Author: Ruestrasse

The tattooed clown

Posted on by Ruestrasse


There is a small graveyard behind a non-denomination church
in Amsterdam I like to stop by from time to time. If you walk all the way south on
Kalisvaart Street and turn left at the end of the road, you will find a small,
broken tombstone that lies towards the east end. It should look just like the
others. In a weird way, it does not.
The circus
The loud discussions at the tiny neighborhood bar I’m in
drown the suffocating combination of fear and anguish that was making my
stomach turn. I asked for a pint of the local beer, but was brought the
equivalent of warm piss instead. It’s fucking white beer… Won’t send it back,
however.

I just asked for the menu, hoping for the biggest chunk of grease
available. Found only apple pie. I escaped America only to be hit by a poor
Dutch version of apple pie. Won’t send it back either. Over the years, I’ve
learned that things never go my way. I’m used to making lemonade off the sour
answers life always gave me.

I’ve been a circus clown since the mid 1950’s. Before I was
born, my father took a sabbatical as sergeant from the military to join the
circus for a few years. He was a violent alcoholic who barely fit within
army ranks. With no work records or permanent residence, he was able to avoid
the draft and impregnate a few of the staff girls. The juggler, the
knife-throwing model, the trapeze girl… Even the tiny Jewish girl that washed
clothes, picked animal manure and helped with collecting the tickets fell
victim of the sergeant’s silver tongue.
In her eyes, he was true to her. What if he had been with half the circus girls already? She
felt special; cared for when he was with her. Often humiliated by friends and
strangers, she felt that the sergeant was the only man that saw her for who she truly was.
Hell, he was the only one that saw her as a woman despite her hunchback,
crooked yellow teeth, midget figure. He made her feel like a person rather than the
piece of odd furniture nobody knows what to do with.
News of her pregnancy spread like warm butter on the
company’s rye bread. Who had been able to look past little Masha’s physical ugliness? She kept the name a secret, though all suspicion befell the sergeant.
The first birth
My mother died shortly after she managed to push me out of
her entrails from delivery complications and wound infections. It is a miracle
I survived. Come to think of it, it was actually a curse to stay for so long in
this world. My birth left no doubts regarding the sergeant’s rendezvous. Still,
he denied any responsibility or connection with my existence. I was raised by
the ladies of the circus. The juggler, the knife throwing model, the trapeze girl;
they were my family. More accurately, they were the closest I had to one, as
they’d never let me forget I was an outsider; nothing more than a charity case
to be cast away as early as I turn 16. I had to win them over at all times,
never taking anything they gave me – food, attention, advice – for granted.
This is how I discovered my innate talent for making people laugh. I thought so
little of myself, self-deprecation came naturally. Mix my own feelings of
inferiority with a smile, add a comedic twist and… eureka! The formula worked
every time.

It never changed. It never had to.

Desperate for company at all times, I became obsessed with
comedic routines. Armed with a witty mind and keen observational skills , I was
the life of the company’s gatherings since I was twelve. To me, the absurdity of daily life rarely went unnoticed. Nothing and nobody escaped my sharp eyes
and vigilant ears. Anything you said or did, I could turn into a joke and you would find it funny.
The trick is that you would not ever get offended. It is me that is making fun
of you, and I’m clowny Joe. Nobody takes me seriously. Nobody should. If anything,
I inspire compassion. I’m a massively skinny kid, with arms too long for my
body and crooked yellow teeth. I have always had only one functioning eye, the other a useless,
wandering pupil in an ocean of grey. I’m the epitome of the circus orphan if there’s ever
been one; the dark child who would pray for a road accident to escape reality.
The Porky foursome
The children of the animal tamers were the meanest. They’d
sometimes beat me up for no reason other than fighting boredom. My looks had much to do with their attitude towards me. We often
get violent towards the things – and people – we find too different, to the point of being repulsive. The last time
they did it, I was in a pretty weird mood. I made all kinds of silly noises and
sardonic remarks while their fists met my body.
– “That all you got, Jack Dem-pussy?” (referencing boxer Jack Dempsey)
– “Ouch! That one made me see stars! Do it again, but this
time like you mean it”
– “Your sister hits softer. Yes, I said softer. She is sweet
to me”
– “Get the teeth, boys. Food is so scarce lately, I don’t need them anyway”
– “Hit me in the eye! You may even fix it”
That prompted them to stop in the middle of the beating,
unable to contain their laughter. Over time, the beatings stopped. We became
good friends. Later, I turned into “idea man”; them into my henchmen in a new
era of circus havoc. Conning unsuspected patrons, robbing wallets, touching
women inappropriately while in the crowd; all this came naturally to the Porky
Foursome, as this group of kids used to being rejected by society became known
in the company. We were the unwanted children of the circus, despised within
our own circle.
Three of the Porky Foursome had their manifest destiny as
animal people. Best case scenario would be to become the lion tamer. The others
were doomed to backstage training, feeding and manure shoveling; just like my
mother. That is not me, however. I had no mentor. I had no parents. My future
was in my prematurely wrinkled hands, and no one else’s. And nothing felt as
fitting as a career in comedy. The circus clown was born this way.
 
