Sock Empire

   The place only sold socks. They were everywhere and in every single color you could imagine. It was very nice to see rows and rows of different tones and drawings on them. Special socks for Christmas, for Halloween, for Thanksgiving, for Valentine’s Day, for Easter and even for New Year’s Eve. Every employee knew where everything was and how socks were made and could help a costumer find anything they wanted in a matter of a few minutes. There was a reason why the store was called the Sock Empire.

 The Empire was also divided into types of socks, not only color, and between those made for men, for women and for children. Ruben Rostenkowski had been the creator of the Empire and many of his competitors admired him for his amazing take into the world of footwear. People had been focusing so much on the foot for so long, that it was refreshing that one store could focus its whole attention solely to socks and all the types that existed.

 No one knew how Ruben had come up with the idea but they were envious he had had it. Everyone in the city knew he made millions of dollars every year and only from the main store. He had stores in other states but they were not as extravagant and amazing as the one in his hometown of Cleveland. He had been born there over sixty years ago and, although he had lived and worked in other parts of the country when he was younger, he decided to go back to his home in order to make his dream come true.

 Back then, Ruben was just a young boy, not really a full adult. He was still shooting cans with his air rifle and drinking the content of those cans with his group of friends. He had gone to school to study medicine but the truth was that Ruben was the lousiest student ever. He attended only half of his classes and the rest of the time he just spend it with girls and drinking. For all that, he wasn’t apparently as childish. After all, he was twenty-five years old.

Many thought that a man that owned such a store dedicated only to the foot had to be some sort of fetishist. And they were right. Ruben found that out in college, as he met lots of beautiful and not so beautiful young women. The first thing he did every time, as a form of foreplay, was to massage the girl’s feet. He would do it in such a professional manner; the girls never really realized he was so into it. To be honest, he was obsessed with it as he detailed every foot he saw, the curves and the skin and the complexity of it all. He was very obsessed.

 In class, he would suffer sometimes when a fellow student decided to remove her shoes beneath the desk. He instantly wanted to touch the foot and have it for his own but then he remembered he was in class and he couldn’t risk shaming himself even more than he already did when getting drunk. So he learned to breath deeply and just think about something else, maybe even count backwards in order to relax his mind and get any ideas out of it.

 It worked, sometimes. Other times, he would just ask the girl out and massage her feet as soon as he was able. He decided, and that a very healthy choice from him, to visit a shrink. He was sure a person with enough experience in these things would be able to help him stop his obsession and live a healthy life.

 However, it was a surprise when the psychologist told him it was pretty normal to have a fetish. He told Ruben most people had one, whether they realized it or not. Maybe it was a hair fetish, or maybe a “tall” fetish or maybe even weirder stuff like liking sex in costumes or always in public spaces. The point was, and the doctor repeated it constantly, that it wasn’t a disease and it wasn’t something bad as long as he learned to control it and not the other way around. So he advised him to get a hobby with which he could control the thoughts he had.

 It was difficult to find the right hobby, though. Ruben had never been really good at sports. Actually he sex appeal didn’t come from his body at all but from the way he spoke to women and how they responded to his voice and careful and intriguing demeanor. Anyhow, he still tried to play softball, rugby and gold but he failed miserably at all of them and it was then when he noticed he had started looking at men’s feet and he hadn’t even realized.

 Now he was really worried because in his mind he thought that his obsession had made him gay. But after calming down and watching a pornographic movie, he realized he was not interested in men, at all. Only their feet. So it was in that moment when the idea of the Empire first came to his mind: he thought that if his obsession was to be put to good use the best thing to do was something with feet.

 He looked everywhere and finally found a small workshop where people could go and learn how to make shoes. Of course, it was more about seeing the process than doing it because the materials were not all that easy to find and the idea was to attract people into the footwear business. There were just a few sessions but he became obsessed about shoes now and started reading all there was to now about the history of shoes and also about the making of shoes.

 As far as Ruben’s parents were concerned, they were happy to see him doing his last year of med school. He entered that time when he actually had to help patients and do shifts in a hospital and so on. But he was as lousy in that as he was in class. Besides, he was reading all he could about shoes and started thinking a business dedicated to shoes might be just what his life could be all about. Making them was not that easy but maybe selling would be a lot more interesting. He would see feet every day but he would have under control because it would be his job. Perfect.

 But after months of research, he realized the market was just filled with shoe stores selling the same types of shoes to every single idiot in the United States. He had to be unique and bold.

It was around that time that Ruben met Carly, a student of reflexology. She wasn’t from college but she had attended a rare conference about the subject there and Ruben had instantly fallen in love with her. She took some time to liking him however, but after some weeks they were dating and enjoying each other’s company. They rapidly found out about their mutual interest and engaged in long and detailed talks about the history of the foot and its pressure points.

It was the day Carly took him home for Christmas, when he realized his biggest idea yet. Her grandmother was there, a lovely lady, and she was knitting the socks that were left for Santa to put on the presents. And it was then when he had the idea to dedicate his business, not to shoes, but to socks. He told Carly this over dinner and even her parents thought it was a very funny and smart idea. They had never seen a store that only sold socks.

