A guy: 17 de febrero de 2015
So I got a waitressing job last week for the weekend. Friday, Saturday, Sunday. The guy that called to tell me was the guy I handed my resume to: young, dark hair and skin, thick glasses and a broad smile, tending the bar and chatting to the cook who leaned against the wall with those funny striped pants cooks always wear. Are they black with white stripes or white with black stripes?
That day I had nothing to do, so I decided I’d wander the streets and if I found a place with good energy, I’d enter and give them a resume. Lazy, I had put my hair in a low messy bun and left my glasses instead of putting in contacts. A bit of mascara and poof, magic. The bartender had a good vibe, honest eyes and nice teeth. I felt something then, we smiled at each other as I turned to leave, and I could feel those eyes on my back, on the tattoo of a green parrot on my leg, my worn-in sneakers.
Friday I worked 7:30 p.m. to 3:30 a.m. They asked me if I had experience, I lied and said yes. I’ve been to a million restaurants, that’s basically knowing how waitressing works, right? It wasn’t hard, but it was tiring. I felt proud being able to talk to everyone in Spanish, nervous at first, but everything’s a grand experiment and I’m only one speck in a massive ant hive of animal beings.
That night there was a different bartender, una negrita with long hair in many tight braids who was so slow to make the drinks that a couple people left before receiving them. They played deep house music all night, and when I got back home it was still pounding softly in my brain until I passed out.
The owner of the place is a young guy whose story I don’t know well enough to make any statements on, but I think he comes from a rich family and bought the place because he could, basically. Friday night all of his intoxicated friends were there, hitting on me, ordering more drinks, asking me stupid questions, telling me to sit down and chat with them, giving me sips of whatever they ordered.
Ridiculous, drunken brutes from wealthy families. They gave a horrible tip and were disrespectful, but they did give me a few hits of a giant paraguayan blunt in the kitchen, which I happily accepted. Later, serving other tables on the patio, I heard them talking about me, “Jana, qué ricaaaa.” Pelotudos.
Saturday I worked from 9 p.m. to 5 a.m., Valentine’s day. The bartender that took my resume, Manuel, was there that night, and he made delicious drinks the whole time that he let me try. I watched him roll a paraguayan joint behind the bar. Looking up he says, “¿Fumamos después?” Obviously I agree, and at 5ish we leave the bar and start walking towards la cañada in the shiny rain-slicked streets, him walking his bike and me padding along in black dance-like flats, a cat accompanied by a keen, nimble mind.
The hostel’s situated in the neighborhood on the other side of la cañada, and he tells me he lives close to me. I find 100 pesos on the ground, which is like 10 dollars, and I jump up and down like a little kid, pumping my fists as he chuckles quietly. “Te di buena suerte.” Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s not.
I can feel his intelligence enveloping me. I can feel a perceptiveness like never before. I can feel him thinking about my answers to his questions, analyzing without judgment, listening like someone that knows how to listen. And I’m already in love with that mind. There’s a subtle intuition present that intrigues me, makes me feel uncomfortable but wanting more.
He’s all psychology, a maturity I want to follow around and emulate. There is someone I feel I can learn from. Finally I have found someone worth spending time with, not someone blabbering on and on about nothing, not someone asking the wrong questions, or not asking at all. Someone experienced, someone I perceive as wiser than me. And maybe that’s all I want in life, someone to look up to, someone better than me that can help me become better in the ways I want to be.
Sunday it’s raining so they close the bar and we don’t have to work. I go on a run under lurking clouds and floaty mists, and when I get back to the hostel everyone’s there, the lights churn out friendly energies and everyone’s smiling.
Manuel invites me to the cine to see a Charlie Chaplin film, “Limelight.” He arrives at the hostel with his bike and I sit sideways on the bar connecting the handlebars to the seat, and we’re off. The night is wet and shimmery, illuminated by street lamps and headlights and bright windows with silhouettes of people moving about inside them.
We flow past cars waiting for the shift from red to green, we are propelled through empty intersections by the force of our own anticipation. I am a passenger on a mini roller coaster, balanced precariously and investing my trust in the metal frame and the cautious mind controlling it.
We share a marihuana cigarette outside the doors, flowers for a good blowing of the mind, and I feel spontaneous and alive. Finally someone that knows what he’s doing. Finally there’s someone else taking control of the vibe, creating the adventure, showing me something new instead of the other way around. I am anything but bored. I need a new personality to influence mine, to question my ways, make me think in another manner. The universe has provided once again, springing upon me like a giant jumping spider a complex, intelligent mind. Perhaps I have found the perfect mentor.
I am astonished at Chaplin’s genius, his mastery of body language and facial expression and the elaborate mixture of themes and ideas overlapping and interconnecting. The characters are real people with real personalities. What initially appears stereotypical is quickly disarmed, the parts separate into distinct elements and everybody is surprised.
I laugh loudly in wonderment as he dances around in costume, eyebrows jiggling, cane swinging, and Manuel passes me a flask filled with whiskey. I love this because it’s something I would do. It reminds me of sneaking Mike’s Hard Lemonade into the dollar theatre with my brother back home, a secret silent rebellion two minds have agreed to share.
I am a sponge, a mirror, a quiet, absorbent chemical substance, inhaling his vibes, his confidence, his everything. It quickly becomes addictive, his onda, and already I’m looking for more. Maybe in the end I will use him all up until I’m bored or strung-out or too bloated with feeling to move. Can I learn to wring myself out and give him something back?
Y…
Ahora entiendo todo. Amor es lo que me pasa en la mente cuando aprendo algo que para mí vale la pena aprender. Yo entendiendo español es yo enamorada. Psicología es amor, música es amor, y siempre me enamoro de los maestros. Sólo te puedo amar si tienes algo para enseñarme. Algo que tiene misterio, algo que me parece que está justo fuera de mi alcance.
Mejor que no estés enamorado de mí, mejor que no me quieras. Necesito un desafío, y es el viaje que importa, no el destino. Si me quieres al inicio, arruina todo, porque quiero tener que ganar tu amor con mi mente, con mis ideas, con mis acciones. Parte de la razón de amarte es que ya no me amas. Sin tu amor soy el aprendiz, y eso me da una sensación tan rara y placentera. Me encanta el amor que no es recíproco. No debo poder tener todo lo que quiero ya.