Just a matter of getting there

A tired fifty-four year-old drags himself up the steps at Manuel Becerra Metro with his office strapped to his back.  It’s a life that’ll lean and toughen him or kill him.

8.50 p.m. on Thursday.  He’s just finished six hours of teaching; five and a half yesterday, and roughly the same on Tuesday and Monday.  Add to that preparation, travel between gigs, hanging around in cafes during gaps and there isn’t much left over. 

Another tough week and it’s still only the start of month three.  Sunday night kicked it off.  Sweating, agitated, unsure whether he was burning-out or the victim of some viral attack – nature’s Special Forces seeking-out his vulnerabilities and neutralising his capability to carry the fight.  Monday and Tuesday had been difficult days – long and strenuous.  He’d felt his strength being sapped.  There’d been a couple of times when wondered if he might finish his days on the floor of some foreign meeting-room that would be for ever England. 

He stops and ponders his decision to accept another student – four more hours – and the school asking him to take on more.  Some of the anxiety’s probably down to that.  And, in the background, a world seemingly bent on global catastrophe engineered by those who will always profit from the suffering of ordinary people.  Wicked manipulators.  He feels powerless and weak.

These thoughts weigh heavily as he emerges into the plaza with just about enough energy to call into the Chinese shop for water.  The woman behind the counter recognises him and smiles “Buenas tardes!”  He grins and fires “Hola! Que tal?” back.

It’s people that make it worthwhile, for sure.  At various points during the day, he finds himself smiling, chuckling, and lifted by his students and by perfect strangers twenty metres down amongst the struggle and hardship of Metro life – so many beggars. But he finds a bond, a sense of shared experience that feels novel – maybe in there somewhere lies the reason to press on.

Crossing the street, he feels the sickness slowly ebbing.  The night before, he’d turned out the light before nine, sinking deep into the mattress and wrapping the duvet around him.  No need for earplugs.  By midnight, though, he was wide awake, swallowing-down 20 ml of Night Nurse to smother his thoughts. It got him through the day.  He’d grabbed another ten minutes at lunch-time. 

Ten minutes isn’t much, but he’d been unconscious – finding himself under a chestnut tree with the fruit falling around him.  He clearly heard one hit his bedroom floor.  It woke him before the alarm sounded.  That was eight hours ago.  Now, all he can think of is crawling back into his bed.

The sounds of the night surround him as he fumbles for his keys.  He never uses the lift.  The idea of being stuck is too much.  Anyway, he needs the exercise. 

The door swings open.  Nobody in.  He drops his bag on the floor and kicks off his shoes – a few more euros and another four lessons under his belt.  Experience is currency.  Sooner or later, he’ll push for a better hourly rate, maybe take on some private students – just a matter of getting there.