Roberto in the taxi, on the way to the bus station.
-Papa, I want to go home.
It´s Roberto. He is standing there, crying. He isn’t drunk, but he has been drinking.
It’s 10 o’clock. He already came by once before this morning. Then, he didn’t want to go home. He wanted to work all day so that he could go home with his pockets full of money. In order to save just a little face with his family back home in Esteli. But now here he is, back already, without a single coin in his pocket. Another day that started out full of determination and detoured to drink the moment he earned his first peso. Continue reading
It is not a river. It is one of the main avenues of Managua. Everything is normal. It´s just the rainy season.
“Good morning, little dad,” he calls from the gate with his hoarse voice.
Roberto is here again. He is sitting on the sidewalk, an empty look in his eyes, resting his battered face against the wall, smelling of cheap booze. He was beaten up a couple of weeks ago, his cheek is still swollen, full of sore crusts. He has a sandal on one foot. He has a brand new backpack in his lap, the price tag still on it.