Pancakes

Searching for the meaning of life amidst Barcelona's night life

7:28 AM. Booze rooster. My head. F*****g hell. My dick hurts. It’s cold. Who’s that girl. Where am I. Water. More water. I need to take a s**t. My breath stinks. F**k my life. I need to get outta here. Where’s my pants. My keys. My mind. Why the spins. I need fresh air. Now. The f*****g elevator takes forever. I need a caramel-vanilla tea at a run-down café with a loud espresso machine, claret walls and stained windows to watch the world from. If I don’t find it, I’ll die. I swear to God. I’ll lie down on the street and stop breathing.

- How often does it work?

- Every time. But I don’t push my luck, so -

- How do you go about it?

- I spot a guy. I say hi. I play him.

Each second I waste is a grain of sand embraced and swallowed by the bottom bulb of God’s hourglass and the b*****d wouldn’t flip it over if you held him at gunpoint with twelve bazookas at your disposal. Pause. Rewind. Play. Each second I waste is a grain of sand embraced and swallowed by the bottom bulb of God’s hourglass and the b*****d wouldn’t flip it over if you held him at gunpoint with twelve bazookas at your disposal. A Nicaraguan girl with pierced lips and ears and nose and I-can-only-guess-what-else is breathing down my neck like a flu-infected baby dragon who doesn’t know whether it’s about to sneeze or s**t his pants. She’s hoping to join the misery club next time my eyes land on the upper bar shelf but I’m not that stupid. She leans closer, nudges me as if by accident, and presses her cushy bosom against my ribs like I had twenty-four children desperate for a pillow. I sprinkle salt on her webbing and order four shots of tequila.

- How often does it work?

- Every time. But I don’t push my luck, so -

- How do you go about it?

- I spot a guy. I say hi. I play him.

- What if he’s not into games?

- It’s one big game after sunset.

We slam the shots, suck on a slice of lemon and make out as the bittersweet bouquet hitchhikes down our throats with gusto. I offer to repeat the ritual but she says her boyfriend’s in the bathroom and they’re about to go home and have sex on ecstasy.

- You think he’s taking a s**t right now?

- He may be, why?

- Nothing. Tell him I said hi.

- Don’t be silly. Thanks for the shots.

7:28 AM. Booze rooster. No. Not again. F**k my life. I need to get outta here. I need water. If I don’t find it, I’ll die. I swear to God. I’ll go back to sleep and never wake up again. Two dusty light bulbs swing over my head like The Savoy Ballroom’s regulars but their lindy hop doesn’t really floor the one-man audience. They shine over a shabby lobby where I’m struggling not to doze off and rationalize the fact I have a Kenyan prostitute sitting on my lap. A beard-deprived Papá Noel that not only arrived ahead of schedule but has to pamper a materialistic brat who has nothing but two bank notes on her wish list. I inhale the girl’s long sun-burnt hair trying to get high off of it but it doesn’t seem to work. I like the smell, though. It’s different, exotic. You can usually tell a lot by how a person smells.

- What’s your name?

- Elizabeth.

- And your real name?

- Don't watch so many movies, it’s Elizabeth.

- Like the Queen, no?

My last question meets with silence. I didn’t mean it to be sarcastic but it probably came out as such. A fat Russian madam is pacing back and forth the corridor, feeling ill-at-ease for keeping us waiting, but I’m in no rush. I keep sniffing Elizabeth’s hair to kill time though it still doesn’t do anything for me. Doors open. Doors close. People come. People go. It’s our turn. We walk in like a newly-wedded couple who got robbed of emotions somewhere along the way. Elizabeth assumes a strangely military attitude, giving out strict orders like a chain-smoking puppeteer who can’t hit it off with his new doll. Pay up. Undress. Stroke yourself. Oh, c’mon. Let me. Attaboy. Protection. Lay on top. Get inside. Pause. Fast forward. It’s just not gonna work. Too cold, too sad, too machine-like. I need to get outta here. Take a walk. Sleep it off. Erase that thing from my memory. Maybe it didn’t even happen. Maybe it was all a dream. I snap my fingers. Left hand. Right hand. Both hands.

- I haven’t seen the Sun in four months. I thrive on strobe.

- That’s two sentences.

- My name’s Stella.

- How ironic.

