Diary of an Ugly, Recently Divorced Man

by Amador Gálvez, Félix; Finch, L. ;

  I don't know if it's good or bad, but yes, something is going on.

  Published by Felix at 12:11 a.m. * Post a comment

  Thursday, November 8

  Luck

  Luck and Fortune are unique in that they always show up when you aren't looking for them and when you least need them.

  I've never chatted up women, mostly because I don't know how, and when I have gone out with them on sporadic and/or blind dates, you know what happens, dear damn diary: It always ends badly. However, luck is like that: divergent, contrary to our interests. When I needed a woman by my side, everything went wrong. However, now that I have Consuelo, it appears I've been affixed with a strange animal magnetism that attracts women.

  Examples:

  Yesterday (I didn't want to mention it in yesterday's entry) while I was buying the paper, I noticed a certain persistent stare coming from the girl working the kiosk, who was young and green-eyed and smiled at everyone. I looked down at my suit, in case it was dirty or buttoned wrong, and she laughed. I returned the smile stupidly, and she gestured to me. I walked over to her and she murmured a well-meaning Are you always so serious and quiet? No, no, I stuttered. And I ran away. It wasn't necessary for her to tell me more.

  And not long ago came the worst: Two women asked about me. First was with Joaquin, who has been in the town of La Linea finalizing some projects and I don't know if he's up to date with my new divorcée-with-a-brand-new-girlfriend status. He came up to me and asked if I remembered the girl who he had set me up with on a blind date at his house. How could I not remember? She asked about you, he told me. I gave her your number. And not long after my cell phone rang, an unknown number, and I didn't want to answer. It took me a while to build up the nerve to open my voicemail and erase all the messages.

  I was doing this when one of the deputy directors of marketing walked by and asked how I was. Good, good, I answered without looking up from my phone. I've been thinking about how we never see each other outside of work, she hinted in a hushed tone, and since I'm single too, if you ever feel like it we could go out for a drink, I know a couple of good places. The worst part is she is a good woman (in the full sense of the word) as well as divorced, and in another time I wouldn't have minded going out with her, not at all, but not now.

  The world is so unfair. Especially when it comes to chances. They come when you need them least. Especially now...with how jealous Consuelo is.

  Published by Felix at 12:02 a.m. * Post a comment

  Friday, November 9

  But seriously

  All relationships have their moment of truth. For some, it's the girl's discovery that there's an ex-girlfriend; for others, the first time they sleep together or the first week of living together; occasionally, it's when personal ambitions overlap and complement each other; for me, it's not going to be so simple, so easy to explain.

  I've been with Consuelo for a little over a month (I've lost count), and I've never been with a girl who wasn't Laura for this long, so I think this moment of truth is worth the effort.

  What makes a man trip over the same stone twice? In my case, my mother. She called me not long ago at the office with "important" news. One of my pain-in-the-ass cousins is getting married and it's of the utmost importance to my mother that I attend the event (??). She said that she had sent me a letter (I don't remember giving her my new address) and said I hadn't answered. That it's of the utmost importance that I attend the event.

  I was flabbergasted because: 1) I don't know how to tell Consuelo, 2) I don't plan to go with her, and 3) I know that she's going to be really bothered if she finds out.

  I don't plan to introduce a girl like Consuelo to my parents. Why? I'm not ashamed of her. It's just that she's too sexy, too superficial, too tall and too blonde and, if she were to drink, then I would have a reason to be ashamed.

  I filled my crisis cabinet in on the situation next to the coffeemaker. Manolo from Seville, as biting as ever, said, All relationships have their moment of truth... Just then, the girl from the mailroom passed by and she must have heard something because she laughed out loud. I prayed with all my might that in the next second and twelve milliseconds the earth would swallow me whole, but it didn't work. Then, Juan Carlos decided to act cool and ask her what she thought. If you like this girl, then it wouldn't be a dilemma, the girl from the mailroom said, as wise as every woman. I got goosebumps and for a fleeting and forgettable moment, I saw the woman who must be hiding behind the shapeless uniform of wide jeans and messy hair. I saw her in the (sincere) conviction with which she answered us, with which she looked me in the eyes and said that I'm not in love.

