If you want your voice to be heard, lose your hope, and your hopes will be fulfilled. If you want your time to run faster, don’t worry, he is faster than you. He will eventually catch you, and he will tell you the truth. The truth is that there is no truth. Because truth is just a fancy tune, but not true. Do a little dancing at the beat of that fancy tune and you will be forever dancing at its tune. Do a little singing too. Come on man, go and sing them about the truth. The truth is that is not true. Phone lines are still working and connection is not lost. Come on man, tell them that. Tell them there will be no pain. No sorrow. Tell them the truth, which is not true. Say something they wanna hear: a lie, something not true. Because real truth is too funny. Too true. Tell them you are interested to hear. To hear about the truth. They will be enchanted to tell you about that, about truth. All they will say are lies too. How could it possibly be otherwise? After all, they are speaking about truth. The truth is that there is not limits and no expectations too. The truth is that maybe somebody is listening but that is unlikely true. But if anybody were listening, what would he think about you? He would be thinking you are lying while speaking the truth. The truth is that nobody is listening what you say about truth. Nobody knows it is true. The truth is that truth is too good liar to be fooled by you. Close your eyes to see the truth. Now you can really say you are watching the truth. You can’t see nothing, that is true. Because you are watching the truth.
Welcome to my world. I apologize if it is untidy, but that is the way worlds are. This one is a very dark world, dusty and old. There is a room in this world, not less dusty, not less old. In this room there is a man. This man is an old man. His hair is white. His skin cracked. He is screaming, for some reason. This old man wants to fuck. And he wants to fuck really hard, you know. That is why he is screaming. The room is a kitchen but it looks like a set. A cheap and dirty cardboard-made set. The lighting is poor. The old man is yelling. ‘ Traigame a las viejas! ‘ * he says. The old man reeks of liquor. He is drunk. But still, he wants to fuck. He is calling into the darkness asking for women. To fuck them. There is little chance this stinky old man will get any women. The darkness is merciless and he stinks. But an old woman comes. She comes from the darkness. She smells like darkness. She tastes like darkness, not that we try. She is made of darkness. She bits the stinky old man in the cracked lips. She does this hard and without mercy, because she is made of darkness. And darkness is merciless. As we said. The old man feels the dusty dead tongue of the old ugly woman inside his mouth. It tastes like rotten strawberries. Strawberries are sweet, but not the rotten ones. Those are bitter and taste like death. The old man thinks: ‘I can’t fuck death, but death can fuck me’ The man is dead right. Death can fuck him. And she can fuck him really hard. Harder than he had ever been fucked before. Longer than he had ever been fucked before. I like that, he thinks, to be fucked really hard. That is why he was screaming before. He wanted to be fucked really hard. And death came and she fucked him really hard. She fucked him to death. And then he was really hers. He was then made of darkness too. But he cannot fuck any more. Because he is dead. He is fucked. No more cries. No more sorrows. No more waking up early in the morning to work. No more sunshine, no more rain. No more fucking. No more fucking around with death because you are now fucking her. Forever more.
