A flood of people coming and leaving creates a soundtrack of faded ramble, paving wheels. A soft light, half orange because of the wooden roof, projects over every particular face an expression, each of them different. Smiles, flooded smiles. Hanging snots. Kids crying, of hunger, of tiredness, of the biggest of the happiness. Expressions of indifference, overwhelming hugs, and some of them even hateful. But all of them, every person, like biped snails they walk, resolute to their destiny. They run, then they stop and they kiss each other. They print love dribbles in their faces, their cheeks, their necks, their lips. Some of them even in their foreheads or in their palms. Carnal union of visceral love.
The soldier puts his hat on his son’s head. That little boy that seems to never stop growing. The boy that spent more than an hour typing incomprehensible numbers in a calculator runs to tattoo his mathematics formulas in that girl with the pink luggage that, like a roasted chicken, has been turning around herself looking for the missing X of her equation. Business men always thinking aloud like if that hands-free device that decorate their ear was just that, decoration. Old ladies that have a real nerve and ask for strong and handsome errand runners to take them from one place to another, flying but with wheels.
Meanwhile, I spend the day, from eight to eight, from the broom to the mop; from the mop to the cloth; from the cloth to the disinfectant, and sometimes to the toilet brush. Like this constantly, from eight to eight. In my free time, that is whenever I decide, I look at the temporal travelers; at those ephemeral pieces of meat that dirt my territory just cleaned. I observe with a green filter every puppet that as soon gets into the scene as it gets out of it. I take pity on those who the scene scare them and they stay there, still, without a clue of what to do, looking their watch, waiting for that vital impulse that guide them through their unknown path. I take a pity on them not because I feel sorry, neither have I mocked them. I take a pity on them because in their faces, very often, I can see mine. Like if their fates were made with mirrors, with bitter tears. I take a pity on them because is the only way I have to take a pity on myself.
My name is Thomas. Tom for the friends (that is no one). I am 57 years old and I’ve been working as the cleaner of the International Airport of Albuquerque for 10 years now. Hair, I barely have left, but the one that hangs from head like frayed vines is grey and white. Eyes, green, like a toad’s eyes because of the huge glasses I wear. Height, decreasing. Weight, increasing. My future… that is another story.