
The sweaty ones
When the Sweaty Ones start sharing their stories, they turn up the air conditioning. The environment must be col. The heat is on the inside, just like volcanoes would say.
One of the sweatiest usually kicks off the round of dialogue.
I don’t have a car, so I take public transport, says one.
I get to the bus stop five minutes early, stub out my cigarette, and I’m one of the first to board. There are people who cut it close, running down the sidewalk in a frenzy. They get on the bus and grab a bar to hold onto, like Tarzan with his vines.
The Sweaty One lifts his head, runs a hand through his hair, and, shaking his head, continues, They get on the bus without sweating. Not a drop in sight.
It’s true, says another. The Sweaty Ones nod, and someone raises their palms upward.
Another Sweaty One, burly, with a well-groomed beard and a colorful t-shirt, continues. I love sports; I need it, he says. But I can only swim; it’s the only discipline where I don’t sweat. My friends go running, play tennis, have fun. I can’t, he says, clenching his fists.
I can’t sit on plastic chairs, another interrupts.
Pillows.
Cushions.
Each one shares their experience.
The meetings are short, about an hour; the Sweaty Ones keep it concise, get straight to the point, and pay close attention to each other, seeking comfort.
The best part of the meetings happens at the end: the hugs. They all hug and pat each other on the back; they never shake hands when saying goodbye.
Reader, if you ever run into someone you haven’t seen in at least five years, you recognize each other and smile, and if, when they reach out to shake your hand, you see them subtly dry their palm on the leg of their pants, don’t be alarmed, they are probably one of the Sweaty Ones.
Say nothing, act naturally, shake their hand, ask about their family, tell them about yours, give them a hug.