(*) ‘Traigame a las viejas! ‘ Bring me the old hags!’ in original Spanish from the movie The Wild Bunch by Sam Peckinpah
My father is such a discreet and distant man that after twenty-one years of being his son I still do not know what he does for a living, neither do my older brother, or my mother, and that is certainly stranger because they met while she was working for him. She left whichever her job was to devote herself to her family without having the slightest idea of what raising a family means. Probably her experience working with my father in their highly qualified job of which nature she was clueless too, helped her at the time to embark herself on the challenge of being a mother, an activity whose responsibilities and duties she was, at the very least, equally ignorant. Ours, like many other families, is a collection of individuals of different ages and genders that for biological reasons happen to share the same roof and eat their meals with each other more frequently than with anybody else. My twenty-three years old brother by reason of his age makes of my the youngest member of the family if we don’t include in the equation some recently purchased inanimate objects of the household that we certainly cherish decline to consider as part of the family nucleus. I always expected that with the pass of the years I would overgrow my older brother and become the older brother myself but his stubborn insistence to age at the same rate I do has made of that a futile expectation, a fact I always reproached him. We live in a house whose external appearance is indistinguishable of the hundreds of identical constructions that populate our suburban community albeit the families living inside do vary significantly as do their respective tastes concerning decoration, which always made me wonder how their houses will look seen from the inside. Our house is a two stories building with some windows scattered on the walls and a door that we use to cross in and out our home. Many of the walls inside the house are painted pale pink because that is my mother’s favorite color and she painted them herself because my father is always too busy doing whatever he does and also because pale pink is his color of choice for wall painting. Both me and my brother detest pink in general but feel a special hate for pale pink so I painted my room black and my brother who also dislikes black painted his half side of the room red just to upset me. He suffers from a condition adequately named color-blindness that makes him to perceive colors as shades of gray which always made wonder why he is so fastidious regarding chromatic matters. A typical family dinner includes the four of us sitting at table in silence while staring our dishes as if there was any chance the salad or perhaps a spoon were about to run away and throw themselves through the window in a desperate effort to make a memorable event of the otherwise uneventful evening. The sound most frequently heard between the limits of the walls that confine our family home is those of the electric monotonous buzz emanating from several TV screens distributed in strategical points of the house. The largest screen we own is located in the living room where most of the disagreements between me and my brother take place, mostly concerning the ownership and rights of use of the remote control. As in every other area of our lives my brother and me have utterly different interests and tastes. When he is in control of zapping channels I am forced to endure sport channels broadcasting transmissions of all kind of competitive activities whose inevitable outcome is the excessive perspiration of their participants, a detail I never fail to find disgusting. I am exclusively interested on programming whose only prerequisite to enjoy my full attention is a total lack of qualms or restrictions in the depiction of graphical violence. But most of these confrontations come swiftly to an halt in the rare cases our father takes over the living room on the grounds of his rightful ownership of the screen and the room that contains it. In these occasions we are both forced to endure the viewing of news broadcast that are the only sort of television programming that our father tolerates and that induces in him a sort of cataleptic trance. Otherwise we retire to resume our confrontation over the ownership of the remote belonging to a smaller inferior quality television set that is located in our shared room. But those are rare occasions because our father habits are more suited to a boarding guest than those of a family member and he will go to any length necessary to minimize contact with the rest of us. To such a purpose he had installed his own TV set in his room where he spends most of the time behind a locked door watching news channels and catching up with his work whatever it is. My mother also has her personal tastes and preferences regarding television and she is essentially addicted to talk shows that deal with family tragedies of all kinds, being those tragedies of the physical kind or emotional in nature . She will stare fixedly for hours to the small portable TV set over the kitchen counter while her body performs with unflinching mechanical dexterity the activities she knows she is expected to perform. Utterly unmoved from the highly emotionally charged unfolding of events beamed from the screen she will spend hours peeling a carrot as if submerged inside a bubble of decelerating time and oblivious of her surrounding. There are no other beings you could ever expect to spot inside our house on a rational basis because we have neither pets nor friends. It is possible that my father has colleagues that busy themselves in the same unknown activity my father is paid for performing and, albeit unlikely on account of my father’s nature, it is in the realm of possibility that some form of interaction has developed between them with the pass of the years albeit such a notion seems far fetched on the basis of my knowledge. My mother doesn’t relate with other people for reasons that she has taken always good care to hide from us, as if fearful we might find suited taking any interest in her motives, a notion almost as ridicule and improbable as that of my father relating to other individuals. My brother is the only member of the family that leaves the house in a regular basis besides my father to go running for hours at a time, an activity that never fails to stimulate my brother’s glands to perspire profusely to the point that his smell pervades the bathroom for hours afterwards. This shared tendency of human race to exude noxious secretions is also the reason why I try minimize the chances of finding myself in close proximity of other human beings by rarely leaving my room. It is only during in the long hours my brother spends running that I can enjoy this scarce pleasure at the expense of having to suffer his pervading body odor for hours afterwards. While my brother is afflicted for his color-blindness I am blessed by a malfunction of my glands that prevents my body from perspiring, a condition that I find not only a blessing but is also the trait I am more proud to have. On the prevalent conditions and just after careful calculations I have concluded that the best course of action to obtain maximum benefits is to terminate the existence of my family by any means necessary and then terminate myself, using in both instances an M-16 semi-automatic rifle with full metal jacket ammunition which I judge the optimum configuration for the termination of this game.