Born to shovel crap
I begged the Master of Ceremony to let me add 1-2 minute
comedic fillers between circus acts. After I agreed to a few unspeakable
favors, he decided to let me try my luck with a rather hostile public. I had to
be strategic – gather attention, keep the audience interested, then deliver an
effective punchline quickly. Over the years, jokes evolved from the original
self-deprecatory to the observational, to the clever, to the ironic, to the
morbid, to the ultimately morose. Physical comedy gave way to intelligent, eloquent
delivery touching upon subjects relevant to the adult, educated population that
started to come to the show after word of mouth did its thing. Social issues,
political environment, anal warts, plastic surgery, gender roles, religion…
With me nothing was sacred; nobody was safe. Word of mouth did its thing.
Eventually, the MC asked if I wanted to have my own act. I recruited the two
shit-shovelers for a few months, but they couldn’t take it much longer than
that. A lifetime of squeezing laughter off your personal misery gives you very
thick skin. Some people are just born to shovel shit.
Blurry
The best jokes had titles, so I could quickly sort through
them in my mind. Then, I categorized them. Initially, this process took place
inside my brain. There was no record available of my routines. Then, I started
to worry. A penchant for heavy drinking started to make my memories blurry. I
got scared. What if I started to lose my material? This is all I have. This is
what I am. But I also can’t just put them in writing and leave them to be
stolen. What to do?
I saw the knife-thrower heating his instrument on a candle
and got an idea. I asked to borrow one of the thinnest, sharpest knifes she had
and used it on my skin. A bit of heat, some ink from the ticket-printing
machine, and I got myself a rudimentary tattoo artist’s tool. My body was
always with me; nobody could steal it. It was the perfect oleo for my records.
And so it began. Over the course of three years, I covered every inch of my
skin with words and symbols; they were all idea kickers for a joke. Towards the
end, my skin had become a carefully designed summary of everything I was; of
all I was. Clown makeup was not enough to cover all my tattoos, so I became
known as “the tattooed clown”. The company started to get known as “the circus
of the tattooed clown”; my little, temporary piece of stardom in an otherwise
hellish life.
It turns out heating a knife helps prevent infection, but
not intoxication by lead-based ink. I fainted at the end of an act once, and a
doctor in the audience came to see what was happening. Back then, nobody knew
lead could be so dangerous. Memories kept getting blurrier. I lived off the
writings on my skin; a practice that came with a high price tag. Routines
became predictable, mostly scrapped from what I had written on my limbs. The MC
noticed. Then the public noticed…
After a while, the MC threatened to cancel my act. We
argued. Bad timing on his part, for I was drinking all afternoon. As he turned
away screaming I was out, I took the tattooing knife and stabbed him in the
back for what felt like a million times. He tried to face me, which resulted in
the knife meeting his cheek, then his eye, then his throat, then his other eye…
There was so much blood covering us both, it was hard to know who was stabbed
and who wasn’t. I ran to my tent, washed the blood off, picked up my few
possessions, and left to never come back.
Where?
There were several boats departing from the New Orleans port
that evening. It is unusual for boats to leave the port after sunset, but the
city had seen a few storms lately and departures were frequent. A scrawny man
covered in tattoos with a bad eye is not uncommon in the area. Also, several
sailors had gotten lost in the arms of the damsels of the local brothels during
the storms. Supply and demand law did its part, and a few minutes later I found
myself aboard a slow vessel carrying American products to the old world. I
disembarked weeks later in Rotterdam, but found the city too clean. The
country’s dirt concentrates in Amsterdam. Naturally, I made my way to the
European city of sin.
Memory
How was I even able to remember all this? I don’t know. Maybe
I remember it all wrong. Much of it could be a figment of my imagination,
except the tattoos. They are here with me as I write this, held together by the
sweet embrace of Dionysius. I look at the ink and it stares back at me; my
slow, beloved assassin.
I had with me some cash and a few photos of my mother when I
died. My clothes had no tags. I threw all forms of identification into a
bonfire the night after I made it into Holland, but I forgot to check the
internal compartment of the jacket I was wearing. In it, a ticket with the
title “The Circus of clowny Joe” was found by the police.
Why?
There is a graveyard behind the non-denomination church that
sometimes buries the body of unknown people as a form of charity in their land.
If you walk all the way south on Kalisvaart St., then turn left at the end of the street, you will find a small, broken tombstone that lies a bit to the left.
It reads:
“The circus of clowny Joe”
            
? – 1987
 It is easy to die for no reason; easier when you have no
purpose in life.

Final Copa Mundial: Italia-Francia, Julio 9 del 2006

Posted on by Ruestrasse
 
El dia tan esperado! La final de Fussball! Un polaco
de nombre Paultz – nos hicimos amigos en la borrachera del partido
Alemania Portugal – insistió en que fuéramos al Olympicstadion temprano,
tipo 11AM, para sumarnos a la turba de fanaticos que se congregarían en
el previo al magno evento. Accedí, y a las 11:10AM estaba ya más puesto
que un calcetín.
 
Nos lanzamos raudos y veloces al estadio (poco más
de una hora de viaje desde el campamento) y, ya estando ahí, nos bebimos
unas Berliners con Lambwurst (salchicha de cordero) jinto con unos
italianos escandalosos pintados hasta el cu… tis.
 
De ahí, el partido. Fuimos al Fan Fest (una fiesta
afuera del estadio con pantallas gigantes), donde conocimos a Silvio y
Kevin; un nicaragüense adoptado de niño por un noruego que ahora lo
llevaba a Alemania y un canadiense atípico en su amor por el fútbol si
lo comparamos con el coterráneo promedio y su pasión por el hockey.
 
Es increíble el poder de convocatoria que tiene el
fútbol. Antes de darme cuenta, este evento al aire libre hervía de
fanáticos de ambos equipos; pero además habían multitud de ingleses,
australianos, españoles, ecuatorianos, mexicanos (no se imaginan
cuantos)y hasta de países que no fueron al mundial como Bulgaria,
Canadá, Finlandia…
 
Yo me instalé estratégicamente junto al kiosko de
venta de Berliner (ya le tomé el gusto, y además es muy barata). Ahí,
pedí mi cerveza correspondiente y fue lo último que pagué esa noche.
Entre Silvio y Kevin iniciaron una especia de concurso de embriagamiento
colectivo que tenía muy poco que ver con el fútbol. Empezaron a comprar
cerveza por litro para todos los que estábamos en los alrededores.
 
