Ó-baim'à-loja

My name is Saramago, José António Saramago. Often, far too often, people confuse me with the other Saramago and ask if we're related. Of course we're not, but hey, since we have the same last name, it's a "subject" I still understand, now when the usual "shits and coughs"—people who can never make up their minds—ask me—is Saramago spelled with an "Ç" or an "S"? "It's spelled with a f***ing pen, you big guy!" Is the answer that comes out in a rush, and that's the end of the story!

But I'm already expanding. Many will think I'm just "filling out" or trying to "get you all worked up," and that's not really my intention. The truth is, "my life was a movie, and before you give up, I'll crank it up."

I was born in "Poerto" in 1991. I turned 34 this year, and I was 19 the year of the "blackout." I was baptized José António Saramago, but my friends call me "Quim da Loja."

My mother "hit the pot" when I was born, and I was raised by my father and an aunt who, after "my late mother's death," gave me three cousins, more or less in a row. Those who knew us didn't find it strange. My aunt wasn't picky, and my father didn't mind having nephews.

The family's livelihood came from a hardware store we owned in Campanhã, and as a schoolboy, I used to help out in the business on the afternoons. In addition to my family, Zé António, a boy older than me, worked in the store, but he was "ugly as a hamstring." He had a pockmarked face adorned by two enormous fan blades and was as thin as a cross. A few years before we "let loose," he had an accident that shattered his knee, giving him a walk that said, "If I hit you, I'll kill you."

When my father yelled in the store, "Oh Zé António," "Oh Toino," "Oh Zeca, Oh Murcão," etc., we always "both of us" yelled. As kids, we dreaded the screams that invariably echoed when no one responded. We shared the same name, and to avoid confusion, my father started calling me Quim, after a former FC Porto goalkeeper. It was thus, and also to avoid confusion with the writer, that I became known as "Quim da Loja."

Around 2010, a year before the blackout, I met a shapely, blonde Russian woman with deep blue eyes and an accent full of "ch's" and "f's" that left me drooling and drooling. Her name was "Irina Pakovonovitch," but we "knew" her by the diminutive "UrinaPacova," and she was so beautiful that "her mother must have been an oyster to spit out such a pearl."

I'd been hanging around for so long, "dry," when I first saw her. It was a "wake up, you tree trunk!" Without much expectation, but as if I had nothing to lose, I started a conversation. I straightened my wandering appearance, assumed a serious tone, and asked her, "Do you know where I can catch the metro to the airport?" She smiled and signaled that she didn't speak Portuguese, and I, who's not bad with my hands, jumped at the opportunity and immediately "got them in."

It went well! I think she found my tripeiro accent amusing. I invited her for some "Super Bock"—"the bejecas do Norte" (the bejecas of the North), and it was like honey! With her, I was always "letting loose." I've never been happier than I was then!

"Urina" worked at a brothel in Gondomar, where she made a living. One day, during a raid, she "kicked the cops" and got everyone arrested. Luckily, I wasn't there. Days later, they were all brought before the Judge, who had a heavy hand for repeat offenders. The Judge released "UrinaPacova," who had never been caught in such an activity, with a reprimand and the obligation to find one of those jobs with social security deductions. From what I understand, she went to work as a maid for His Honor. There are always people with a big heart! As for "Urina," I never set eyes on her again—"I like fruit, and there's no shortage of eaters."

Around this time, business began to suffer. The hardware store could no longer cover expenses, and after "screwing up" its suppliers, it soon closed its doors. Overwhelmed by shame, my father "kicked the bucket," and I found myself without any means of support—I couldn't even find a penny for the "morphs." The peace and quiet was over, the time for "scratching them" was over—the safe haven was gone!

The house was handed over to the creditors. My aunt, unable to secure a living, packed her bags and, with my "three cousins," left for Amarante, where they had family. Even though the house had been handed over to the creditors, I let myself be dragged along and refused to leave. The eviction process is "still ongoing," but until they "send me away with the pigs," I'll stay.

I'm always sad about this part of my life. I always feel like I'm "broken bell," a bit amorphous, and with little desire to tell the story. To cheer myself up, as I always do when I'm feeling down, I remembered the glorious "Cinco a Zero"—two by Hulk, two by Falcão, and one by Varela—and the memorable "wet night at Dragão." A wet night, but from natural rain, not from a fountain! When I remember this, I always gain new strength and... Well, back to the story. With my father's death, and me already in my twenties, I had to make a living!