  Now I have two doubts: 1) if I should go to the wedding (alone or with a date), and 2) if I'm really in love with Consuelo.

  Published by Felix at 12:38 a.m. * Post a comment

  Sunday, November 11

  Twice over the same stone

  Perhaps I found the answer to my question yesterday when I took Consuelo to my hometown for my cousin's wedding. Yes, I know that I threw her, defenseless, to the wolves that are my family, and yes, if I were in love with her, if I cared, I would have never let my mother meet her. Because I know my mother.

  Yesterday, Saturday, was the wedding.

  Even though I made sure to get there two minutes before the ceremony started, my dangerous mother had forewarned 99.99 percent of the town residents about the arrival of my "girlfriend," with biographical and professional details included, so I almost didn't even have to introduce her to everyone who ran us down to meet the lucky girl.

  They made an impressive fuss. Everyone came to greet us, looking astonished. At first, I attributed their astonishment to my tie being too flashy, knowing that some fashion trends never make it to town, but it was about Consuelo. I think she was more of a hit, received more congratulations and more attention than the bride herself. It could have been her stunning femme fatale dress that she was wearing or her plunging neckline. All of our female acquaintances from town who came close (and my mother knows everyone) granted themselves the license to judge my girlfriend as if she were a poodle in a dog show, and the worst part is that they didn't stop, they talked so loudly that not only did I hear what they said, but everyone who was nearby also felt obligated to jump into the conversation.

  She doesn't seem like his type. Women were the worst. Their comments ranged from odious comparisons to pro-exclusion contempt. The other one was prettier, one said. The other one was elegant; this one is a little ordinary, blonde, very tall, but more common. Everyone seemed to know my ex, Laura, and everyone curiously missed her. How far men fall when they don't have a wife by their side. The worst part is I also agree: They were right in that Laura was a better match and I was more comfortable with her.

  I fled (I'd been fleeing all day, steering clear of the circles of people and their conversations) and searched for Consuelo. I found her surrounded by my uncles and cousins who were drooling over her naval, yes, totally visible because of her neckline. She was narrating for the umpteenth time the story of how we met, dinner, drunkenness, coitus interruptus and vomit included. She had a large glass in hand and a suspiciously tipsy tone of voice, but by that time it was rather impossible to figure out how many drinks she had had.

  I grabbed her arm and dragged her away. We have to get out of here, I suggested or I ordered, I don't remember how I said it, because I was so on edge.

  In that moment, my mother kidnapped me with the excuse of introducing me to the groom of my now-married cousin. He works in the capital, so maybe you've already met each other. I took her by the hand, wished her all the best in the world and other things you say in those situations, and called Consuelo on my cell phone to ask her to bring the car around. Plan B: Run!

  Surprisingly, Consuelo listened to me, and before I could stop her, she appeared, pedal to the floor, trying to navigate the car to the square where I was waiting through the narrowest street in town. Everyone, absolutely every single person in town (have I
mentioned that everyone was invited to the wedding?) had a front-row seat to my girlfriend trying to drive a BMW 7 Series around the old quarter’s tightest corner, forcing its gorgeous Havanna beige bodywork through. The deathly silence was only broken by the clink of pieces falling from the motor to the ground in slow motion, rolling toward the crowd. Then, we all saw Consuelo crawl out through the hole where the windshield used to be, land on the plaza's pavement, walk with an alcoholic wobble toward the general public and announce reassuringly, Don't worry, I'm fine, followed by some retching and a display of vomiting that's never been seen in any town around here.

  The insurance company's tow truck took nine and a half hours to arrive, time that my mother spent stuffing Consuelo with home remedies for hangovers while embarrassing me by lecturing her about a woman's discretion and alcohol at weddings.