Conclusión: me contaron que el segundo tiempo estuvo
muy bueno. Los tiempoes extras, junto con la expulsión de Zidane,
pasaron frente a nuestros ojos como un borroso suspiro. La tanda de
penalties fue el éxtasis, con gente saltando y abrazándose eufórica cada
vez que alguien (el que sea) anotaba (o fallaba) el disparo. El tiro
final, sello de la victoria italiana, hizo estallar en gritos de locura a
los cientos que se habían congregado en el lugar. Silvio, Kevin, Pawet y
yo trepamos a una mesa a gritar “Italia!, Italia!, Italia!” con un
empeño que envidiaría en tifosi más recalcitrante de Nápoles. Todo el
mundo se pintó de verde, blanco, rojo… y azul. Fue el caos más
organizado que he visto.
 
Creo haber visto los tenues rayos del sol
anunciando el nacimiento del nuevo día cuando regrese al hostal (si!
conseguí un lugar mucho más decente para quedarme esa noche!)…

A homelesson for real men

Posted on by Ruestrasse


A beggar asked me for a dollar. I asked him about the meaning of life. He seemed confused. That makes two of us. He very quickly realized he was the sanest of the pair and left without even saying goodbye. He has a lot to learn about homeless manners. A homelesson in bummanners? God, I’m in bad creative shape today…

I kept walking down the street towards the nearest water hole, and away from the noisy Bourbon street. My shoes’ heels tapped loudly on the sidewalk. There was no hesitation as to my ultimate destination: oblivion. I needed a generous dose of goodbye-pain juice, and was utterly determined to get it.

Why would any sensible person question this practice? Some of us are just unable to graciously handle the unfiltered reality we are forced to endure on a daily basis. A bit of help at the hand of Bacchus is all we can hope for. Some days, we may even need a tight hug from him, the kind that may break our back but leave us in a perfect state of denial.

A lonely drinker will catch the attention of the barman if the venue is not too busy. I wasn’t ready to talk about my problems, which frankly pale in comparison to others’. He was ready though. Seemed like the night had not been as demanding, and he had tasted most of the cocktails he served.

His name is Jenko, and he is Ukrainian. Well, he is American now. He has a face hardened by the sun, and a big vertical face scar from a wound that barely spared his left eye. His arms were long and muscular, covered by tattoos. One was a reference to Ukrainian mythology. Another one was a threatening goat with a fish tail ready for battle, symbolic of his astrology beliefs. He is a Capricorn.

                                                             Jenko when he was 40 years old

Despite his rough looks, Jenko had the kind of tender heart that makes a person vulnerable to emotional disappointment. He lived a few years with Mary Kate, a young girl from Chicago, in what seemed like an act of rebellion towards her parents. He was 40 years old. She was half his age. He felt their souls were so close, their age difference was but a detail. She inspired him to become a better man. She told him there was good money in bar-tending; so he took the exam, quit his clerical job at a local bank and became a bartender. Over the years, her demands for a better material life kept increasing. Jenko couldn’t keep up. But he was deeply in love, so he saved, got in debt and even modified his spending habits just so Mary Kate could be happier with more and more expensive gifts.He even stopped paying for his health and dental insurance. All that mattered to him was Mary Kate.

One day, Jenko came home early after a fire in the kitchen had the bar close before its usual. He bought orchids on his way home, her favorite flower. Figuring she might be sleeping after her pilates class, he tip-toed into the apartment not to wake her up. She was pretty much awake, as was their neighbor Boris. They did not notice Jenko walking in, so he was able to witness everything. And there he stood, punishing himself for being so stupid. How could an experienced man like him have been so trusting, so blind?

He walked out of the room, picked all the clothes he could find and left to never come back. Mary Kate tried to find him for some time, while secretly hoping he would never return. But she wouldn’t recognize him even if she saw him. Jenko roamed the streets of New Orleans for years before a new local government program assigned temporary apartments to the homeless of a shelter Jenko frequently found the night at. He met Bill there, a one-legged war veteran that convinced him to take advantage of the free shaving benefit offered by the program and look for a job. – As he told me this, I wondered why Bill wouldn’t follow his own advice but decided not to interrupt -.

Jenko has the right balance of bouncer and affable bartender. He was hired within days of his job-seeking endeavor. He is also a loyal and grateful man. He has thus stayed at the same bar for the last 15 years. The owner loves and trusts him. He has paid Jenko’s medical bills when needed, and has no intention of ever firing him. We both know Jenko will only leave Woodrow’s bar feet first, and I just met the guy.

I could have sworn there was a tear at the corner of Jenko’s good eye when he spoke of Mary Kate. But that is probably not the case. He is a man’s man; the kind you see portraying the bad guy in spy movies. Still, there is something about this hardened man that forced me to think of the tenderness that can be found within otherwise rough exteriors.The man knows about suffering after all. Is unrequited love the ultimate pain inflicted to one’s soul?

I asked for the check. My flight was set to depart early the next day, and I had gotten where I was heading already. Time for a few drinks at home while preparing my luggage before hitting the sack. Jenko said “it is nathin'” in the thickest Estern European accent since we started talking. “Therapy” – he said to me. “Same thing” – I replied, throwing a couple of twenty dollar bills on the table. He smiled, realizing there was no room for argument there.

There is no power that will have me come back to that bar. The joy of seeing my new friend Jenko again would not compensate the despair of finding out he is gone. I would rather imagine he is still there, handing out the origin and solution of all our problems,while  proudly wearing his bouncer-therapist smirk. I hope he is ok, but even if not I know he can handle it. He is a man’s man after all.

The departing bus

Posted on by Ruestrasse


And just like that, we parted ways.

There are three truths: what I saw, what she saw and what happened. The last
one is, counter-intuitively, the least relevant. In the end, I insisted on
ignoring the facts. Reality still yells at me pretty loudly. But my reality departs from yours in more than one way.

Life was good. I was the luckiest of guys. I kissed her and she kissed me. Ain’t that a kick in the head, as Dean Martin always sang?

