Best in the World

There are 28 minutes left until Sunday turns into Monday, and the carriage only empties at the Guilhermina-Esperança station. The street vendor greets me with a nod, sits down, and settles the black bag between his legs. I stretch my neck and see, inside, some coconut candies.

It seems like the day was good, but I still want to ask about sales. I would gladly give a bit of my time, my sleep, and even part of what I have in my wallet to know not just about the coconut candies. I want to get to know, even a little, this worker. Whoever sells coconut candy until the last train on Sunday has a lot to tell.

I get lucky. Even after talking all day about his coconut candies, which are delicious, melt in your mouth, are cheap, are from Minas Gerais, and come straight from the Jequitinhonha Valley, he still wants to talk.

He adjusts his cap and clears his throat.

— My name is Getúlio. Getúlio Pereira da Silva. G. P. S. I never get lost. Got it? (we both laugh) But I'm known as Raimundo. Let me explain: For the street vendor, marketing is everything. I enter the carriage and announce: “Here comes the best coconut candy in the world, Raimundo's coconut candy.” I tried this advertising because the rhyme is good, and I’ve always loved the name Raimundo. Some passengers comment. “Look, it’s Raimundo.” So, let it be. I became Raimundo. Want to try one? It’s free because today I emptied the bag three times.

I accept and delight in the sweet mixture of coconut and rapadura.

— Creamy, right?

— Wonderful, Raimundo. I reply with my mouth still full and a piece of coconut between my teeth.

— Some complain about the noise. We shout, don’t we? Doesn’t the player ask for the ball? Doesn’t the delivery guy honk? Doesn’t the market vendor joke around? Why can’t we? No one is obliged to know about other people's lives, but do they know that behind a coconut candy, there’s a hungry child, sometimes sick? That there’s rent, a bunch of bills, a loan shark threatening you?

— How many children do you have?

— Three. Look here on my phone. Anderson, Henrique, and the youngest, Marcela.

— I don’t ask for anything, I offer. Those who want it, want it. Those who don’t, don’t.

— Do many people buy?

— They do. And do you know why?

— Why?

— Because the product is good and cheap. And there’s more (he whispers): poor people aren’t afraid to spend. They see me and think: tomorrow I might be unemployed, I might have to work as a street vendor. So, I help now, and if later I’m in trouble, someone will lend a hand.

— But they say it’s cheap because it’s illegal.

— That’s a lie. It’s cheap because there’s no middleman; in the supermarket, the price is higher because they have many more expenses and also want more profit. Here it’s different; I go to the warehouse and pay in cash.

— So, why is it prohibited?

— Because it’s easy to mess with the poor. I guarantee you. My product owes nothing to the supermarket’s. I take the subway and train every day and pay the fare, you see? I’m a street vendor and a passenger at the same time, and I guarantee: we don’t disturb anyone. You know what disturbs?

— What?

— The delays and overcrowding. They need to put more trains on the tracks. But the company or the government doesn’t want to spend. It’s simple: with a full train, they make more money. Now, with privatization, what was already bad got worse. The security guards come at us as if the street vendor were a criminal. I’m not a criminal; I’m an entrepreneur.

— You’re doing great, Raimundo. You’ve already talked about marketing, advertising, now entrepreneurship.

— I studied a bit. Entrepreneur, I heard this back when there were protests, unions. During a protest, a guy climbed onto a truck and said: A street vendor is an entrepreneur, and an entrepreneur is someone who makes Brazil grow; I’ve never forgotten that.

— Have they taken your goods?

— They have, but I don’t get discouraged. Every profession has its risks, and I love this job of mine. It’s just that the authorities don’t value it. They could register us.

— How would that work?

— A certain number of street vendors in each train, everyone with a badge, uniform. Organized work.

Last station. Getúlio stands up and looks at me.

— Hey, aren’t you getting off?

— I’m going back. I came all the way here to listen to you.

The door closes, and we wave to each other.

A female voice asserts itself.

— Diamante Negro on sale: it’s 3 for 5, and I don’t joke around.