They've threatened me with the company Christmas party. I know that it's soon, that it'll be a good opportunity to pretend that it's part of my job to get drunk to forget at the same time that I don't disappoint my bosses or the reps who I never see because they are always all over the place.
I'm back to the beginning of my existence.
I'm inconsolable.
Published by Felix at 12:42 a.m. * Post a comment
Wednesday, December 5
Drinking to forget
How many times did what I had with Consuelo come to an end? This business of “whatever it is that was going on between us” is starting to seem worse to me than what I experienced with Laura. She at least only left me once. What was I thinking?
But I'm better now.
Actually, much better. Today, I woke up in a different mood, and when I got to work I invited my friends out with the excuse that it was my birthday while I was in Frankfurt. Hell, I'm beginning to believe my own lies! Maybe it's true that I'm not worthy of a woman!
So I went to a grill with Lolo, Joaquin, Juan Carlos, Manolo from Seville and Ricardo with the purpose of stuffing ourselves with barbequed meat like primitive men must have done (the ones who had already discovered fire, of course) when there were no women around to fight with. I think they all agreed to go because they thought I was depressed (or because I said I would pay).
The grill in question isn't bad, but the owner, the chef or whatever you call the manager is a serious bastard. He didn't want to reserve us a table. Because it's always so packed, we tried, we called various times, but the guy wouldn't back down: We don't take reservations, come early and if you're lucky you'll get a table. Next door is a shellfish bar, so we met up there and started drinking beer after telling the maître d' that we wanted a table no matter the price, but time kept passing by, the beer kept flowing, and after we had become tipsy and aggravated the pain-in-the-ass maître-don't (I couldn't help myself with that play on words: The guy was somewhat rude), we left for a rotisserie two blocks down the street.
We ate more than well and drank everything, literally, regardless of which I still wasn't able to even get enough of a buzz to forget all the events of last week. A lot of meat, a lot of wine and a lot of dirty jokes, and in the end, instead of getting drunk the only thing I've gotten is a bad case of insomnia.
It's two in the morning and I can't think of anything else to write.
Published by Felix at 2:14 a.m. * Post a comment
Thursday, December 6
Two is better than one
They say misfortune doesn't come alone. I woke up with a hangover and a pounding in my head. The bad part is that the pounding was my voicemail. Laura had called me to tell me the date when I have to appear in front of the judge. Apparently, I have to confirm that I consent, or something like that, to the agreement we reached about our separation. I made a mental and physical note. December 21. What a Christmas present.
Let's see if I can find a way to get back to sleep.
Published by Felix at 2:02 p.m. * Post a comment
Friday, December 7
Tempted by the fruit of another
It's possible I seem too naive for the rotten friends I have, but this happens to all men: It's not that we're naive (all of us are a bunch of miserable and selfish misogynists), but next to our friends we always fall short.
The bastards who are my friends have been trying to "fix" my life all morning. What you need is to get laid. We know you. It's not the first time you've been down in the dumps and we know what you need. This, of course, is more or less a summary, because they never spare any details. The problem is since I don't dare go out to pick up women (nor do I want to: I only want to work and sleep!), they're pushing the idea that I try "something" with the gorgeous Colombian girl who cleans my house. I refused, obviously, for several reasons: because I'm not ready at all, because I'm not in a good place physically or emotionally, because she's veeeeeery young, because she's veeeeeery pretty, because she works for me, because I haven't spoken to her beyond hiring her and that was because Lolo insisted...
In the end, Joaquin put his finger on how to get over my reservations: Think of it like a challenge at least. A challenge or a goal or a handicap to be overcome. To give meaning to your time. Trust me. I've been there. Joaquin always speaks with the dispassion of experience (and with the terminology of a golfer) and, unfortunately, I stopped to listen.
Rosana, my housekeeper, arrived at about eight, on time. I had tricked her, saying that I had to pay her in cash because I had run into some issue trying to make a bank transfer and that it had to be today because I was going away for the holiday weekend. She showed up, punctual and unsuspecting.
I pretended that I was just starting to make dinner, dressed up like one of those charming men who women in the thirties like so much: tie, apron and a glass of wine in hand. But she’s twenty-two. Can I pour you a glass? No, no, thank you. I'm in a hurry. Come on, just to celebrate. We never see each other. You've been working for me for three months and I've never seen you once. Rosana blushed and took the glass of wine with nervous hands, and I began to talk about what I was cooking, randomly mixing together recipes that I've never made. She pretended to be interested. I pretended to be confident as I idled near her. Do you want more wine? She pretended not to hear. I brought you some mail that was in your box. Oh, good, I never look in my mailbox. Don't be shy, tell me something about yourself, I mumbled while I opened one of the letters just for the sake of it, feigning disinterest in her, pretending to be the interesting one.
Then, I saw it. What I had just opened was the phone bill, and even though I was only pretending to read it, my eyes couldn't help but fall on the numbers in black under Total. My analytical, cum-laude-honors-in-economics brain frantically did the math. It was easy to work out. Four hundred and forty-one euros in international calls to Colombia plus the 16 percent value-added tax. I was speechless. I looked at her. She looked at me. I began to feel a tremendous heat. She began to turn red. I approached her with the bill. I'm not going to pay your wages, I told her, trying to seem angry. She looked at me confused. I was going to show her the bill right as she stood up and we collided, she fell back against the sofa and I fell on top of her.