When nurturing a garden, perfect moments can be experienced but not
preserved. It all comes and goes. Paraphrasing Ferris Bueller, if you don’t stop to smell the roses once
in a while, you will die without having actually lived. Yet, we insist in getting too attached to them. Then, we interrupt our journey to contemplate them, or
attempt to bring them with us. But roses rot. It does not matter how much
you water them or the amount of sun they get. They will still die in our hands if we attempt to keep them forever. As it turns out, it is not the rose’s thorn that hurts the most. The real killer is its
ephemeral nature.

A brief story was meant to follow this introspection. It had it all:
love, lust, confidence, strength, mistrust, betrayal, disappointment and
acceptance. It was meant to present you with a slice of human experience that would have felt quite
familiar to some. But it is also testament to how good we have it as a
society nowadays. Instead of worrying about war, famine, or even unemployment;
we worry about love, or lack thereof. That is what songs and poems are written about. There is no story to follow these thoughts…

We are always looking for the best, brightest, most rewarding of experiences in life. It is our ruin that when we get it, we end up longing for what we had and lost.

Lost and found

Posted on by Ruestrasse
Airports, stores, bus stations and
movie theatres have it. It is the little room with the least helpful,
unfriendliest of employees; where missing, precious objects go to die, to be
eventually resurrected by the staff upon need or desirability.
It was snowing
outside, and Grant had no gloves. Blood was no longer flowing to the tips of
his fingers; and is toes were about to fall off. He walked into a theatre to
put himself together before going out again and continue his journey. He went
to the customer service desk and asked for the black gloves he lost. A young member of the staff
presented him with a cardboard box containing several pieces of clothing, from
within which he rescued a pair of black gloves that seemed fitting.
Strolling to the
theatre next door, he bought a ticket for “Prognosis Negative: a story of
betrayal and redemption”. With so many holiday movies screening that night, he
was bound to watch it almost by himself. Immersed in these thoughts he was when
a heavily pierced young girl with a medium-sized bucket of popcorn walked in
and sat almost in front of him.
The movie started
after four trailers of equally dark films. The girl kept chewing her popcorn
loudly. Grant grew more irritated by the minute. He wanted to enjoy at least
part of the show before making his move, but his patience wore thin too
rapidly. 
He removed the
gloves and choked the girl from behind. She was so focused on the screen, that he
was able to get a very good grip on her neck. When done right, choking can
produce death in a matter of seconds. Doing it from behind permits the killer
to cross the index fingers over the windpipe, helping suppress guttural sound
immediately. Done at the precise time she exhaled helped prevent her from fighting
it off much, and added to the silent nature of the killing. 
Once sure she was
no longer breathing, he pulled a post-it from his pocket, glued it to her
forehead, and wrote the following on it:
“If found, do
not return”
He got up, pulled
up his hoodie and left to the bathroom; where he locked on his reflection in
the mirror and frowned. A mixture of joy and satisfaction rushed through his
veins.
Grant reflected on
his life as he walked home that night. He had never been molested as a kid. He
held no particular hatred towards women, or any specific group of people for
that matter. His parents were still alive, and remained together. There was
just nothing else he was interested in anymore. He was empty inside. Only
taking a random stranger´s life excited him.
Immersed in those thoughts he was
when he realized he was just a block from home, his favorite falafel joint just
steps ahead. He came in and ordered the special – no onions please.

There was a brief mention of the
incident in the next day´s evening news. 
A phone number was provided for anyone with information to call
anonymously. The story rapidly drowned in the ocean of holiday discussions
about best places to shop, the “war on Christmas” and celebrity breakups; lost
to never be found again.

The burden of living life, and staying sane

Posted on by Ruestrasse

The biblical stance towards life, “… be fruitful and multiply”, does not a one-size-fits-all make. It did stay in his head growing up though, together with several other equally archaic instructions for life from he holy book, merely as a decision that could be postponed until adulthood. In its Spanish translation, the verse actually says “grow” instead of “be fruitful”. One had to grow up before considering leaving its least praiseworthy of legacies behind. To grow up, mature, and only then multiply. Adulthood eventually arrived, taking  him completely by surprise.

In chronologically ordered events, should people even consider number two before number one even takes root? What is a lifetime of rebellion towards social conventions imposed by obsolete norms, if the fear of dealing with its consequences shatters our ideology? Should you give up on your individual way of thinking as soon as the going gets rough? Does sticking to your ideals build character, or make you a stubborn chap, unable to adapt to the ever-changing reality of life?

Too many questions, too few answers. There are only opinions as guide, based merely on the empirical evidence that a single person’s lifetime provides; too little to lean on. These thoughts crowded his head at the most inopportune of times. They punched his mind with anger whenever he got distracted. Only drinking helped him focus, the same way it aided others to decompress.

Carrying such deep concerns like a heavy piece of luggage, I went to North Carolina in search of nothingness. I rented a room in a sleepy middle class neighborhood in Knightdale and prayed the host was not in the mood for conversation. But we all know that praying doesn’t work.

My host Cate is a lonely sixty-something with a sick, old dog named “Merle”. Merle barked at me the moment she smelled my arrival. I had had nothing to eat and drink in my trip, which forced me to engage in conversation with her after accepting her offer for a Scotch. Two old souls have more in common one can imagine at first sight. Very quickly she felt comfortable sharing details of her life possibly ignored by many around her.

She married thrice, having two daughters from her first marriage. The kids were a natural consequence of their union, never been discussed by the couple. They simply figured that if they kept doing what they were doing, they’d end up with a couple of them. Once day, sixteen years later, she confessed she didn’t love him anymore. She also told him she never really wanted to be married.

Her two subsequent marriages produced no children of hers, but only step daughters. She loved them all almost the same way she loved her own. Still hosts them when they choose to visit, and has several pictures of all spending holidays together. I felt very normal. It WAS very normal. It’s just a bit more complex than our preconceived concept of family.

