I'm forty-four and dead broke.
If somebody tried to mug me in some dark alley, it would be a complete waste of time. They'd probably end up feeling sorry for me and give me some money. I should really try not to wander into shady alleys, so I don't make people feel bad.
I do like one thing, though: I don't have to share my poverty with anyone. I don't even have a dog to lick my face and wake me up in the morning, and that's good, because I don't want to be awake in the mornings.
Even though technically I'm the one who's supposed to be selling right now, I'm sitting politely on the couch while the guy strolls around the apartment and inspects every little patch of plaster and every screw on every outlet.
I have absolutely no intention of nagging him. If he's going to buy, he'll buy anyway.
I just hope he doesn't lean too far over the balcony railing, otherwise... goodbye deal! I've always thought that fucking railing is too low. It's dangerous. If you're not paying attention every second, you just go flying, and it's eleven stories down.
That's an advantage, because you've got plenty of time for your whole life to flash before your eyes.
He has to make me an offer. He has to!
If he makes me an offer, I'll kiss him on the forehead and say yes on the spot. He's the fourth buyer in the fourth week, and every offer has been lower than the last. Maybe they're all in cahoots, or maybe I'm just paranoid.
"I'm offering you fifty thousand dollars, sir," the guy says. "If we shake on it right now, you'll have the money within an hour."
The guy is a lowballer, and I'm starting to realize I hate lowballers. Until now, I've had nothing against them, but from this moment on... that's it.
And really, what's there to like about lowballers? They waste your time, insult your apartment, and somehow manage to act like they're doing you a favor. It's clear: all lowballers must die!
This cheap bastard is either in on it with the other buyers, or he can smell how desperate I am. Maybe both.
Either way, what he's trying to shove down my throat isn't going to work for me.
I'm not stupid, for fuck's sake! Two years ago I paid exactly eighty thousand for this apartment.
You picked the wrong guy to mess with, asshole! I'll get you, just you wait! You're going to die in agony! You have no idea who I am. If you knew, you'd be running and screaming.
I cough to clear my throat.
"Uh... you haven't checked out the balcony yet. Shame. My apartment has a really nice view, especially in the mornings."
"I've seen the balcony."
"Hmm... probably just in passing. Take another look. I mean it."
"I'm telling you I've seen it. It's a normal balcony."
"I insist."
The bastard shrugs, walks out of the bedroom, and heads back to the living room. I hear his footsteps moving away and the balcony door creaking open. Grinning, I stretch out on the couch, close my eyes, and prick up my ears. This is the moment! I'm waiting for the long, drawn-out scream and that unmistakable thud.
What will tomorrow's headlines look like?
The bastard comes back in, wheezing.
"Happy now? I checked it again. The view's just like any other."
Damn it, what shitty luck!
"So," he goes on, "do we have a deal? Fifty thousand?"
I've never known how to haggle. For me, negotiation is just a word in the dictionary. I didn't negotiate with the gas and electric guys either, and look at me now: no gas, no power. And it's December.
Didn't negotiate with the building manager either, and now there's no running water. This time, maybe I really should try to negotiate.
I look at the lowballer. He looks more alive than ever. I can feel myself getting angry, so I sigh and ask, "So, are we negotiating?"
I walk out of the bank and pat my pocket one more time, even though I know exactly how things stand: I've got a thousand dollars in cash and sixty grand in my bank account.
I'm a damn negotiator! I managed to pull off the brilliant feat of buying an apartment for eighty thousand dollars and selling it for sixty-one thousand. I'm proud of myself!
The shop window I'm reflected in informs me that the time has come for some other changes too, so I resign myself and step into the first barbershop I see. Beard off. Hair off. It takes fifteen minutes, tops. It doesn't hurt and it's a lot cheaper than plastic surgery.
Done. No more hair. I'm a new man, but I quickly notice that absolutely nothing else around me has changed. Outside, it's still cold enough to crack rocks. Fuck this! I hate the cold!
I have no idea which direction I should head in, so I buy a pack of cigarettes, open it and smoke two in quick succession. Mmm... not bad! I haven't smoked in almost a week, but I force myself not to light a third one.
