By Martin Bargo
“Leave your phone. Pocketless shorts instead of those. No shirt,” said Manuel, not kidding but not being too serious either.
“Can I bring my flip-flops?” I asked, a bit joking and a bit for real.
“Your flip-flops are fine. Bring them. I’m leaving mine.”
Mentally prepared to deal with a scorching sun, we sizzled out of the house. After the first corner, a kid put a gun to our faces. “Me dê tudo!” he screamed, meaning, “Give me everything.”
Manuel smiled internally.
“Seus chinelos!” he shouted, pointing at my feet. I tossed him the size-fourteen Havaianas. He tried them on, laughed, threw them back at me, and walked away.