The bottle of scotch kept filling our souls at the same rate it became emptier. She asked about guilt. “What about it?” – said I. “I have spent a lot of time wondering what it’s good for; and walked a big portion of my life under its burden.”

Her eyes crystalized for a moment. She seemed about to tell me about her wrongdoings. I spoke before her, asking her if he ever found out. She shook her head quickly and vigorously. “No!”, she said. “I never had the courage to tell him”.

We kept drinking in silence for what seemed like an eternity. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. She had partially confessed to a complete stranger, liberating a bit of her burden. Maybe that’s what scotch is good for. And strangers.

We tend to think of friends and family as the pillar of our existence. I would argue that sometimes, what we need is a stranger that we will never see again to unload some of our most useless luggage. And some days, that’s all we need.

Well… that, and some scotch.

Incomplete

Posted on by Ruestrasse
Tonight, I
decided not to order delivery and instead walked into a bar in Midtown, my left
arm extended almost robotically. There was no one to fill the void, even though
both Yankees and Mets were playing. Wasn´t that our thing, sometime in the past?
But you
were not there.
They were
both losing when I arrived. As I ordered my drink, each team started to react
in its own way. The smell of hope dominated the atmosphere at this sleepy bar
just a few minutes earlier. The Irish band kept playing, but the minds and eyeballs
of the patrons were on the screens. At some point, the band had to stop as
the bartender played the sounds of the game for us.The last outs of the last innings, everyone
could be heard rooting for New York at the same time. We all knew it: At least
one of the local teams must win!
The Mets
scored once. The Yankees did the same a few minutes later. It was not enough.
Both teams still lost. They tried but fell short. Their effort – their night –
was incomplete.
I was at a
very nice bar, and food was delicious. Music was pretty good too. Hell, even
service was excellent. Who cares the local teams lost?
But you
were not there.
And thus,
something was missing. And thus, tonight was incomplete. 

The Argentinean love-hate affair

Posted on by Ruestrasse

The growling sounds of my stomach woke me up at around three in the afternoon. Only bodily functions allow me to figure out how late it is, for morning’s sunshine did not make it into the room today. Fanny left already, choosing to take a load off me. In my drunken state, I broke the window’s 1950’s wooden blinds shut last night. And after 12 hours of sleep, the pain in my back and neck makes it hard to look around for clothing, let alone putting it on. I check my wallet. Empty, as expected. Fanny took the five-finger tip for services rendered. She probably thought her performance deserved it. I would not know.
Wearing a previously sweaty t-shirt, I slowly drag myself to the tiny living room of the dampened, dusty apartment facing Florida street, the heart of one of Buenos Aires’ microcentros. It is a busy downtown satellite full of hustlers, beggars and fast-walking business people that won’t be caught dead making eye contact with anyone. The apartment’s thick windows also blocked most of the sound coming from the street. Now at the living room, I can hear the multitude of conversations of the passerby converge in one unintelligible murmur.
That’s when I start to reminisce on the events of the past week. Sober now, they hit me harder than usual. It is a testament of how much I miss the emotional numbness that comes from inebriation. The sounds of the street dissipate as my internal clock/GPS system gives me time and space coordinates. I see Argentina, now that I am awake, as a country of multiple contrasts – true, even if a cliché. The first one being its soul, different from other countries I have been to. Many say Uruguayans are very similar, but you only need to spend a few hours in each to realize just how unique these guys truly are. That is, however, not always a positive trait. Also, to the unsuspecting eye, it can often be an unbearable one.
Obsessed with breaking my weekly distance running record, I put on my sneakers and hit the asphalt almost every day, hungover or not. I ran even when it rained. I ran even in areas that were not meant to be run on. The Palermo neighborhood, Recoleta, Corrientes, Plaza the Mayo, the outskirts… all those saw me pass by dodging cars, pedestrians and bicycles. Many a cab driver yelled at me. I smiled and just kept running. Policemen treated to fine me when I went for a run inside the beautiful Japanese Garden. I also fell on my ass, stubbornly running in the rain and slipping on a metal structure on the street. This fall would eventually translate into a back injury from helping an old lady in the street get up after tripping on a loose sidewalk. No good deed goes unpunished…
As I lied in bed with my busted back, the radio played some news. The Korean community has dominated the corner store (bodega) industry for many years. The Chinese in the country got no choice but to target another sector – the medium-sized supermarket. They got involved in a controversy for allegedly shutting down electric power in their stores at night to save money and continue to be able to offer their products at rock-bottom prices. The yang balance to the yin of savings turned out to be several cases of intoxication for consumption of rotten dairy products. People were furious. Their anger had found an easily identifiable  target – the Chinese . Openly racist remarks and public requests for deportation found fertile ground in the dairy crisis. In the end, we dislike those different from us. Any excuse is good to justify action against them. Perhaps I am anomalous in disliking my own, just as much as others. Equal opportunity hater right here.
I saw a baby born 3 months early grasp for air, turn blue and be resuscitated by his mother.Twice. And it wasn’t the first time this happened. The miracle of life experienced over and over again, with the caveat of uncertainty surrounding its occurrence. What if it didn’t work next time? How many times do we, adults, cheat death without even knowing it?

Coming back from this, and still not completely recovered, I got invited to a special party where patrons are expected to sing. A Karaoke, you may say? Not quite. Old tango singers get together once a month at a restaurant turned private party. After paying honors to president Cristina Kirschner, one of the worst political leaders of Latin America’s 21st century, each went onstage to sing with the most beautiful, emotional voice. I was eventually bullied into doing the same, with the expected disastrous results, or so I learned the day after. Another benefit of wine, the illusion of a loving, accepting audience.