The sky is blinding blue. The landscape is that of a flat highland of bright green grass so smooth that has a digital quality to it. In the distance we see massive vertical black outcrops raising to the sky but we can’t tell yet if they are rock formations or man-made. Something is certain, they are very far away and if we want to find out a long walk awaits us. Better then not to delay the beginning of our trip. As we approach one of the structures we realize their sheer magnitude is well beyond we could possibly phantom. The one we are approaching reveals to us as a towering forest of black slender skyscrapers so densely packed together that from the distance appears as single body. It dawns into us the realization of the utter vastness of the landscape that surround us and our eyes wander through the plain searching for a taxi but there is none in sight. We search our pockets and we find what we were looking for: narrative omniscience.
Next thing we know we are gliding amidst the colossal structures that are all identical in their design albeit they vary greatly in their heights. All are featureless but for their indistinguishable windows evenly spaced along their dark rusty walls. We randomly chose one of the identical windows that is nearby and very carefully hover towards it in order to avoid breaking our omniscient noses.
The room behind the window is dark, as if the bright light outside failed to pass through the glass as we just did, putting to shame the proud photons that had travel so swiftly to end up bouncing off a humble glass. It is perhaps because their failure that whoever who stays here had to purchase the dim bulb that hangs from the ceiling.
The room is sparsely decorated but ample, although far smaller than the vast landscape we just left behind otherwise this story wouldn’t make any sense.
There is a chair and in the chair there is a man in shorts and the man is holding something that looks like a book but is actually a newspaper. The man seems to be reading his morning paper and drinking from a beer can in his lap. Maybe looking for a position as beer-drinker.
He doesn’t pay any attention whatsoever to a woman who is standing by the kitchen counter doing the dishes until she realizes there are no kitchen in such a sparsely furnished room, she stops and the dishes crash loudly on the floor. She turns her head and we realize with disgust that her eyebrows are upside down. She stares at the man with disdain and frowns and the effect is comic. We suppress a laugh not to reveal ourselves and get in trouble.
– The kitchen is gone and I just broke all we had left for dinner -the woman says to the man.
– Mmmm! – answers the man without looking back
– Did you just listen to what I said? – she yells
– Mmmm! – repeats the man but with more conviction this time around as if he had listened any better to what the woman said, which he hadn’t.
The woman feels she never should have married a deaf-mute man thinking he was a good listener and starts banging her head against the wall.
We feel bored of what is going on here and we realize the dialogue between this two people has great chances of becoming a monologue. So we glide away once more and chose another destination not without leaving a chalk mark in the window sill just in case we spend time in this place, which seems unlikely if all dwellers are as dull as these.
This new room is identical but for the lack of bulb which has been replaced for a candle. The candle is on the floor instead of the ceiling for practical reasons. There is also a man and a woman laying naked on the floor. They seem very excited which is normal in their circumstances. The man is trying without success to introduce his penis in one of the woman’s nostrils but she seems reluctant. She expresses her reluctance by shrieking loudly and waving her arms wildly. Then she produces a manual with drawings on it and shows one of pictures to the man and the man get the right orifice this time and they copulate happily for a while, although she won’t stop neither the shrieking nor the arm waving.