It was around this time that I met "Neca das Corlhas." He was known as such because he could "slip through" even the most distressing situations. Some thought it was luck, others saw him as "an artist." And that's how he saw himself: an artist! And as an aspiring artist, he began showcasing his art wherever he had an audience. He performed in squares, near bars. His favorite spot was at the traffic lights on Avenida da Boavista, or on the Circunvalação highway. He carried a stool and, with some balls he threw, always caught them in the same order, whether standing, sitting, or perched on the stool. It didn't seem difficult, and the "audience" was happy when he got out of the way! Some even gave him coins.

That way of life didn't seem difficult, so I decided to make it my "full-time job." It certainly wasn't a "thing" to get rich—Necas told me that notes only "see" them in other people; he said he had to get some "glasses" to "see" them in person!

Since I was a bit more skilled than Necas, I did a more elaborate routine. Drawing on my soccer days, I found two rag balls to keep them from bouncing too much. While the traffic light wasn't flashing, I'd kick them with my feet, keeping both balls in the air. I rarely messed up and dropped them. Sometimes I'd get excited about my own skill and be "woken up" by honking horns when the traffic lights, unbeknownst to me, turned "snot green."

It was difficult to be an artist and collect donations before the traffic started. So, for operational reasons, Neca and I began "performing" together. While one performed pantomimes, the other collected the proceeds. The cooperation was clearly beneficial, even though in the end, while packing up his gear, Neca always tried to outwit me. "I thought the brother was pulling my leg! It's all right, honey!"

Not all the "spectators" paid for tickets. Some put on a "good night, Freitas" face, others thought it was better to make a living this way than to live "other lives," or do nothing and be "subsidy-dependent." But there were also those who thought we had talent and that, in our own way, we were artists deserving of applause. These people filled our souls.

No one was going to get rich from that activity. The "wire" that flowed from there wasn't enough to live "à la gardère," but it was enough to get by in a reasonable way. At night, we'd gather in the pastry shop neighborhood. We'd drink "bejecas" and, with enormous "basqueiral," discuss everything that came to mind. It was always a "bomb." Among the troupe were some glum, always indisposed, others, the "Superdragões" fans, who became aggressive when they came home from the stadium "dry." And of course, there was Benilde, who "still broke her soles."

While we were just hanging out, the day's "wire" was giving way to "morphs." The problem arose when we started smoking "stronger stuff." At first, it was just for fun, but what initially seemed like little packets of "joy and good cheer" quickly became "unending hunger." We always wanted more and more. Only when we collapsed, lifeless, "yellow as farts," with our guts "spray-painting," did we stop. The next day, we woke up with a blaring hangover, always worse than the morning before. It was a daily death, a path of no return, increasingly difficult to navigate.

At first, the drugs appeared as if by magic. No one asked us if we could pay. But when, already addicted, the addiction was only satisfied if we gave in to what they asked of us, that was when they "caught" us. That's how I got into the "car business."

They taught us how to break glass, how to quickly identify everything of value. They taught us how to choose what was good for "business," how to quickly clean up, how to "dodge" dashboard placards , jumper cables, tires, rims, catalytic converters, etc.

And everything was very well organized. Some people made lists of the most sought-after items, others scoured the territory looking for "victims" to fill the orders, and then, with the "circus" set up, we, the workers, did the "cleanup."

They ask if it was dangerous? Of course it was! But we also had our own schemes in place. While some "diverted the products," others would stand at strategic points to warn us if there were any "cops" nearby—Water, Water, was the warning cry! It almost always worked well, and we rarely had to jump on the bike and quickly "swipe." I always found the ease with which we operated curious. It was as if we had our backs covered!

I remember someone once ordering some parts for a "bêeme." I did the job with Neca from Rolhas as support, and we delivered the product to the person who had placed the order. Each person received "two doses," and payment was made. Later, we learned that the car repair had cost €10,000, and the cops had refused to investigate because "the parts were already in Africa"! In Africa? Everything had gone to a warehouse in Gondomar. Anyway, some people settle for much more and risk much less.

And so I led a life fueled by “petty crime” and interspersed with actions in public.