There’s one bullet in my clip and life wears a bulletproof vest. I’m blind, drunk, it’s dark, we’re ten miles apart and I’ve never held a gun before. We’re all on death row, there’s a life sentence stamped upon us for dancing out of the womb so clumsily. Pause. Fast forward. Play. A tall, aggressively made-up girl guards the barstool next to me but she doesn’t show the slightest interest in striking a conversation. I wanna ask her about the meaning of life, but if you’re asking about the meaning of life there’s a high chance you’re not living it. Again, if you’re asking about anything there’s a high chance you’re alive. Dead people have a habit of not asking questions. Apparently there’s a thick line drawn between life and life, separating thriving from surviving, existing from persisting and about any other pair of verbs that are somewhat mutually exclusive but maintain the rhythm of the sentence. I was wrong. She wanted to talk. She wants me to describe myself in one sentence.

- I’m a mess. You?

- I haven’t seen the Sun in four months. I thrive on strobe.

- That’s two sentences.

- My name’s Stella.

- How ironic.

- You look sad. You sure you don’t want to buy me a drink?

- I’ll pass. But you can join me for drinks at my place.

- You mean for sex.

- Of course.

- I’m not that easy.

- Bummer.

Forty seven w****s with seventy four horses, sunbathing outdoors topless, snorting coke off the horses’ hooves using orange, yellow and blue straws interchangeably. Who am I kidding, I’m a mistake. I’m a headache with legs, aiming Cupid’s arrows for hearts but always hitting heels or kneecaps. You’re either meant for bull’s eye or bull’s s**t. Of course I remember your name, girl. Let’s get outta here. I wanna stumble over things and bleed alcohol in les rambles. Julia is young, beautiful, capricious, short-tempered. Her eyes match her dress perfectly and yet I can’t tell what color they are. She has round pouchy lips, straight long hair, freckled nose, smile that could disarm la Grande Armée, and her favorite thing about Freud is that he wasn’t afraid to contradict himself. She’s also on the list to something-or-other and she’s willing to trade me guest status for Moroccan hash and a couple of cuba libres.

- As long as you can roll, Julia.

- You can’t roll?

- I have shaky hands.

- You drink too much.

She rolls a blunt that’s light years beyond our capacity but we don’t mind. I wanna help her out with my Pink Panther mechero, but she beats me to it because she’s a smoker and smokers usually have their lighters at the ready or have them lost. We take a right at Carrer ------ -- ----------- and stop by ---------- for drinks. Two birras, two cuba libres. We’ll be sitting outside with bloodshot eyes and a sense of hopelessness.

- I wanna have a baby.

I’m too stoned to let her know how stoned she is. She follows this thought with something about immortality but she’s too stoned to notice how stoned I am.

- In a way you live within your kids. That’s the only way to cheat death.

- How was death born?

A galaxy of abstract thoughts that will forever remain a mystery to sober mind. A waiter laying down four glasses of freedom on our table, praying we tip generously. How can I not love life when it puked me into existence without spoiling the end of the movie. How can I not kiss Julia this very moment when she’s so beautiful, even if short-tempered and rambling about babies in a way that sets off every alarm currently active in my body. Us, now, rum and coke chased with beer, twenty pabos blown in twenty minutes like I can afford it. Deep breath. Let’s fly to that other place with the guest list.

- What is it, a club?

- It’s different. Where’s your sense of adventure.

- What is it, a club?

- It’s different. Where’s your sense of adventure.

- What is it, a club?

- Wait, we’re on a loop.

- Where’s your sense of adventure.

- That’s my line.

- I need a drink.

We flag down a stagecoach with yellow wheels and head off to the place with the guest list. The coachman wears us out with his lecture on women’s rights, proverbs and yadda yadda, but we just nod him off and rub each other’s private parts because we’re drunk and horny and looking for a good time.

- I’ll tell you kids, I wish I was a woman. Instead I’m stuck with the beasts, in a land of prestige and dick-measuring contests, where intuition is prejudiced, emotion disguised and humility fictitious.

- Tough luck.

- Women should never demand equality but superiority. That’s the only way we’ll ever be able to restore the equilibrium in this shithole.

- Your horses have sperm on their hooves.

- The tongue always turns to the aching tooth, doesn’t it? That’s snow.

- But how, it doesn’t snow here.