Argentina ended on a high note, at the theater. This form of art remains a highly attended tradition in Buenos Aires. I went to see a play about Homero Manzi and his friend Anibal “Gordo” Troilo. Plays and movies abundantly cover the years of repression the country went through under a military regime. This was no exception. It was a testament of people that have gone through several otherwise humbling experiences, yet kept their head high at all times, their perceived arrogance a protective mechanism to help them endure tragedy. It is through tango that this intimate pain is expressed, ironically another important source of Argentinean pride.

I took the flight back home that evening. It had been an eye-opening experience, one which begged to be repeated. Sadly, and fortunately, it would never occur again the same way.

All roads lead to Rome

Posted on by Ruestrasse

1. City

Living on
the second floor of a tall condominium building leaves me with a greater sense
of defeat every time I walk towards the lobby from the street. Luxurious
elevators take doctors, lawyers and businessmen to their nice top-floor
apartments at high speeds. I, on the other hand, feel forced to take the stairs
for fear of the disapproving look of the neighbors that have to stop on the
second floor to let me out. A sense of relief runs through my body in the rare
occasions when I come to the elevators and there is no one else around. I
almost feel like smiling when that happens. Not quite a victory, it tastes like
one.

The
scarcity of achievement in life has, over the years, made a bitter person out
of me. That’s why walking into my building this way is merely a symbolic act,
reminder of the unfortunate status of my persona in the academic, professional,
social, spiritual and emotional worlds. Not quite a failure in any, a mediocre
performer in each field at best. Is the outcome of my efforts what keeps me up
at night, or is it the lifelong habit of entertaining unrealistic expectations
about the future that does so? I may have had an idea a few years back, when I
was young and knew it all.

2. Street

I arrived
home after a particularly long day at the office one day, immersed in my own
thoughts of inadequacy. Unwilling to let the mind play tricks on me, I dragged
my feet to the refrigerator for the mental anesthesia that is a cold, dark
beer; only to be greeted by nothing but old pizza and baking soda. Going out only to buy beer made me feel more like a loser than usual,
so I put on an old long-sleeve black shirt and walked to an obscure pub on the
other side of the city. Maybe a bit of fresh air would help alleviate the feeling.

Fresh air didn’t help. It was the drink’s turn now.

One great
thing about pubs is that they have the type of sitting arrangement that allows
for sad loners to enjoy their drink in peace. One doesn’t even have to look for
a table. I sat on a stool of the otherwise empty bar and looked around.
 Groups of chatty friends and cuddly couples swarmed the place. What a
mistake I made in coming here. Where’s my fix? I will just order a double…
whatever; and dive into oblivion.

3. Pub

The
bartender was a she. I hadn’t realized she was there until her big, deep eyes
looked straight into mine as she asked how I was. Her question disarmed me. My
robotic response was “whiskey on the rocks, double. And make it a JW black please”. It was rude of me to not even acknowledge her opening question,
but I’m sure she understood. Being in this business for a while helps
bartenders better understand human nature. It has always been my theory that it
makes them more aware of the burdens  others carry through life.

You don’t need a mixology degree to combine
whiskey and ice. Yet, she was diligent and delicate in the preparation of the
glass. The manner in which she added ice cubes one at a time, the silky way she
poured the whiskey, letting it hug the ice cubes in its way to the bottom… A
sudden, uncontrollable impulse came upon me. Why am I not hugging her, kissing
her Mediterranean lips in a soft, rhythmical way, following the beats of Billy
Joel’s “Piano Man” playing in the jukebox nearby?

Her naked sleeves revealed a tattoo; it was a biblical inscription in her inner
forearm. 

Romans 5:
3-5

I knew
the passage because she knew the passage. It is perhaps the only one I know by
heart. She noticed how the world stopped for me as I looked at her arm.
“What are you looking at?” – she asked with a smirk.


– “Glory in our
sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance,
character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame,
because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy
Spirit, who has been given to us.” – I responded, without
looking up even once nor stopping to catch my breath.


– “The
color of the ink matches perfectly with your olive skin. But the words
don’t match what I see.”

She was
looking down at her arm as I talked. Then, she raised her faced and looked at
me again. The smirk was gone. She asked if I had looked this up in my
smartphone. I hadn’t.

4. Stairway

We spoke
for hours. She barely paid attention to other patrons anymore. After a
while, people started to leave. To me, everyone else disappeared the moment we started
talking. And we just kept going. Nothing would stop us now. 

She
confided in me, the way one does to strangers with whom one feels instantly
connected. Unbeknownst to us, our cigarettes died on the ashtray over and over. We were too
busy looking at our own soul in the eyes of the other. I was lost. She had my
undivided attention.

She told
me about her childhood. Her abusive father, who would emotionally torture her because she
looked like her mother’s former boyfriend. Her little brother, who died of
pneumonia shortly after they made it to this country from Egypt. Her struggles to
make ends meet when she moved out of the house at the age of 14. She tried to
commit suicide twice, but changed her mind at the last minute on the
distant possibility that things may improve for her one day. Her beauty was
her curse, an insurmountable obstacle in her quest for finding true love. At this stage, she would settle for a connection.

5. Heaven

The bar
closed. She locked the door from the inside, with me still in it. God’s
love poured on me through her, my personal holy spirit. By loving me that day,
that instant, she saved me from myself. We slept next to each other on the pool table. Afraid of ruining perfection, I left
without saying goodbye about an hour before dawn. She was still asleep. We did not exchange information.

6. Hell

I lit a cigar as I walked home. The smoke went to war with my face. It then disappeared in the air, a reminder of the ephemeral nature
of hopes, and dreams, and achievements, and defeats. Every day, I can choose to
remember the grievances of daily hardships. But every day, I also have the
choice to remember a biblical inscription and its canvas, now forever tattooed in my mercenary soul.