Last time I treated myself to a cigar. I collected every cigarette butt in the house, tore off a piece of newspaper and rolled myself a huge, reeking cigar, just like when I was fourteen. Some things really never change.
God, I'm finally free! I love you! I can go anywhere. I've got my passport on me. I've got so much money I'm practically swimming in it. I've got time. Lots of it! I'm ready. But where the hell do I go?
For weeks I've been telling myself I'm about to leave, to go anywhere, as far away from this city as possible, but only now do I realize that "anywhere" is not a real choice.
So now it's the big day, and I'm still here, chasing my own tail. Where the hell do I go?
Got it: I have to go to the bar across the street. Yeah, that's my salvation right there. If I want a valuable idea to show up, a bar is the perfect place.
Plus, I'm thirsty. All last month I kept asking myself who I should kill for a glass of vodka. Well, I just killed my apartment, so I think it's time I got my reward.
Not bad in here. It's warm. The bartender gives me a friendly smile, and the two women at the table to my right are minding their own business.
I'm on my second drink and eavesdropping. Turns out one of them went on a hot-air balloon ride in the Czech Republic. She's still high from it.
I've got great peripheral vision, so I "photograph" them from head to toe and quickly realize they're special women.
For me, any woman who rolls paint on her face with a damn roller is... special. If she cakes on makeup in thick layers, wears screaming lipstick, sticks on fake lashes and has long, painted claws, then it's clear: she's definitely... special.
These two also have big septum rings, so they're even more special.
All my life I've run from women like that the way the devil runs from holy water, so I'm just going to stick to my drink and find something harmless to stare at.
For example, the poster behind the bartender. It's cute. It's a big, pretty poster of a gorgeous beach, white and clean. Blue waves all around the island and a few coconut trees in the middle. Or maybe they're palm trees. No, they're definitely coconut trees. Or... palm trees. What's the difference between a coconut tree and a palm tree anyway?
But who cares? One thing's for sure: it must be reeeally warm and nice on a beach like that. It's Heaven!
With my eyes glued to that little island of Heaven, I order a third vodka, and my stomach punches back. I'm afraid it's time to put some food in it, so I ask the bartender to add some tomato juice to the fourth drink, then I point at the poster with a finger and say,
"Lucky bastards, the people who live there. I envy them. A beach like that is... better than any hot-air balloon ride."
The bartender is twenty-something. He smiles, shrugs and gets back to work. The special women on my right ordered coffee. The smell of fresh coffee takes over the whole place. I like it!
It's really warm and cozy in this bar. Almost as warm and cozy as on the island in the poster. I'm getting sleepy. I want to laze around just like the people in those beach chairs over there, on that island with the fine sand.
Maybe I should order a coffee too while I wait for a travel idea to hit me. I'm leaving today, no matter what! I'm not putting it off another second!
"How's Dubai this time of year?" I ask out loud. "I mean, just imagine: it's warm all the time, you can lie around in the sun all day. Don't the winters here just suck the life out of you?"
"I don't really know much about Dubai," the bartender answers calmly, "but I was in Thailand a year ago and I can assure you it was a very... hot experience."
He flashes a big smile and gives me a wink.
"Are you gay?" I ask him straight out.
"No," he says, surprised. "Not at all."
"You just winked at me."
"Oh, that?" He laughs. "I winked because I got to meet a ton of cute girls on the beach in Phuket. That's why."
I realize I'm drunk, because here I am, babbling to this stranger about everything and nothing. When I get tipsy, that's the first alarm bell: the babbling.
The second sign is my knees turning to jelly. And then, the grand finale, the dizziness and, of course, the head injuries. All-inclusive.
I have to skip the finale today. I'm a serious man and I've got things to do: I have to leave.
On the other hand, I admit it feels nice to be drunk. There are perks. It's easier to start conversations.
Normally I don't feel like talking to anyone. If I were sober, it wouldn't even cross my mind to start chatting with some dude who winked at me in a bar.
"Dubai, Thailand, same thing," he says, carefully drying a glass. "The climate's probably about the same. But in Thailand there are no restrictions on alcohol. Alcohol is banned in pretty much all Arab countries."
