A Little Lumpen Novelita

VII

Saturdays and Sundays were the worst, because the four of us were home together and we had nothing to do. The rest of the week my brother and his friends went out to look for work (or so they said when I got home), but they never found anything, not even seasonal work, or the occasional odd job that might bring in a little money to help us get by.

At night, when I went to my room (they stayed up all hours watching TV), I thought about my parents, the accident, the winding southern highways, and everything seemed so far away that it made me weep with rage.

When that happened I jumped up, went back to the living room, motioned to one of my brother’s friends (not caring whether my brother saw) and led him to my room, where we made love until I fell asleep and I could dream about other things, at least.

I didn’t like my life. The nights were still crystal clear, but I had become less of an orphan and I was moving into an even more precarious realm where I would soon lead a life of crime.

What kind of crime? It didn’t matter. It was all the same to me, though of course I knew that in the kingdom of crime there were many stages and levels and no matter how hard I tried, I would never reach the top.

I was afraid of becoming a prostitute. I didn’t like the idea of it. But I sensed that it was all a matter of getting used to it. Sometimes while I was working at the salon, I clenched my fists and tried to imagine my future. Thief, assassin, drug dealer, black marketeer, con artist. No, probably not con artist, because con artists always have mentors and who would mine be? And I didn’t like the idea of being a drug dealer either. I don’t like drug addicts. I don’t have anything against them, but dealing with drug addicts all day seemed unbearable (not anymore, now it doesn’t seem so bad, now I think that in a way people who work with drug addicts are saints, and drug addicts are saints too). At moments of great exaltation I saw myself as a thief or an assassin. Deep down I knew it made most sense to be a prostitute.

Be that as it may, at the time I sensed that I was heading inexorably into the realm of crime and its nearness made me dizzy, intoxicated me, I slept badly, I had dreams in which nothing meant anything, unfettered dreams in which I had the courage to do what I wanted, though the things I did in dreams weren’t exactly the things I would have done in real life, the things that appealed to me in real life.

Deep down I’ve always been an innocent. I’m an innocent now, and back then, when the nights were as bright as day, I was too. I didn’t realize it, but I was. I looked at myself and I was blinded by the light from the mirror. My soul could find no repose. But I was an innocent, because if I hadn’t been I would have been out of there like a shot and everything would be different now.

From here on my story gets even fuzzier.