  We just got back. So tomorrow I'll go in late to work. I called the secretaries and told them that I was going to skip the first meeting and instructed them to have the graphics on my desk before lunch with the clients. I was going to go to sleep, but I had to stop for a moment and write my thoughts down, organize them somehow because, despite the time, Consuelo went to her house to shower and grab her things, and promised to come back to my apartment with a bottle of wine for one of those "surprise dinners" that lately she's been treating me to every night.

  Published by Felix at 10:26 p.m. * Post a comment

  Tuesday, November 13

  Between drinks

  Tonight, I have a terrible hangover and pangs of conscience in equal parts. Tonight, I stuck my foot in it all the way to the bottom and a little further. Consuelo told me to go to...someplace else and swore over and over that she would never speak to me again. The worst part is that she didn't listen to a single one of my excuses, didn't even pay attention when I told her it wasn't my fault, but a coworker's, Manuel Bakero, fresh on his return from Hong Kong, who first hooked us with some tapas, then reeled us in with a few drinks...

  I should have never let him get me into this mess, because deep down I never really liked him. Bakero is one of those straightforward Basque guys who everyone likes, but I've never really cared for him because I still don't understand how he's risen so high in the company. It's not that I'm jealous. Actually, I would hate to have to work in Hong Kong, but I was watching him there, paying for the drinks, him, who has never treated us to anything, making a show of his lifestyle because he knows none of us could follow in his wake, and he rubbed me the wrong way. He even swapped his clunker for a brand new car with four-wheel drive that he doesn't need because he's always abroad.

  And that's what makes me so angry about him—that he brags about everything he has because there once was a time when he had nothing. He finished high school with the help of grants and he didn't finish college. Nobody can explain how he moved up in the company or how he became a regional director, but he brags about it as if he worked his ass off preparing, studying and training to get there.

  How can a guy with no college education become a director of something? I said aloud. It's true. And I still hadn't drank much. Luckily, the mood was auspicious, and the son of a bitch responded, cracking up, Sucking up, ha ha, sucking up a lot.

  I have a weakness, and it's that when I'm surrounded by friends (even if the group includes Bakero) and I'm knocking back Havana Club, my perception of reality becomes so hazy that I can't tell my (male) boss from Angelina Jolie. The result usually is that I lose all sense of time, repeat the same jokes again and again, and in most cases even forget where I live. The mechanism for coming back to reality is one of those great mysteries of life that hasn't been studied. In my case, it's random: Someone says a word (which word depends on the occasion) and I wake up as if a hypnotist had snapped his fingers in front of my nose.

  On this occasion, it was Bakero.

  He was bragging about the trips he can afford (him, the guy who has to travel because of his job) and the vacations that he went on, often times behind his wife's back. At the last convention, he was saying, I met the other regional director, like me, and all it takes is two rum and cokes and she turns into a wild cougar. I downed my rum wondering if there were cougars that exist that aren't wild, when the coupling of the words alcohol and cougar made me remember that I had a date with Consuelo.

  I looked at my watch, but the numbers were so blurry that I wanted to think it was still early. In fact, everything around me was so blurry that I let myself be guided by a light. Where are you going? Joaquin asked me with a look of concern. What time is it? I responded, my voice quavering.

  Before he finished telling me the time, I was already out the door and buzzing Consuelo's apartment. I don't remember how I got there or where I left my car (I'll find it tomorrow, or the police will find it for me if it's poorly parked). Consuelo answered on the intercom, but pretended not to hear my excuses, which she probably didn't understand because of my slurred pronunciation (I think that sixth Havana Club didn't sit well with me) and she continued to turn a deaf ear until eleven thirty, when she must have thought that I needed some time to rest and reflect and so called the police to help me get back home.

  After this experience, I've come to the most conclusive conclusion: that two equations can sum up all of the keys to relationships between men and women.