I look at my empty glass and realize the guy has a point. The idea of being chased through the streets of Dubai by a pack of furious locals does not appeal to me.
On the other hand, Dubai is much closer than Thailand. It's just a stone's throw away. I think. I'm not sure. I'll look at a map.
So if I quit drinking, I could still go to Dubai. I'd save time and money. I wonder what Arab women look like?
"Give me another one," I say, lost in thought.
Vodka number five lands nicely under my nose, and he keeps going, "Yeah, if I had to choose again today, I'd still pick Thailand."
Oh, for fuck's sake! What's this? Is it some kind of sign from God? That poster with the beautiful Pacific beach, the bartender's nagging, all of it... What's going on here? Is this the hand of God?
I stare him straight in the eye and calmly ask, "And how did you get there? Not that I care that much, just... for the record."
"I got there the way you get anywhere. By plane. The flight was about seventeen hours. We made a short stop in Shanghai just to refuel, then we flew on to Chiang Mai. Ah, Thailand! What a country, what places! I was only there for about ten days. Unfortunately! But I'd do it again anytime."
"So why don't you do it again?"
"I don't have a sponsor anymore," he laughs. "I didn't pay for that trip. You didn't actually think I paid for it myself, did you? The round-trip ticket alone is about three thousand dollars."
"Right," I mutter. "I'm such an idiot! Just the ticket is three grand. Any idiot knows that. What a thing, man! You know what, I like you. Come on, pour me another drink."
The bartender hesitates. Don't tell me he's going to start playing the hard-ass now! Now? Just when I was warming up? If he keeps this up, I'm really not going to like it.
"I can't serve you anymore." He decides at last, shrugging. "I'm sorry!"
You bastard! You seemed like a smarter kid, but you're just a rude little prick, and you just lost your tip with that cheap-ass attitude!
"I've had a lot, is that it?" I ask, weighing each word. "Can't you see I'm sober? Look at me: I can talk perfectly fine if I pronounce each word slowly and clearly. I've just had a few little drinks, that's all..."
"You haven't had a lot, but you've had enough. I'm sorry, that's company policy."
I piss on company policy and on you and on your mother and on... I wonder if he's got a cat? Whatever. You're not sorry, you little piece of shit! It's obvious you're not. Deep down you're laughing at me.
Hey, do you have any idea who I am? You have no idea who you're dealing with. I'm dangerous. Today, because of me, some guy almost took off from the eleventh floor. What if I stand up, grab a chair and smash that big window of yours and all those shelves full of bottles? I bet the lake of booze would spread all the way to the door.
"Come on, be a nice guy. One more drink and I'm gone. For the sake of our friendship. What's your name?"
He rubs the mirror carefully, unhurried, like that's his one true calling in life.
So you're playing deaf, huh? Is that it? Playing deaf with me?
Poor bastard! I bet you skipped chemistry class. You have no idea how flammable alcohol is. After I smash every bottle of booze in this pathetic little dump, I'll light a cigarette right under that sign that says smoking is forbidden.
And then I'll drop the match at your feet.
Yeah. I can already see tomorrow's headlines.
Yeah, that's exactly what's going to happen if I don't get my swill.
The bartender looks at me with a pissed-off face and--praise the Lord!--pours me another shot of vodka.
Blessed are the peacemakers! Peace is restored in the bar. The poor women are saved. The bartender's ass is saved!
"I knew you were a good kid," I tell him. "See, I'm peaceful. I drink this and I'm gone. You can't force love. Right! I pay and... that's it. I'm leaving! I'm leaving right now..."
At least I try.
"You really shouldn't have drunk so much," he says as he helps me up off the floor.
I look at him, puzzled. The tiles are cold, and it's not healthy to stay down there too long.
"Is there a currency exchange around here?"
The man takes the hundred-dollar bill, exchanges it and gives me my change. I hope he gave me the official exchange rate.
He walks me outside, slowly, step by step.
"Should I call you a taxi?"
"Uh... yeah, please. You're a smart guy! I hope you kept your tip."
