hope no one stomps on my almost naked feet, that is the downside to these old Havaianas, along with the risk of the toe straps bursting on the go.

I look at the old clock on the wall depicting a saint and a bible verse, “O senhor é meu pastor e nada me faltará,”[10] ticking, ticking incessantly, tic toc, tic toc. I decide that there is enough time for makeup, so I go back into the poorly illuminated, musty bathroom and apply it hastily. Some lipstick on my lips, mascara on the eye lashes. I look tired, my eyes are puffy with dark circles underneath, but this is the best I can do on so little sleep.

I take my marmita[11] out of the refrigerator – it’s mashed potatoes again, with one boiled egg, one hot dog sausage and some cut up tomatoes.

There is a reason I am not taking “rice and beans” like a normal Brazilian would most days. Someone is leaving rice in the drain of the kitchen sink in the office, and every few days the HR lady, Pamela, sends out these nasty emails to the entire office complaining about it. It’s been weeks! Agreed, rice in the drain is super gross, but receiving these emails addressed to everybody makes me feel nauseous. So I’m taking mashed potatoes, or sometimes mandioca frita[12] or simply a paozinho frances[13] with margarina.[14] On top of that, I do not even let my food hit the slimy drain. I take a paper towel and scrape any leftovers into the trash before I rinse my container. Not that there is ever much food left over anyways.

With my marmita, phone charger, and my high heels in my purse – phone and keys stored safely in my pocket to avoid having them pickpocketed – I step outside into the quintal. And right into jabuti[15] poop. My grandma and I live in the main house, and one of my aunts lives, together with her five daughters, in the puxadinho[16] in the back. And, of course, we all share the same quintal,[17] where my aunt’s jabuti lives day and night, be there chuva[18] or be there sol.[19] He does all his cocô[20] and xixi[21] right in the quintal, in this case right in front of the kitchen door that leads into the quintal. And my aunt is not exactly an early riser, so this cocô will be there for a while, until she finds the courage to pick it up and wash the entire quintal that is smelling pretty strongly right now. I take off the Havaianas. There is cocô in every little crevice of the sole of my right flip flop. I rinse them off as well as I can but it’s too messy and it’s taking too long, so I change plans. I wash my feet in the tanque[22] because they also made contact with the foul-smelling stuff. I use the brush and coconut soap to scrub my toes, my pants are starting to get wet and dirty near my ankle, everything is a mess. I take the high heels out of my purse. Today I’ll have to walk in them all day long. Then I spot my old sneakers in the window of the laundry room, clean but worn, the once bright pink color now yellowish and faded. I take off the high heels and put on my comfortable shoes instead. It’s time to sprint to the bus – 6:10 already.

I run to the bus and know that I’ll make the 6:20 one at best. As expected, we hit heavy traffic, starting and stopping. Slung back and forth, I hang on inside the crowded bus, clinging to the strap handle for dear life when we lurch forward. The driver keeps accelerating and braking; the cobrador[23] echoes the calls of other passengers at triple the volume each time – vai descê moto, vai descê![24] They are trying to exit, but find themselves stuck in the middle of the crowd, unable to reach the automated doors. I hold my bag in front of my body and protect it with my other arm. In this crowd, pick pocketers have an easy time. To keep track of time, I look at the watches of other passengers, because I’m afraid to take out my phone in public – what if someone snatches it? Everything is on these devices nowadays – your ID, your money, every document and any information you might need. We stand in traffic. It’s getting later and later. When I exit the bus, thanks to the vocal support of the cobrador alerting the driver to wait until I have descended, I run to the metrô station and almost catch the metrô that would spare me another run – missing it by a few seconds: it’s already leaving the Plataforma.[25] Now I have to wait, maybe 5, maybe 10 minutes. Once I arrive at the station where my office is, it will be time to sprint again! It will be a 10-minute run – from the station to the office. I arrive sweaty and out of breath and see that it’s 8:35 – that’s not good, not good at all. I get in the elevator – it’s time to swap shoes. Yet that’s when I realize that I forgot to put my high heels back in my purse after the poop incident. This is not my day – these old sneakers look terrible; there’s even a small hole in the left one; and the sole of the right one is almost coming off. Not at all what you expect to see in an office environment.