  If M stands for “me” and P means “pay,” then the result is:

  SD = M x P(p) [If she drinks > I end up paying the price]

  Or:

  MD = M x P(p) [If I drink > I end up paying the price]

  From which we deduce the argument: Whenever I interact with a girl, it will always be my fault.

  Me + Girl = M x P(p)

  Published by Felix at 1:36 a.m. * Post a comment

  Wednesday, November 14

  Among friends

  The day afterward. This morning I made two new monumental mistakes.

  The first, go to work with the worst headache that I've ever experienced in my life; the second, tell my circle of "friends" what happened with Consuelo. Remember how I had a table reserved at the Galician restaurant? Well, I stood her up. What they called me can't be published online because I'd lose my rights to publish. In any case, I couldn't argue against what they said.

  I pretended not to hear them and tried to concentrate on work, but it was impossible. Fortunately, with the faces I was making it wasn't difficult to come up with an excuse to go home early, more alone than ever.

  I've been in bed since three in the afternoon, but I haven't been able to get rid of the headache from this hangover or the worry about what's going on in that little head of Consuelo's.

  Published by Felix at 12:23 a.m. * Post a comment

  Friday, November 16

  Bitter forgiveness

  As is to be expected, I haven't even dared dial Consuelo's number. But fate is like that. Being smart, she made me squirm for two terrible days and then finally called me.

  The most worrying part is that she apologized. I was trying to explain to her the predicament of "having dinner" (I wasn't going to use the phrase "going out for drinks") with my Hong Kong colleague when she told me to shut up and started acting sickly sweet. She apologized for having been so rude, for not letting me in, for (she said) letting herself get carried away by anger instead of listening to my explanation.

  I was beginning to feel better when she asked if we could go out to dinner at the Galician place and that way we'd forget all about it, but she stressed that she wasn't free until Sunday and I asked her why. Oh, it's silly, she said, but some and my friends and I are going away for a bachelorette party tomorrow afternoon and we don't get back until Sunday. What the hell? Where is this bachelorette party? I didn't tell you? In Marbella.

  When it comes to bachelor parties, at least, I'm something of an old hand because I've done them a few times. It'll probably include six hours of driving in the car, a four-star hotel, minibar, bars, strip clubs (for bachelor, not bachelorette parties, of course), more bars, clubs, more bars, a break t
o sleep it all off, more bars, more strippers, more bars, one or two hours of sleep and six driving in the car back home, but, obviously, after forgiving me like she did, how was I going to tell her that I didn't like her plan of going off on a crazy weekend in Marbella?

  Published by Felix at 12:08 a.m. * Post a comment

  Monday, November 19

  Passenger to Frankfurt

  Passenger to Frankfurt is a novel by Agatha Christie that always leaves me feeling helpless, lonely. Then again, perhaps all spy novels do this to me—I lose myself in the plot and end up thinking the bad guys have won. My masculine side is showing: I wasn't made for intrigues or machinations; I'm too simple.

  Well, tonight I've become the most invisible passenger to Frankfurt that ever was.

  In short, I lied. I lied like a villain, instinctively. You know, dear blog, when one finds himself between a rock and a hard place (or between Windows and RAM, to put it in terms you'd understand) and thinks that there's no escape? Well, that's how I was. And I lied.

  Consuelo showed up a few hours ago—without a bottle of wine!—talking to me smoothly and seductively, with the intention of eating dinner at my house, forget the Galician restaurant, begging me to let her make one of those dinners that always leads us irretrievably to passion and debauchery. She wanted to talk.

  And when a woman tells you she wants to talk, it means she wants to explain the ways in which you have messed up. I wasn't far off. I recognize that I was the one who messed up. On one hand, I didn't want to tell her that she was right about why our relationship wasn't all pleasure and excitement like relationships that last more than one night should be; but on the other hand, she started to brainwash me with her dogmas of look-this-is-how-it-is-because-I-said-so while stretched out next to me, naked and tangled in my arms and legs. With those arguments, it was difficult to rebut her words or even find the breath to fight back, and that was when she said it.