I think someone once said—if something can go wrong, sooner or later it will. Always escaping is something that never happens, "even if the cows come home."

With the increase in the number of electric vehicles on the road, "business" began to slow down. Catalytic converters, which had always been the highest-yielding component, were now harder to obtain, much rarer, and in lower demand. With electric vehicles, useful parts were either impossible to "trade" due to their weight—traction batteries, which were difficult to access, or had lower market value. Business was doing poorly when, in 2023, I asked ChatGPT: how could I continue in the car "business" now that electric vehicles seemed to be changing the paradigm? The "bro was pro" and said: "Hey, champ, get smart! It's not like it used to be, when a guy would go to the catalytic converter and leave with his pension paid for. In electric cars, the gold mine is hidden. You need an eye and a sharp hand, not just crowbars and hammers. First, you get to the brain of the machine – ECU or BMS, but for you, it's the 'box of colored wires.' That's where all the gold "is" that looks like it was stolen from a queen. Then, you have the inverter. It's a huge thing with parts that shine brighter than a display window at Ourivesaria Aliança. Next, and for the "business" to be profitable, comes the charging cradle, a piece full of gold-dusted plates – no, not for sucking up, damn it, it's for selling! And, don't forget the car's cinema – radio, GPS, that giant tablet they have. Everything like gold in an artist's teeth. You also have the connectors, those small high-voltage connections, but with a brave bath of gold and a “bath of profit for you”.

For business, you can also count on "the eyes of the beast," sensors, cameras, radars. Everything disassembled and stored yields more than scratch cards. Oh, and before I forget, you also have the magic box, the one that helps the car drive itself. It's worth a fortune and always has parts that shine brighter than the Bolhão on a party day. See? The secret here is knowing where to poke. In this, a good soldering iron is worth more than a crowbar. Learn from AI, and you'll never run out of wire for your pocket."

The "business" was launched, only riskier. And one day, what had to happen, happened. Neca and I were caught and taken to court!

In the courtroom, I recognized him immediately. He was the same guy who had hooked up with "Urina," who, I later learned, was now acting as an assistant. I always thought that girl, with a body like that, had everything she needed to get ahead in life.

His Honor, a man with a big heart, was not one for sending people to the "pildra." And because we were approaching the 2025 legislative elections, he decided that a civic activity that could make us better citizens was to force us to watch the campaign airtime and television debates, and at the end of each day, we would have to summarize them.

In life, everything is like that. A door closes, a window opens. And so it was! At first, everything was confusing. Right from the start, you got the impression that this activity must be very irritating! When they appeared on television, they were always arguing, easily angered, and made a point of never agreeing on anything. It seemed like they even disagreed with their reflection in the mirror! The task was tedious, but Neca and I managed, and as I summarized, I began to understand what these people were up to—it didn't matter if their promises were reasonable or made sense; if they aligned with the audience, they were guaranteed success!

This had to be my destiny. I spoke with Neca, who immediately offered his support, and we decided we would dedicate ourselves to politics. However, the initial challenge was knowing which party to join. I consulted the Observador's "Votómetro" and was disappointed! My answers seemed off the charts. I would have to do something new and different.

In the aftermath of the legislative elections, the political world began to turn to the following elections – the local elections and the presidential elections.

In the presidential elections, Marques Mendes emerged as a strong candidate, which reinforced my interest in a political career. If he was successful, why not me? Apparently, success is within everyone's reach and can't be measured in inches.

What precipitated the decision was Rui Moreira's announcement that he would run for President of the Republic. If Rui Moreira held out for so long, why can't I, Quim da Loja, run for President of the Chamber?

Politics is like a street show. Just like traffic light "artists," the secret is to attract attention for a few seconds and collect "donations" before the audience moves on. If I'm good at entertaining on the street, I can also be good at other shows with greater returns. I just have to find a way to attract attention. And, after all, I don't need a party for local elections. I can always create a movement.

And that's how "Ó-baim'à-loja" (O-baim'à-loja) came about, a movement created to support my candidacy for Porto City Hall. The official campaign is ready to launch, and those who know about the project, my supporters and friends, when they see me on the street, shout words of unmistakable support – Oh Quim, "Ó-baim'à-loja!" to which I invariably respond, "O Quim, "bai" and "always bring the change"! "Don't you think we're doing just fine?"

Without any agreement. The author "writes as he pleases."