After some copulating the man is sitting in a chair reading the newspaper and drinking from a beer can in his lap while the woman fries the dishes on an kitchen that is not there. We realize they are the same people but apparently we caught them at different time. We decide this is definitely some bizarre place to spend your vacations.
I wake up at lunch time with a hangover the size of an enormous hangover. My head feels swollen and my hands shake. Yesterday my head shook and my hands were so swollen I could hardly slip my index through the coffee mug handle. What next?
I go to the bathroom and watch my face in the mirror and I don’t like what I see. Fucking cheap Chinese-made mirrors.
I go to my office. The place is a mess since my secretary left the day she found out that shorthand was not giving me a hand job inside the closet. Stupid bitch!
I open the filing cabinet drawer marked Ba-Bb and I produce a bottle of Apple Liquor. What the hell! This should be in Aa-Ar. I wonder where the bourbon is. I pour myself a glass anyway and I stare through the dusty window to the steamy city. A big fat fruit ready for the taking. Somewhere in the asphalt jungle there is a bullet with my name engraved on it. But I don’t care since bullets can’t read.
I turn around and catch a glimpse of a voluptuous female silhouette on my door’s glass. I take mental note to tell the cleaning woman later. Somebody stuck that stupid silhouette there after Pearl Harbor and she always forgets to get rid of it. Dirty cunt!
I spend the evening there, staring at the calendar on the wall and wondering how long I will have to wait for Christmas. Not a single call in all evening. What did you expect? You haven’t paid the phone bill in twenty seven years, something like this was bound to happen.
I leave but I realize I am not drunk enough to take a taxi and head for Barney’s. The place is packed but Barney is not there mainly because nobody under that name ever worked there. I don’t care. Anyway this is not a bar but a laundromat. I realize am talking to the dryer and drinking soap.
I got Barney’s place the second time around. It’s packed there too and Barney isn’t there either, which explains my mistake. I peer through the thick smoke looking for a free seat.
There is blonde so hot in a stool near the corner that the seat padding is about to catch fire and the support is melting away. She is pretty and seems pretty stupid too. I introduce myself and tell her there is man outside giving away free samples of eyelashes. Fool. Before she has crossed the door I am sitting on her warm seat ordering a double but I get only half of it. My bad.
The place is closing down and a man who looks like Barney asks me kindly to leave while rolling a baseball bat over the counter. Then I realize that he is Barney and order one more drink on the house. He knocks me unconscious with his bat as usual. Fucking old Irish bastard!
I wake up on puddle of mud and vomit in a dirty alley with my pockets emptied. But the pockets are still there. Last Thursday I woke up in alley just like this and some motherfucker had snatched my pockets with everything I had and ripped my raincoat in the process. At least this time they left the pockets. Some luck at last. Maybe this is the beginning of a lucky streak.
I get on a cab and pretend I don’t know what money is when the time comes to pay the fare. I got away very well this time. I persuade the cabbie of my honesty by pushing the cab’s ashtray down his throat. Poor bastard. He tries to make some nasty remarks about my mother’s sexuality but only manages to produce some cigarette butts.
I get home and head straight to bed when I notice something odd: somebody’s feet touching mine under the sheets. I dart to the bedside table and reach for my 38. caliber but grab instead some false teeth and great havoc ensues. I don’t live there. A senior couple does. Mr. and Mrs. Kocinsky. And nine cats. End of my lucky streak. Shit.
I go home. Two cops make sure I got to the right place this time. A couple of young roosters from Grand Central that think they know what is all about. They are clueless little sonofabitches but they carry two big sticks so I keep my opinion to myself and laugh everyone of their jokes until they tell me that they are not joking. They help me into bed but none of them wants to read me a story and they leave. Fucking pigs!
I wonder if may be wasting my life as snoop. I should have entered my father business and become a vacuum cleaner salesman. Easy and clean. Or at least it was until the day he got himself suctioned in a freak accident. But it beats being a detective. Fuck!