I enter. Everyone seems to be in a bad mood; they barely acknowledge me when I say “bom dia!” I go quickly to my computer and hide my feet underneath the table, but everyone must have already noticed. After all, I’m around 4 centimeters shorter than usual. I work all morning without getting up, without even grabbing a cup of the drip coffee that is available all day in the kitchenette. When I finally calm down, I find myself in my element.

Around noon I look around to make sure no one is in the kitchenette so I can warm up my food in the microwave. It’s best not to run into anybody today, or ever actually, but especially not in these shoes. I eat, wipe my container with a paper towel, and rinse it out. There is no rice in the drain, good. I turn around and pour myself a coffee which I will take to my desk to enjoy after lunch. One teaspoon of sugar because nobody is made of ferro.[26] Suddenly I see my boss standing right in front of me, looking straight at my shoes. I smile, say, oi, tudo bem.[27] She does not reply; she does not even look me in the eyes. I feel weird but try not to read too much into this uncomfortable encounter. She might not have heard me.

I walk back to my computer, but before I can reach it, I’m interrupted by the HR lady. Is this about the rice in the sink? She leads me to her room, closes the door. We sit. I place my empty marmita and my coffee on the table. I take a sip. She explains in so many words that I am being fired. I almost spit out the coffee. Fired? Why? I hear myself asking. You were late again this morning, second time this week. But Monday I was late because the bus drivers were striking, everybody who depends on the buses was late, don’t you remember? Right, but what is your excuse today? Is this your grandma again, you’ve used that excuse a few times. I sigh. I wonder if I should mention the poop, but that seems gross, so I remain silent. I start crying. She says that maybe it’s for the better; I’ll have more time to take care of my grandma; that I’m not meeting the expectations of the office, I don’t take care of my hair, my appearance – look at my shoes. I’m speechless. After she’s done explaining their decision to fire me, I walk – eyes burning from tears and makeup – to the kitchen sink to get a paper towel. I dry my eyes; the mascara comes off – I must look like a real mess. Then I see the rice in the drain. Weirdly enough, that makes me smile.

I wash my face in the bathroom, pack my things, and say good-bye to everyone. No one seems particularly phased by my departure, but that’s alright, tudo bem![28] I am not there for chitchat and making friends. I noticed them talking behind my back long ago, about my clothes, my nails, my hair. Even Pamela, who just fired me, compared me with a meme she was showing to everyone – a person coming out of a cave after what looks like a very long time. The caption reads, “Friends, family, where are you guys?” I’m allegedly like this meme, because I bury myself in my work, my cave, and I forget about everything else. I did not take the cartoon personally at all and forgave everybody who happened to be around the table laughing at my expense. Of course they stopped immediately when they saw me. But to be honest, I took this meme as a compliment. That’s right, I’m a hard worker, I need to be. I don’t have anyone but my grandma who is too old and sick to look after me. Or me after her over the last couple months, now that her asthma seems to be getting worse. My aunt is envious of me because of all the attention my grandma has given me, especially after my mom died. So yes, I’m pretty lonely, but that’s life. It’s better to be alone than in bad company.

I hand over the keys and leave the office. It’s strange to leave so early – the sun is still up! I usually stay until 8 pm, after the horario de pico.[29] The trip home passes quickly. I notice how people are a lot happier at this hour, or at least look less miserable. I must be the only miserable person at this time of the day. Everybody has their nails done and their hair styled, makeup applied perfectly, looking healthy, as if they just had a nice vacation on the beach. They must be rich, I imagine.