The Underbelly

Posted on by Ruestrasse

Revolving doors are not for people. They are for animals. Cows, dogs, cats, lab rats, monkeys… We can find ways to justify the need for cheap mechanisms that allow these in and out of spaces. But why would big buildings housing mostly intelligent humans need them? Rarely does a person feel like jumping in at the exact same time someone else is using it to gain access. Are we merely goldfish moving from one bank to the other, convinced that we are free only because there are many spaces to move into and out of? Likely, we are simply moving between wagons of the train that is rapidly taking us to mother death’s embrace. It doesn’t matter if you are at the front or the back, the doors open at the same time for all.


A splitting hangover prevents me from thinking straight. Can you spare some compassion? Or is that reserved for your fellow teetotaler, who does not deserve to suffer from a headache; the same way you refrain from giving change to the homeless by telling yourself they deserve to live like they do if they refuse to abide by the norms of our capitalistic society? Perhaps I can jump in the revolving door of your compassion, reaching for a minute the attention you devoted Invisible Children for at least a few weeks on the crimes committed by Joseph Kony thanks to their Kony 2012 campaign. While you take a quick trip down memory lane and ask yourself what you were doing at the time, maybe together we can find a good use for “revolving doors”, at least as a mildly effective analogy to describe the ephemerality of our interest for anything that does not directly affect us. Why let someone else’s problems disrupt our party?





03/22


Johnny started calling me his “whinny little cunt” the very day I got sick. What does he know about the female body anyway? He gets the flu and immediately calls in sick. He says I’m whinny? Men have no capacity for empathy, nor sense of proportion. Hell, they have no common sense either. If only he had a real job, not just an “entrepreneurial adventure” with his stupid startup, and could add me to his health care insurance plan, I could afford to see a doctor. For now, all I can do is eat light and drink plenty of water – every day, all day long. Not the way I wanted to spend my forced “downsizing” vacation, but at least I don’t have to go through this while at the office.


04/13


Unemployed for a few weeks now, every day feels the same. I can no longer tell Tuesday from Sunday. Today, I didn’t even bother to get out of bed. The stomach cramps are killing me. What is this? What is happening to me? It’s been too many days to blame PMS. I’m so sick, joints hurt when I try to close my hands in a fist. I might just be getting old. At 27, that sounds a bit premature though. Johnny is finally getting worried now. He spoke to his friend, Camila, who agreed to lend me her insurance card so I can go see a doctor pretending to be her. I am responsible for the copay though. Things are so tight that even this relatively small payment made me hesitate for a moment. Still, I borrowed some money from my savings box and got out of the house in search for medical attention.


Nobody from the three local clinics I visited today agreed to see me without proof of ID matching the card…


04/16


Today was my lucky day. Dr. Strauss from the community clinic agreed to see me for a small fee. He took a few notes and asked for some analysis.


“Bring a stool sample to the lab, get the results to me and we will go from there. Seems like a bad stomach infection, but something is strange because it shouldn’t have lasted this long” – he said. I wanted to take the little note with instructions he handed to me, but couldn’t hold it tight enough. It slipped to the floor. I bent over to pick it up, but my fingers felt stiff. A bit embarrassed, I made an effort to ignore the pain and finally picked it up. I may have a bigger problem than I thought at first, but Dr. Strauss wouldn’t venture any assumptions without seeing the results from the lab. At this point, I’m starting to seriously worry.


04/17


I woke up with the worst case of morning breath I can remember. Morning may not be the right word in this case. It is 2:00 pm already. Maybe I just need a cup of strong coffee to make this taste go away. But what do I do about the rest of the symptoms? The pain in my bones is just unbearable. And my hands look like those of an old lady with arthritis. Maybe some fresh air will make me feel better?


I went outside to walk a bit and buy some groceries while I’m at it, and bumped onto my neighbor. “So, are you going to say hello this time?” – he uttered. – “Why wouldn’t I?”. “Well… last night was the second time this week I come home at night and see you by the sidewalk. You just walked past me both times without even looking. And what’s with the pajamas? I see people walk their dog in the morning while still wearing their pajama, but I never pictured you as one of those fashion anarchists!”


“Sorry, I must have been distracted” – I stated, a futile attempt to hide my shock. He rolled his eyes as if thinking I am going crazy and went up the elevator. “Are you coming up?” – he asked. “No, I was actually just going out for a walk” – I dryly replied.


For the last few days, the pain has been such that I haven’t even waited for Johnny to get home before going to sleep. That is the only way to make it stop, if for a while. I just take some nearly expired painkillers and dive into oblivion. Could it be that I am sleepwalking? I have never suffered of something like this. Why now? And why me?


04/19


The results are back from the lab. Dr. Strauss says there is nothing wrong with me. He even had the nerve to recommend I go see a psychologist. Basically, I have got nothing and are just going nuts.


Johnny is pretty worried now. He took a break from his busy life to actually care for me. He got me some medical insurance online and we went to see a real doctor with my test results. Again, nothing seems to be wrong with me. More doctors to see tomorrow. Now, time to swallow some painkillers and go to sleep. Sleeping is the only thing that makes me happy these days.


04/20


The pain has greatly subsided. I feel a bit more like myself today. However, typing on my computer is now very difficult. I can only do it if I go very slowly. My hands are bent inwards, stiff from the wrist. Fingers all crammed together, coming on top of each other. Feels like the tendons hardened in that position. I can’t even hold a spoon anymore. Johnny fed me this morning. It was embarrassing. This may be my last diary note until I find a care.


Or die! Ok, I’m joking. I don’t want to die yet. And no, I’m definitely not planning to ask Johnny to type my diary notes for me…
.
.
.


07/30


It has been a very dramatic few weeks. I couldn’t bring myself to write again until now. More than once, I stared at the blank page, not knowing how to even start. It is hard to find the words to describe the latest events in our life. Still, I will give it a try.


The disease kept slowly taking over. My hands started to look like those of an 85 year old woman. And they were just as useless.