A minute later I flop like a rag onto the back seat of the taxi. It reeks of air freshener... pine-scented, I think. December, duh!
"What's that?" I say quickly. "A hotel? Wait for me here. Right here! I'm going to try and get a room at this hotel, but don't leave yet. Here, take some money."
The hotel looks really familiar. I know it well. I've walked past it thousands of times in my life, but I never thought I'd see what it looks like inside.
In fact, I don't even get the chance to see what it looks like inside. The guys at reception say I'm too drunk.
I stumble outside cursing, land on my belly (December, of course!), but I'm back on my feet the next second. The fall and the cold air sober me up a bit.
I get back in the car and give the meter a critical look as it blinks at me, mocking. The number goes up. My patience goes down.
"What pigs! Take me to another hotel. The closest one."
I burp discreetly and the car no longer smells like pine. I stretch out on the back seat. The car is gliding along nicely, and I kind of like being rocked like this, but I don't get the chance to nod off because we stop in front of another hotel.
Another hotel, same story.
"Idiots with diplomas!" I growl as I collapse onto the back seat again.
I give up watching the meter. The driver is silent, but he lowers his window a bit. The draft is cold. Is this idiot trying to freeze me to death or what?
At the third hotel, the receptionist and the security guard at the door almost get into a fight with me. I escape a beating, but I walk away missing two buttons. I stare at the meter like a murderer and sink into silence.
"So, where are we going now?" the cabbie asks with a calm face.
Yeah! Of course you have a calm face! You probably imagine you're going to drive me around all day from one hotel to another and make a whole day's money off me. Well, that's not going to happen!
Now I can easily imagine what hell looks like. Hell is a place where some cursed taxi driver with a calm face drives you around parking lots and hotels, and at the end of the day he tells you how much you owe.
They're all in on it, I bet! You're all in this together, you mutts! In this city, hotel receptionists and taxi drivers kiss each other on the mouth and split the day's profits fifty-fifty.
"I don't know where to go anymore," I tell him. "Give me a minute to think."
"Fine, buddy. It's your money."
"Do you understand anything about this whole hotel mess?" I ask. "I keep trying to give them my money and they play dumb. And to think I've lived my whole life in this city! It makes me want to lose my mind! Cheap-ass hotels..."
"Well, if you're from around here, man, why don't we go to your place?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
"I sold my apartment today for sixty-one... uh. Whatever."
"Aha," he says. He looks at me thoughtfully, sighs and then adds, "I think I know a small hotel with more... relaxed standards. Want me to take you there?"
Why wouldn't I want that? The man is my savior! Long live taxi drivers!
The car starts moving. I sink into the soft seat and I probably fall asleep. I dream I'm in Dubai or Thailand on a sunny beach. I'm lying on a lounge chair, sipping through a straw and reading a newspaper. On the front page, in big bold letters, it says:
"Holy Mother of Christ! Heeelp!"
I shoot up, screaming in terror, crack my head on the taxi roof and almost fall asleep again. The driver slams on the brakes. The whole car screeches and rattles. My head slams this time into the front seat.
The guy turns toward me, eyes bulging.
"Are you insane?" he yells, spitting. "What the hell are you screaming for out of nowhere like that? You want me to kiss a tree? For fuck's sake! Serves me right for picking up every goddamn wacko!"
I rub my temples and my forehead, shake my head and realize every last molecule of alcohol has evaporated from my brain.
"I had a dream, man! Stop yelling, my head's killing me. Uh... turn the car around. Let's go look for some more hotels."
"Like hell I'm turning the car around. I'm not turning anything! Pay up and get the fuck out!"
I pull out the money and pay him. I see him calm down a bit and feel like I got off easy. And suddenly I'm hit by the greatest idea I've ever had in my life.
"I... I got it," I stammer.
"Excuse me?"
"I know exactly where we're going. Turn the car around, please."
"Where are we going?"
"Isn't it obvious? Take me to the airport," I say calmly. "I'm going to Dubai!"
"To Dubai?"
"Or to Thailand... I don't know. I'll see."
The driver crosses himself, but I can feel I've won. The engine starts up, and my road to Dubai begins.
Or to Thailand... fuck it!