The children of the black market

The children of the black market are blurs of a marginalized population. They have managed to support themselves in spite of a law that denies the righteousness of their efforts. They live in a labyrinth with no rules. They fly and they sleep when no one is looking and sell above everything, hope: of finding the desire that will awaken our bodies from ennui and ignite our spirits after a timeless doze. They move in between carts and speak their carefully designed sales pitch; they walk inside the lines and scramble through the doors, they rush inside and out in perfect calculation, they sell a token, a gift, a forbidden item… if not a thing, merely a smile. The day must be worked around Rush Hour, the right trains and the right times. People walk in and out the doors, always moving, always leaving: here, there, somewhere, everywhere.

The metro of Mexico City is their home. Their education is based on the item of the day and in the midst of a hectic agenda of multiple voices and routes, impression is the key for a stride.

The command will strike and the need will rise. “Learn the names of the 50 most illustrious writers of the XX century and the highlights of their work, learn the song of the day every day, mimic the famous, carry the popularity of tomorrow, be exciting, be different, capture the attention of the drained worker, the surprise of the tourist, the joy of the poor; be the interesting person they meet on the most unfortunate day. Sell to live, to eat, to work and to recreate an existence all over again.”
The children of the black market yell over the sounds that forever dwell in this brightly dark city, scream their only price, remain stoic in the face of competition, and defy the doubtful. Give me a better day for a better deal. Their faces and voices converge until the night has swallowed the last lonely passenger, until the rain drives everyone to their homes, until their products are gone. 10 pesos and it’s yours. You’ll love it, they say.