 The following year was the one. It was hard at first because Ruben had to drop out of college only months before finishing. His parents were devastated and told him not to come back home. He was destroyed by that but moved on thanks to Carly, who traveled with him to Cleveland, finding a nice flat for the both of them. There, Ruben created the logo of his company, the idea, the details of the first store and so on.

 He asked for a loan and with that he set up shop and asked for socks from all around the world. Then, he decided to wait a year and see how it went. If it failed, he had lost a lot of money. If not, it was just the beginning.

 That was the birth of the Sock Empire. The name was made fun of sometimes but he loved it and people loved what he did with the place. He would come into the shop sometimes with Carly in order to visit his workers and shake hands and tell everyone how much he thanked them and how much he loved his sock world.

 Even now, years after his invention, he still massages Carly’s feet before bedtime. And he still looks at all the feet he can on the beach and on his store. After all, he couldn’t stop doing something that gave him his livelihood and so much happiness.

Probabilidad de cuento

   Fue entonces que el hombre, vestido de chaqueta color verde oliva, se levantó de su trono hecho de ladrillo y me preguntó que probabilidad había para un cuento. Lamentablemente no tuve tiempo de responder porque justo en ese momento mis ojos se abrieron y lo único que tenía enfrente era mi mesa de noche con las mil y una cosas que le ponía encima. Por un momento quise volver a soñar pero, como todos sabemos, no es tan fácil volver a entrar en un sueño particular. Así que me incorporé, anoté esa última frase en mi celular y me puse a escribir sobre otra cosa.

 Ahora que lo pienso, sé que el sueño era mucho más largo, había sido incluso extenuante porque cuando abrí los ojos mi cuerpo y mi mente estaban cansados. Había sido uno de esos sueños en los que corres y saltas y hablas y pasan demasiadas cosas que nunca dudas pero que sabes que en la realidad jamás harías o porque son imposibles o porque la cobardía suele ganar la partida cuando todo es verdad.

 Camino de un lado a otro de mi pequeña habitación, tratando de entender esa última frase. Mis pies descalzos barren el piso, que limpio de polvo a diario y a diario se ensucia, un ciclo eterno. Por mucho que doy vueltas, que me siento en la cama y trato de pensar en otra cosa, que me distraigo con videojuegos o con películas, me persigue esa misteriosa frase: “Que probabilidad hay para un cuento?”.

 Nunca entenderé que era exactamente lo que ese hombre, que no recuerdo quién era, quiso decir con eso. Bueno, debo decir que seguramente el tipo tenía la cara de alguien que yo he visto antes, pues así funciona el cerebro. Pero podría no tener nada que ver con nada. Podía haber tenido la cara de un profesor de la infancia, de un hombre que miré alguna vez en un bus o incluso ser la mía con modificaciones hechas por mi cerebro. Es un una herramienta de mucho poder pero a veces me frustra que no funcione muy bien como cámara de vídeo.

 Quisiera poder sacar el archivo y ver toda la película, todo lo que pasó en el sueño para ver si se podría explicar esa pregunta tan rara y tan adecuadamente preguntada al final del sueño, como si ese hombre… O, mejor dicho, como si yo supiese que me iba a despertar en unos minutos y debía saber eso antes de que fuera demasiado tarde. Todo eso hace pensar que, al menos esta vez, estuve plenamente consciente de que estaba dormido. De hecho, creo que en la mayoría de los sueños que tengo estoy completamente consciente de ello. Incluso en el pasado he sido capaz de salir de un sueño, de una pesadilla, por voluntad propia.

 No es algo fácil de hacer pues te sientes como en una prisión, como amarrado por una camisa de fuerza. Te das cuenta entonces que los sueños, que pueden llegar a ser muy bellos, también se comportan como trampas letales que tu mismo te pones en tu cerebro. La vez que más recuerdo, era una pesadilla horrible y quería salir. Quise gritar pero no podía y entonces fui consciente de verdad de mi cuerpo y del sueño y me forcé a controlar mis brazos y piernas para liberarme del cautiverio. Casi no puedo romper el velo entre ambos mundos pero por fin mi mano logró atravesar y desperté, sudando y cansado, pero aliviado de haber logrado lo que había querido hacer.

 Otras veces no hay tanta suerte. No estoy tan consciente de las cosas, y debo dejarme llevar hasta donde el sueño quiera llevarme. Sea el lugar que sea, sea lo que sienta en eso momentos, muchas veces solo hago de espectador. Es gracioso, pero en varios sueños que he tenido (de los que me acuerdo) he sido más espectador que protagonista y eso que es mi mente! Suena ridículo pero mi cerebro al parecer muchas veces prefiere que me quede quieto y aprenda de otros, de personajes que yo estoy poniendo en escena para hacer quién sabe que cosas. Suena muy raro pero ese es el mundo de los sueños.