We saw many doctors, which forced Johnny and I to start asking friends and family for borrowed money. His mother was particularly generous, but everybody chipped in. We tried everything we could, even alternative medicine. In the end, we decided to use some of the borrowed money to go on vacation and see if the warmth of a beach in Mexico would help. The cheapest place we found, where we could stretch our money the most, was in the Mexican state of Veracruz. We had been told the beach wasn’t too pretty, but it would serve our needs for a relaxing environment.


On the fourth day there, the old lady that owned and operated the hostel told us about Catemaco. At first, we thought she was recommending a touristic destination to us. She had in fact noticed my health condition and immediately thought it was a spell. “A spell?” – I responded. Johnny couldn’t believe it either. “Yes, sometimes people put spells on you to cause harm. There is much envy and jealousy in the world. You would be surprised how many people come here to meet with a Brujo and ask for a spell to be conjured unto others, or to remove one that has been placed upon them”. I said I was just sick, and that it was probably just something temporary. I just needed some rest. We thanked her politely and went out to explore. I had no trouble walking. Sightseeing made me forget about my hook-like hands.



Johnny slept like a baby that night. Who wouldn’t, after several bottles of local dark beer? I, on the other hand, tossed and turned all night. I couldn’t get the face of the old lady out of my mind. What if she was right? I could take all the medicine money can buy, and would never get healed.


I made up my mind before the sun rose. Johnny couldn’t believe what he was hearing when I told him I wanted to give this a try. “It is nothing but local superstition!” – he yelled. “Well, nothing has worked so far. I am not willing to let a stone unturned in looking for a cure. Besides, I hear it is a beautiful place to visit so it will be a nice little trip if nothing else comes of it”. We got dressed, went downstairs and talked to the old lady about our plans. She smiled in a quirky manner, some combination of relief and sincere joy. I smiled back. “Don’t just meet with any of the Brujos. Most of them are charlatans, and are in it only for your money. Talk to Don Graciano. He won’t even accept your money. He was pretty evil in his youth, and now helps people only to bring balance back into his life. Call it a penance”. I asked her how to find him. “Just go to the local market and talk to Teresita, the lady selling cigars towards the back, next to a fruit stand covered with flies”.


She clearly knew the place like the back of her hand. Teresita was aware we were coming, and directed us towards Don Graciano’s house. After walking a few blocks, we inexplicably realized we were there. He was watering the plants outside when we arrived. I thought it was strange he was doing so, for it had rained every day since we arrived. Without looking at me, he said – “Plants get everything they need from father god. I’m only here to address their gluttony. How are you, kids?” Johnny and I looked at each other without know how to answer. I raised my hands and showed them to him. He opened his eyes wide to examine carefully, in the way that reminded me of the many doctors I had seen so recently.








“Come inside so we can talk” – he demanded. His English had an expected heavy accent and limited vocabulary, but definitely enough for us to understand him. We followed him to a room in the backyard, full of candles and a typical witchcraft symbol on the floor.




We started talking. A strange force made me feel a bit dizzy and comfortable at the same time. The conversation took through unexpected topics: life, family, friends, school, politics, even sports. It felt like a long conversation with a distant yet beloved uncle. Finally, we got to the intention of our visit. He looked at my hands once again, this time with an expression of concern.


“Sylvia, I will be very honest with you. I make my living as a janitor in the local school. Witchcraft is something I do for other reasons. I don’t make false promises just to get paid. It would defy my purposes. In nine out of 10 cases I see, my conclusion is that there is nothing I can do, because the affliction is not the result of a spell. Many people leave my house disappointed. But you may not. This is a strong yet relatively common spell. It is a cheap one too, performed by an apprentice. That means two things: First, it requires strict discipline to get out of. And second, whoever originated it will get it back”.


“I don’t want to harm anybody” – I said. “Isn’t there a way to cure me without affecting someone?”


“It doesn’t work that way. In a way, spells must obey the laws of the universe. For every action, there is a reaction. It is the only way”. – replied Don Graciano.





Johnny was furious. “Who could have done something like this? You wouldn’t hurt a fly!”. I hugged him and he kissed me on my forehead. “Let’s do it Don Graciano. Whoever did this deserves what is coming to him” – he told our brujo without hesitation.


The ceremony started. There was chanting in strange tongues, skulls, cards… It was so stereotypical at one point I wanted to leave. Johnny kept hugging me, more convinced than I that this would work.


A few hours later, we were on the ferry back to our room. It was near sunset, and the wind had gotten chilly. Johnny hadn’t stopped hugging me since we left Don Graciano’s house. I could see true hope in his eyes.


For the next few days, we stuck strictly to the prayers and rituals Don Graciano had prescribed. By day five, the pain was almost gone. On the tenth day, I could move my fingers even if my wrist remained very stiff. Two weeks after taking the ferry from Catemaco I was almost back to normal. The horrible taste in my mouth, apparently caused by what Don Graciano called “involuntary sleepwalking to drink sewer water”, part of the spell I was under, disappeared completely. I am the happiest person in the world. It now feels like a horrible nightmare I have waken up from.


Don Graciano’s only request is that we look for ways to “pay it forward” by being kind to others. He said “just try to help others the same way I have had the fortune of being able to help you”. This is my new mantra. I even got a pendant that carries the inscription so I never forget. This event changed my life for the better. Johnny and I have never been happier together.
.

.
.


10/03


I write this note from the plane back from visiting Johnny’s mother. I found a new job, and his start up was bought by a venture capital firm. We paid our friends and family the money they lent us. The last person we hadn’t yet paid was Johnny’s mother. Despite her protests, Johnny insisted in delivering the money himself and pay her a visit. I tagged along.


We arrived on a Friday afternoon. His mother was sweeping the front porch as the rental car we got pulled in front of the house. She looked at us with eyes of infinite sadness, in a way that made the hair on my arms spike. Then, my heart sank. She was having trouble holding on to the broom because of her horribly deformed hands.