- Tell me about it. I don’t know, they just have snow on their hooves.

- What are they called?

- The hooves?

- The horses.

- They aren’t called anything, they’re horses.

- And the hooves?

- What about them?

- What are their names?

The coachman is too proud to respond. Instead I receive a mean glare from over his shoulder like I’m supposed give a s**t. I turn to Julia to kiss her but there’s only Stella and it’s too late to hold back.

- What are you doing here?

- I thrive on strobe, you know that.

- Where’s Julia?

- You look sad. You sure you don’t want to buy me a drink?

- No. I wanna stumble over things and bleed alcohol in les rambles.

- I’m not that easy.

Of course you’re not. I know the rules, it’s a simple pattern. You strip me off my cash. Bottoms up. You strip yourself off insecurities. Bottoms up. I strip you off your clothes. Bottoms up. You strip me off mine. End of story. Bottoms up, last time, to make sure we pass out guilt-free. Morpheus will take it from here. Who hasn’t played this game, let him cast the first throw pillow. Guilty as charged, both of us.

- That’ll be twenty-five.

- For what?

- For a ride, what else. Cash or card?

- Card. Where’s Julia?

- The girl got off earlier. She said you were not her type.

7:28 AM. F**k my life. I’ll just stay in bed and rot. With a bit of luck I’ll wake up in another universe where the only job is smelling rain and capturing shooting stars on video. Pause. Rewind. Play. 7:28 AM. I’m not even surprised. Still, f**k my life. I need to take a shower and brush my teeth. And shave. Maybe slit my throat in the process. It’s ridiculous. If the world were to end today, I would slip into pajamas and microwave yesterday’s pasta. Pause. Deep breath. Let’s fly to that other place with the guest list.

- What is it, a club?

- It’s different. Where’s your sense of adventure.

We flag down a yellow Seat Toledo and head off to the place with the guest list. The cabbie wears us out with his lecture on women’s rights, proverbs and yadda yadda, but we just nod him off and rub each other’s private parts because we’re drunk and horny and looking for a good time.

- That’ll be twenty-five. Cash or card?

- Cash.

We step out in the middle of nowhere and I ask Julia if she got the address right. She says she’s here every night and besides middle of nowhere isn’t a bad to place to be. We clasp hands and walk up a small hill to the sound of buzzing insects and our shoes disrupting the balance of the muddy ground beneath us. Julia suggests we lose our clothes and proceed toward a pale croissant.

- You mean the moon?

- No, silly. I mean the pale croissant. Take off your sox.

We make it to the top and it’s freezing, with patches of dark clouds gathering around our heads lazily and without excitement. Our birthday suits are illuminated by distant galaxies and it feels so right, liberating and wonderful that I barely mind my balls are the size of Skittles. We lie down on the ground and watch the universe. Or let it watch us. Every now and then we flip it off, just in case. Then, for a change, we point at random stars and pretend they’re shooting. Some of them may no longer be there, but says who. They are to us. Maybe that’s the only way to cheat death - not acknowledge it. Shine like a star and collapse laughing.

- Is this the place with the guest list?

- Looks like no one else could make it. Bummer, right?

Fortune favors the naïve. I have a sudden urge to lick Julia’s ear and so I do. She doesn’t mind. In fact, she seems to like it. She kisses my neck after, and then I kiss hers. She kisses my forehead and I kiss her eyelid. We go through all of our bodies like that. It starts to rain, but we don’t mind. In fact, we like it. We like the smell of rain and the sight of the universe at night. It gets us high. There’s something psychedelic about it.

10:55 AM. Five more minutes. I smell pancakes and orange juice. It’s warm. It’s perfect. Julia’s playing with my hair. I need to get out of bed and flip the pancakes. If I don’t, they’ll burn. I swear to God. They’ll burn and we’ll only have maple syrup for breakfast. But I don’t want to go. I want to stay right here and smell the pillows. This is my only goal in life. Smell - the pillows. Maple syrup will do, it’s not that big of a deal. Sometimes flipping the pancakes just isn’t worth it.

Author's Note

I'm not a native English speaker - feel free to point out any mistakes. The writing is probably over-the-top and hard to follow, I'm aware of that. The story jumps back and forth shamelessly, sorry for that. Some grammar mistakes are made on purpose. I'd highly appreciate any feedback. Thank you :)