The Tren Blanco is emptying; its half past five in the afternoon. The cartoneros go down the platform. Matías greets me at first and point at my hair. "You cut your hair! Looks good," he says. Fidel stands already behind him and says; "But you look a bit like a rati, a policeman now."
I join Fidel another time. I got accustomed to it, everyday the same route, the same apartment buildings. The door-keepers know my face and I open their bags quicker and quicker. I look, I touch, grab the paper without making my hands that dirty and I close the bag.
Its clear that Fidel doesnt have a mind to work. Its looks like he is not really interested in bags today. He chats a lot, a lot, and we are the first to arrive at the station. Fidel cheers as if it was a victory. His cart is not really filled. "I am going to look for some more," says Theresa irritated. The price of the paper went down again yesterday. She can use some more kilos.