You're wearing a corporate-colored cap and, underneath, a bandana, as if you were part of Franco's Moorish Guard. Your clothes are a frog, also corporate. On your feet, boots. Not even flip-flops. You're on the road, on this curve, with the tool in your hand.
We're coming down the road, ahead of you, and we're stopping so you can tell us. You let us know with the tool, which is a stick with a STOP sign on top. The operation is simple. If you want—if they tell you—that we're going through, you turn the widget and it shows us a green color. If you want—if they tell you—that we should stop, you show us this STOP sign. They're doing roadworks on the road. They're laying down tar, a tar that should melt like chocolate. In the car, we're driving with air conditioning, and yet we're sweating. We see you under the sun, that crazy, torrid sun, that relentless sun, that sun that won't go away until seven in the evening. How many hours have you been here? How many liters have you lost? On the ground at your feet are empty water bottles. You've thrown them here, with no desire to look for a garbage bag that would surely dissolve and turn into paracetamol. Do you have a headache? Will you collapse to the ground, fainting? You hold on, you hold the STOP sign, and we can't stop staring at you. Now, now, now they tell you we can pass, and we do. And we leave you under the sun. You're sure to see little purple lights, little stars. This is no different from the desert.
You're wearing (sunglasses) and making perpetual grimaces, surely the lines on your face have already blackened. You'll arrive home completely exhausted, finished. Will you like the job? We'll look at you today. There can't be anything worse than yours. How much will they pay you? We pass, not knowing whether to say goodbye. We nod gratefully. And you, once we pass—we're the first car—you drop to the sidelines for a moment, take off your hat, and pour water over your head.
