Three big guys approach me. The tallest is holding an iron bar. If they want to kill me, they will bury me in the ravine behind the gas station, at km 60 on Dutra, near Guaratinguetá, and no one will ever know my whereabouts. (Maybe one day they will find the car in Asuncion, Paraguay).
That was just an idea that came to mind. The three of them had no reason to murder me apart from the obvious reasons, which of course there are for taking someone’s life. You could kill me to take the car. They could kill me because they are poor and I am rich in one of the most unequal countries in the world. You could kill me just for fun like a cat kills a mouse. Thankfully, societal prohibitions like “Thou shalt not kill” were on my side.
The one with the iron bar was the tire mechanic and he came to fix my flat tire. When I arrived, two truck drivers were talking to him. I got out of the car, they stopped talking and changed their attitude. (Somewhere, Étiénne de La Boétie and Foucault were smiling—two guys dedicated to answering the question: Why do some command and others obey?).
The tire fitter found the hole: “You can’t nail it like that”. “The other day a drill drove into my tire. Who throws a drill on the road?” asked one of the truck drivers. I made every banal remark, which was received with the awe that only a state society can show. We continued in silence.
In addition to the Brazilian estate society, which dictates each caste how to behave towards the other, we had another institution: pure cis complicity. (Who says institutions don’t work?!) It’s impossible not to think: what if I were a woman? what if i was gay
What if I was gay and had a Lula sticker on my car and they were at a roadblock supporting the coup? What if they found a Haddad sticker over there in the back seat? There were only four of us in the rubber shop. About fifteen trucks separated us from the station.
The opposite is also true. What if the tire mechanic returned home at dawn and ran into the people responsible for protecting the SUVs from the tire shop crew, aka the military police? What if he crossed Rota at four in the morning with that iron bar?
Certainly my existence poses a far greater risk to these three than theirs poses to me. You know it. All this social uneasiness arises from the false friendliness of our dealings, as in the brief interaction on the doorstep with the Motoboy from Ifood or Rappi. “Have a good meal, sir.” “Thank you, partner!”.
The tire fitter finishes the tire change and I say thank you with ridiculous paternalism. “Valeuzão, there, friend!”. (I never say “thank you” to my real friends.) He retaliates with forced submission. “Imagine, Doctor!”. (I don’t even have a higher education).
In the event of a civil war, we would be on opposite sides. Are they armed? Are you one of the thousands of “CACs” who bought pistols, rifles and ammunition as of 2018? Would we recognize each other by 2025 if we met in opposite trenches?
“Oops, mate, sorry! I didn’t see it was you!” “That’s it Doctor, calm down! I’m sorry for everything!”. “I rated you and gave you a tip of ten reais through the app, okay?” “God bless you Mr. Antonio, I will give you 5 stars too”. “Amen”. “Amen”.
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