A culpa é daqueles físicos e da teoria do sincronismo,
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Philip K. Dick, O Homem do Castelo Alto
Oito da manhã. Não consigo ir para casa. Algum motivo em especial? Não. Pelo menos nenhum que eu consiga identificar. Me encosto em um muro e repasso minhas últimas ações: saí do posto, caminhei até o ponto de ônibus, ele passou mas não entrei, esperei o próximo, não entrei também, esperei, deixei passar, saí da parada, senti uma vontade imensa de comer um quindim, caminhei uns dez quarteirões e me encostei neste muro.
Aperto os olhos e dou um bocejo. Não gosto da luminosidade da manhã. Me espreguiço lentamente e caminho até o bar do outro lado da rua. Impressão de gravidade zero: cada passo é macio e difícil ao mesmo tempo. O bar é o boteco mais sebento da minha vizinhança. Pelo menos sei que aqui posso encontrar quindins. Não são dos melhores (coco demais), mas são baratos. Não carrego muito dinheiro quando vou trabalhar. Sento no balcão e peço um quindim. "Só isso, Baiano?", pergunta o Mário, e eu peço dois. Três, vá lá. Já estou perto de casa, não preciso do dinheiro do ônibus. "Isso tudo é larica?"
Meus dentes penetram aos poucos na voluptuosa superfície amarela, mas o deleite existencial de minhas papilas gustativas são interrompidas por um grito. "Sai uma pizza planeta!", repete o Mário. Largo o quindim e procuro rapidamente a mesa de onde saiu o pedido. Um homem de pijama, descabelado. Um pouco amarelo, mas talvez seja efeito do quindim. Não consigo acreditar. Alguém vai comer uma pizza planeta. Pior ainda: às oito e dez da manhã. Se isso não é um fato inédito, sei muito pouco sobre os limites da espécie humana.
Tento um refúgio em meu eldorado de quindins, mas é impossível não continuar acompanhando a cena. Estou aqui, no boteco do Mário, é de manhã e um cara de pijama vai comer uma pizza planeta. Certa vez acompanhei o processo de nascimento da iguaria. Tudo começa com uma massa grossa, muito gordurosa, coberta com catchup e cascas de queijo colonial. Deixam um pouco no forno para fazer de conta que o queijo derrete, e coroam tudo com um tapete de ovos fritos. O gran finale: a pizza fica exposta no balcão durante dias a fio, esperando pela vítima. Desvio o rosto do homem de pijama e olho para o Mário, que se dedica a cortar uma fatia caprichada. Sei que não deveria interromper uma efeméride tão importante, mas não resisto:
"Ei, Mário..."
"Diz."
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I had the privilege of meeting some these children and seeing their extraordinary stories. But this is a story about one boy, and mother, a community. this is also story about the United States.
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As a community, we had just spent the weekend in Baltimore. We had a long and exciting weekend ahead of us.
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Ele abre um grande sorriso enquanto deposita a fatia no prato. "É homenagem pras mosca." Eu coço o nariz.
"Como assim?"
"Porra, elas pousam de montão na pizza. Saca a parte de cima, ó. Não parece as cratera da lua?"
Maldita coceira no nariz. "Mário, a lua não é um planeta." Tarde demais, ele já entregou o prato ao homem do pijama. Preciso de coragem e mordo um dos quindins. Alguém senta no banco ao meu lado. Não desvio os olhos. O recém-chegado pede um quindim, mas Mário não se moveria por preço algum. Esta talvez seja a primeira vez em que tem a chance de testar a reação de um homo sapiens sapiens à sua criação. Enxergo a mão que rouba um dos meus quindins, giro a cadeira e dou de cara com um rosto conhecido.
"Olá, meu jovem".
As unhas compridas. A roupa cáqui. Os óculos. É o velho que me falou dos marcianos na semana passada, comendo meus quindins. O homem do pijama já está comendo a pizza planeta. Mário acendeu um cigarro. O velho mastiga, sorridente. Eu passo a mão pelos cabelos e pergunto:
"Porra, quem é você, afinal?"
Limpando a boca com um dos meus guardanapos, ele responde:
"Eu sou o Diabo".
"Ah."
"Ele está comendo a pizza por causa das moscas. Ele é um sapo, você sabe".
"Sei, sei."
Sei? Não tenho mais certeza nem de estar acordado. O Diabo se despede e sai do boteco. O sapo pede mais um pedaço de pizza. Mário não escuta.
Eu mordo o último quindim.