I arrive at home around 4 pm and, from the sidewalk, start shouting, oh vó, oh vó! Only the parrot replies, echoing me. Oh vó, oh vó, quer café?[30] Strange, I look up and see the door to the veranda is closed. We only close it at night or if we leave the house. I run up the uneven steps up into the quintal, but only the dog greets me. The kitchen door is locked. My grandma left? Where? She can barely walk to the couch with her asthma. I call out; no one is home; not even at my aunt’s house in the back. How strange. I try calling my aunt, but she does not pick up. My grandma does not have a phone, of course. I ask the neighbor who is hanging her clothes on the line – she can look into our backyard, and we see into hers. I ask her where they are, and she acts strangely. She just says she doesn’t know anything and tells me not to bother her. She’s usually very friendly; she even carries a picture of me in her bible, a picture from when I was very young, maybe 3 years old.

I decide to clean the house, get everything nice so when my grandma gets back, she will be happy about that. I clean the cage of the parrot Loro, give him fresh water and a slice of apple and some sunflower seeds. I also give the jabuti some water and lettuce. I wash and dry the dishes, take out the trash, wipe, sweep, wash the floors of the bathroom and the kitchen with soapy water and a large squeegee. I clean everything with a lot of bleach. I take out loads and loads of trash, things that my grandma would not even notice are gone. I understand why she has so many things – it’s because she used to have nothing, and now she needs everything. Even books, despite never having learned how to read. I run up and down the stairs countless times, loading the metal structure for the garbage pickup with loads of bags. When I stop, somehow it’s already gotten late, 3 am. Lying down to sleep, I realize it’s so silent; I can only hear a dog howl in the distance; a motorcycle drives down the street at full speed; it’s as silent as it gets. I miss my grandma, even the annoying hissing and roaring sounds of her breathing machine. I fall asleep, fast and deep, without being woken up by coughing in the middle of the night.

The next day I sleep in, after enjoying an uninterrupted night. It’s almost 11 am. I take a shower, decide to look pretty for when my grandma comes back. I straighten my hair, which according to one guy in my office “makes me look rich.” I usually don’t have time for such things but all of a sudden I have plenty. I glance at the mirror and look refreshed. I smile. The bread guy honks the horn on his bicycle. I run outside to the Varanda and buy some French bread and some sweet bread with coconut on top. He throws the bread to me and says that he’s going to put it on our tab. I thank him and he leaves.

The day goes by with me cleaning the house some more. I pick up the little cocôs of the jabuti, wash the quintal with the water left from the last laundry, again squeegeeing soap and dirt and water into the drain. Again, loads of bleach. Everything needs to be perfect.

The phone rings and I immediately think that it could be an update from my grandma. I fly from the Varanda into the living room to take the call. Alô? I suddenly realize it’s my boss on the line. She apologizes, explains that it might have been a bit harsh to fire me like that, that if I wanted, I could have my job back – take the weekend off, I’ll start again on Monday. I immediately accept the offer and do not even hesitate for a second. I don’t feel a single ounce of pride. If you are in need, you don’t get to feel that way. I wonder why she changed her mind. Maybe someone left rice in the sink today and she realized it wasn’t me? I decide not to say much more, fearful that she might change her mind. I thank her, see you Monday, tchau tchau! I’m so happy I almost start jumping. This is when the phone rings again and I am pulled back to reality. Because people like me don’t get to be happy: for every good thing you’ll pay with many, many things that go bad.

 

Footnotes

[1] Metro, subway

[2] Kilometer

[3] Insulin

[4] Daughter

[5] Grandma, abbreviation for “avó”

[6] Hands of gold

[7] Type of soft cheese

[8] Similar to peperoni pizza, usually very spicy

[9] Brazilian flip flop brand

[10] The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

[11] Lunch box

[12] Fried yucca

[13] French bread bun

[14] Plant-based butter

[15] Type of turtle

[16] Added part of the house, usually improvised

[17] Patio/paved backyard

[18] Rain

[19] Sun

[20] Poop

[21] Pee

[22] Laundry sink

[23] Person to whom you pay or show proof of payment, usually sitting in the center of the bus.

[24] Someone wants to get off (the bus), driver!

[25] Boarding platform of the train

[26] Iron

[27] Hi, how are you (normal reply tudo bem e voce (good, and you))

[28] All is well

[29] Rush hour

[30] Grandma, grandma, do you want coffee? (Most pet parrots in Brazil know this phrase for some reason)