What separates an asshole like me, gagged by the fears of middle age and hypertensive, from a national policeman about to unsheathe his regulation weapon and shoot you if you pass a red light?: some tight-fitting blue shorts.
On Thursday, around 10 in the morning, I was a laid-back guy despite the nausea, dizziness, and burning in my cheeks, unmistakable symptoms of high blood pressure. Happy as the manuals say, with a good face despite the onslaught of health, predisposed to be surprised and always with a half-mast smile.
So relaxed that I undertook an inopportune task with my girl: go to the nearest CDI to have the diastolic and systolic pulses of my battered heart measured, that festive gadget that from getting so excited seems about to burn if it weren't for a medical treatment that At this point it amounts to an inconceivable figure, something like 25.000.000 bolivars a month.
Beach shorts, artisan sandals and white flannel dishonored by two drops of coffee; The thing that least translates my appearance of an anonymous blessed is that of someone who is looking for trouble, or who intends to disrespect the decalogue of Carolina Herrera's good dress and even less of someone who is trying to commit some punishable excess.
One walks in shorts because the designs of chance deposited us in the heart of the tropics. 40 degrees in the shade between May and October and comfortable and light clothing in case you have to run away in the face of any adversity of the urban maelstrom. In addition, the only thing that distances us from the Caribbean Sea and the infinite Atlantic is the immense wall of the Waraira, which anyone can overcome by taking a truck in El Silencio or Gato Negro, heading to Mamo Abajo.
With that stimulus so close, one cannot help but fantasize with the premonition of a piña colada, a couple of dips and the well-smeared jet of suntan cream even at work time in an office of the Center, or while you are going to pay the cable on Avenida Urdaneta or you entertain yourself in Plaza La Candelaria talking to the stray dogs.
At the CDI, as at mass, they go with a certain fear of God. Old women gossip with a conciliatory spirit, grandparents stand in line between expectant and asphyxiated, and it doesn't matter if life is good or bad if in the end (one reflects) we are all going to die. That is what you think, relaxed and abandoned, until a guard takes a surprise nostalgia for the Carreño Manual and hits you on your chest the internal regulations of the institution, which apparently were written by an English Lord in a frock coat.
From that moment on, they no longer stigmatize you as a carrier of the Coronavirus but as a villain, and it is when the tombo makes his entrance that threatens you, taking the revolver from his belt, about to throw a couple of slaps while imposing himself with a repressive attitude .
“Citizen, you cannot stay in the facilities in shorts”, a hypothesis that you try to dismantle by explaining that what you are wearing is called bermuda shorts and it is the latest fashion trend in Miami and Havana (so that there are no ideological conflicts) but what go, the intransigent policeman, fist raised and cast iron in his heart, ordering you to evict with a legal argument that establishes that in the Caracas of the XXI century you cannot walk without corsets neither in the Metro, nor in public offices, nor in the parks, nor in a CDI.
You flee, defeated by the normative blindness of those who make artificial laws to expropriate palm trees, rum with ice and sand in our flip-flops, while in the street the cicadas explode with their wild chorus, and the dry leaves make an unruly carpet on the floor. main avenue of San Bernardino where you go down stealing kisses from your girl, without stopping to turn from time to time, to check that the elegant arm of the law is not chasing you.