Next thing I know, that madwoman was shouting in her Colombian accent, Get off me, you pig, get off me, as she slapped me over and over again at a rate of ten per second. I knew you weren't going to pay me, you wanted me to come over for something else. You pervert...
Then, I realized she had spilled on herself and the wine was running down her front. I couldn't have said anything more stupid than You should take off your sweater. She answered with a punch to the stomach. Then, she managed to get out from under me and escaped out the door with a slam. I let myself fall onto the sofa with the bill in hand. I'm useless at picking up women and confronting a four-hundred-and-forty-one-euro scam. They put a girl on a silver platter for me and I didn't know how to seduce her, they introduced me to another and I didn't know how to stay in a relationship, and not to mention my matrimonial past...
Now I'm going to finish the bottle of wine, forget about my imaginary dinner and take a double dose (or what's left) of these new pills that the pharmacy gave me in order to sleep easy for at least ten hours.
Published by Felix at 11:52 p.m. * Post a comment
Tuesday, December 11
On leave
My friends rescued me. I disappeared and they found me under the bed, unconscious or sleeping like a log (why be so dramatic?) after they had become alarmed that I didn't show up at the office on Monday, missed two meetings that had been scheduled weeks ago, and I didn't answer calls to my landline or cell phone all morning.
Joaquin and Manolo offered to drop by my house to see if they could find me. Lolo and Juan Carlos joined in. I can't be anything but grateful to them, but I know for a fact that if they left the office it was to have a beer during work hours, and I know for a fact that they drank it becaus
e the meeting with the Germans was at ten and they found me at quarter to two thanks to the superintendent's key. Well, at least nobody wasted time calling a locksmith.
I think I've been unconscious for seventy-some hours because the last thing I remember is the Colombian girl, my housekeeper Rosana, storming out and slamming the door, shouting down the hallway that her six-foot-two brother would come to collect what she was owed, that she wasn't going to work for me ever again, and that if I called her she might report me for harassment. Afterward, wine for dinner, the pills to fall sleep, and I don't remember anything else.
What's poor is my morale, I told my boss. My health is fine. That's what I told him, but he insisted that I go to the company doctor, who insisted that I go to the psychologist, and we all know how psychologists are.
Long story short. Neither my boss or the psychologist were supportive of it, but after explaining to them about the Valium I took to go to sleep and all the bottles of Ribera del Duero wine that I guzzled when things got bad, they gave me a leave of absence.
Published by Felix at 12:27 a.m. * Post a comment
Tuesday, December 11
I'm bored.
I'm bored of being on leave.
Published by Felix at 8:26 a.m. * Post a comment
Tuesday, December 11
Yes, I'm bored.
I'm bored.
Published by Felix at 11:08 a.m. * Post a comment
Tuesday, December 11
I'm really bored
I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm boooored... I'm bored.
Published by Felix at 3:16 p.m. * Post a comment
Tuesday, December 11
I need a drink
I'm bored. I feel trapped here. I know that I'm not going to go out with anyone, I know that my emotional situation is never going to be fixed, but if I don't have the distraction of work, the bad advice from my friends, I'm going to go crazy. Or did the doctor think I already was?
I need a drink, but I finished the last bottle of wine on Friday. The fucked up thing is that I think I also finished all the pills I had and I don't know how I'm going to get to sleep.
Published by Felix at 7:20 p.m. * Post a comment
Wednesday, December 12
Djellabah and hookah
Yes, I ran out of pills during my low point on Friday. It's completely the Colombian's fault. Yes, I know that it wasn't her fault. It was too many happenstances, piled one on top of the other, like an oscillating tower of overlapping, unstable feelings that had to collapse sooner or later.
A little while ago, I was having a party by myself and without alcohol. Yes. I started opening the moving boxes, seven months later, and I found a ton of CDs, albums of good seventies-style rock (man does not live by jazz alone), and I put them on at full volume. I don't think my neighbors mind. I also hear them through these high-quality partitions we call walls.
I was putting on album after album by M-Clan, one of the few bands that knew how to revive the spirit of dirty, authentic seventies rock, when one of the lyrics struck a chord with me and my boredom suddenly disappeared. I was singing, Goodbye, cruel world, I'm off to Morocco to never return. To swap scalpels for djellabahs and hookah...and I realized that what I need is a change: swap my laptop for djellabahs and hookah and go to a place like that, far from civilization as we know it, live a simpler life with less stress, smoke good hashish (even if I stopped smoking when I left the foolishness of adolescence behind), and when nature requires it, speak with some Moroccan and come to an agreement on a marriage of convenience to one of his daughters in exchange for a few camels.
Ah, a forgotten sense of adventure coursed through my veins just thinking about it. I've been singing and dancing to the song for four and a half hours, the same song, and every time I listen to it I'm more convinced that it’s what I need. Well, not four and a half hours straight. At ten I went down to the 24-hour convenience store and bought a bottle of Rioja wine because they were out of Ribera del Duero. Then, I returned to my party.
Now, I'm tired of dancing. I suppose at this hour, Diana, the woman from the travel agency, is probably asleep, but I'm sure that I can find one of those last-minute trips somewhere online.
I have it. Even cheaper than I thought. Low-cost airlines are quite the innovation. A ticket for tomorrow morning to Marrakesh. Ten euros. One way. I'm not thinking about it. I'll pack my bags and get in the car. I'll park it at the airport and rent one in Morocco to drive as far away from the real world as possible. If I don't come back, I don't think anyone will notice (and someone will pay for parking). If I come back, it'll be because I gave up (and I can always pay for parking with my Visa).
I'm leaving. I'm off to get acquainted with something new, to get reacquainted with myself. If I find what I'm looking for, I'll stay there forever. Just think, dear damn diary, that I'll be living a life that's closer to nature, a life in touch with myself, full of serenity, but also of hashish, exotic food and young, dark-skinned beauties. Goodbye.
Published by Felix at 1:59 a.m. * Post a comment
Thursday, December 13
A Renault 12 and five stars
Dear damn diary,
I'm in a luxury hotel in Marrakesh. Yes, I know that isn't what I planned, but things haven't gone my way.
I touched down in the country early, but between customs and bullshit, I lost four hours. Then, as I like to do things in an orderly and logical way (even in my new life far away from the rules of society), I went straight downtown from the airport to look for a real estate agency. I want a house in the middle of the desert without Wi-Fi and without neighbors, I planned to say, but in this pain-in-the-ass country there aren't real estate agencies on every street like in Spain, and when night began to fall I stopped looking.
I was on my way to some vantage point to throw myself off of it when I stumbled on a place that sells used cars. You can't even imagine the models you can find there. From the glorious Renault 12 to the Mercedes 300 like the ones from the early eighties.
I had a look at a Renault 12. It’s a hardy car and it brought back good memories because an uncle of mine had one in town. I began to haggle over the price, but the seller hardly spoke a word of Spanish and I don't understand dinars or however you call Moroccan currency. Then, I took out my wallet and showed him a one-hundred-euro bill. One hundred euros, take it or leave it, I shouted to see if he'd understand me, and the guy ripped the bill out my hands before I could finish. I left him there, smiling and happy, while I sped away in search of adventure.
In the end, I drove seventy miles trying to get out of the city, but didn't manage to do it. The damn traffic signs are in Arabic, there seems to be no road that leads out of the city, and the people don't know how to give directions.
Luckily, just when the car started to come to a stop as if it were out of gas, I saw a five-star hotel. I parked, got out, and Visa in hand asked for a room.
And here I am, fiddling around with my blog like I'm at home. Tomorrow first thing I'm going to ask the concierge, who speaks Spanish and English, and I'm going to head to the countryside to search for my place away from this world.
Published by Felix at 12:42 a.m. * Post a comment
Friday, December 14
In the desert
My diary, my old friend,
You couldn't imagine where I am. Well, the truth is that I don't exactly know where I am.
I drove all day with the sun chasing me (the bastard knew that the Renault 12 doesn't have air conditioning) on highways full of potholes and curves. I don't get it. If the desert is flat and it's desert, what's the point of putting curves in
the highway? Without GPS or TomTom, I passed a dozen towns looking for a primitive retreat, a Lost World I know must exist, but in all of the villages I traveled through I saw some poster for Coca-Cola or the neon lights of Vodafone, which convinced me it wasn't the right place.
I had gone one hundred and twenty miles when the odometer stopped. An hour later, I found a town, so to speak, with two streets and a couple of bars (the proportion is very Spanish) in the middle of nowhere, or rather, in the middle of the desert. In the first bar I went into, I found a computer that was turned on; I asked and an old man answered in heavily accented Spanish, Internet café, Internet café. And here I am, lost as usual, but here I am.
The day started on the right foot. I left Marrakesh first thing in the morning and took the regional highway, which looked more like a country highway. The hotel concierge at first pointed out the freeway, but I made it very clear to him where I wanted to go, and after looking me up and down, he pointed out this road and advised me to fill my gas tank and bring a few buckets more just in case.
Luckily, I listened to him. I made it here and am now becoming chummy with the odd guys in this exotic "Internet café." It couldn't be otherwise: I had so much time to kill while they hooked up the computer and connected it to the Internet that we became friends. At first, I tried to help, but the old man, who seemed to be the owner of the place, refused. When I saw him slapping the monitor to see if it would connect any faster, I gave up. I sat down with the locals and told them I'd buy them a round. Want a drink? They all drank tea. It ended up being cheap, so I treated them to several rounds.
I'm going to ask them where I can sleep before I leave. If there aren't any lodgings, I'll sleep in the car and leave early. I'm going to stay her for dinner (where else would I go at this hour in the desert?). Let's see what they have. For now, they've promised to let me try a water pipe.
Diary of an Ugly, Recently Divorced Man Page 14