 En la ducha también pienso en el hombre del trono de ladrillo. Es una figura misteriosa. Apenas recuerdo la habitación pero estoy seguro que estaba hecha también de ladrillos y sé que él estaba vestido con esa chaqueta oliva y creo que llevaba jeans. Mejor dicho, era un tipo de lo más normal pero estaba sentado ahí como si fuese el rey de algo, como si tuviera algún poder especial sobre alguien o algo. Y sin embargo, lucía como cualquiera y me hablaba a mi con una curiosidad que estoy seguro era verdadera.

Tal vez, y el agua podía estar ayudando, quería que escribiera el sueño al completo en un cuento, que lo convirtiera en una ficción escrita para que otros pudieran identificarse o incluso reconocer lugares y personajes. No era tan increíble pensar que otras personas soñaran lo mismo y tal vez reconocieran ese mundo que yo no recordaba pero que estaba seguro de haber visitado.

 Eso sí, él no me había preguntado por una “posibilidad”. No me había preguntado si era probable, es decir, si era casi seguro que lo fuese a resumir en palabras. Me preguntó sobre la “probabilidad” como si fuera algo exacto y matemático. Y también, y esto lo pensé solo con medias puestas, creo que se refería a que tan probable era que yo decidiera contar lo que tenía dentro de mi mente. Que tan probable era que quisiera compartir algo tan intimo con mucha gente.

 En ese momento sonreí pues me estaba halagando a mi mismo. Lo que escribo no lo leen cientos de personas sino muchos menos, así que no tendría porque tener miedo de haberle respondido al hombre en el trono de ladrillo que las probabilidades eran bastante altas. Creo que estaba cuestionando mi voluntad de hacerlo, de desnudar un parte de mi que no puede estar tan expuesta como el cuerpo. Para que alguien vea lo que yo veo y entienda lo que yo entiendo, tengo que darle un pase gratis al interior de mi cerebro y eso solo se puede hacer escribiendo acerca de lo que sea que me haya pasado o que yo haya reflexionado respecto de algo.

 Sacudí la cabeza y terminé de vestirme. De nuevo traté de distraerme con algunos videos graciosos y funcionó por un buen rato, por lo menos hasta que la preocupación volvió a invadirme y me pregunté a mi mismo si la probabilidad a la que se refería el hombre del trono de ladrillo era otra. Que tal si no se refería a ese sueño sino a ciertos pensamientos, a ciertas reflexiones que yo tenía a veces? Que tal si ese hombre no era un hombre (no lo era en todo caso) sino que era la representación de mi subconsciente queriéndome empujar a hacer algo  que conscientemente jamás haría?

 No, todo esto ya estaba sonando demasiado loco y simplemente no podía ser tan así. Hacía tempo que yo me había dado cuenta que no era un persona interesante y lo digo sin pena ni gloria. Me ofenden las personas que no pueden asumir lo negativo como asumen lo positivo. No soy interesante y no tengo porqué serlo. De pronto el mensaje era más sobre eso, sobre escribir sobre mi experiencia de ser yo y mostrar qué se siente, sea o no de interés alguno.

 Pero no, eso no podía ser puesto que ya lo había hecho. Es más, lo hago con tanta frecuencia que es probable que la gente ya esté hasta el copete del maldito tema. Como dije antes, no soy tan interesante como para escribir cuarenta libros y hacer mil entrevistas y perfiles y esas cosas que llaman crónicas, que cualquier hombre del sur las reclama como propias. No, no era sobre mi, era sobre mi sueño que quería ese hombre que escribiera y por eso ahora lo hago.

 Bueno, no escribo del sueño como tal porque ese ya está perdido en los pliegues internos de mi mente. Es esa burbuja que explota cuando te despiertas y que solo en ocasiones muy particulares sigue flotando momentos después de despertar, como para darte la oportunidad de cogerla o de sentir una parte de su simple complejidad.

 Decidí entonces escribir alrededor del sueño y esto es lo que leen (los que leen lo que escribo) en este momento. Eso sí, la búsqueda por el significado de la frase sigue puesto que todavía no estoy seguro de que quiso decir y, tal vez, jamás pueda estarlo a menos que me lo encuentre en otro sueño y recuerde preguntarle.

 Mientras tanto, creo que iré a comer algo pues tanto pensar da hambre y la comida ayuda esclarecer la mente. Es entonces que recuerdo una cosa más del sueño, un detalle ínfimo pero que parece tener la importancia de este y otros mundos: justo cuando terminó de preguntar, el hombre de la chaqueta verde oliva, que ahora lo veía yo con una barba de tres días, me sonrió. Y no era yo y no recordé conocerlo. Quién y porqué?

Thanks

   Blood was always difficult to clean off. She grabbed a sponge from the bathroom and put it under the water with some soap. She then grabbed the sponge and started cleaning her boots, as they were covered in red. The sponge, that used to be yellow, got heavily tainted and it was almost impossibly to clean it after having removed almost every trace of blood from her boots. As she walked the bathroom, she grabbed the sponge and walked with her footwear on the other hand.

 Her name was Linda, which means “beautiful” or “cute” in Spanish. But that had nothing to do with her. First, because her parents had no idea of another language and they would have never bothered to learn anything about a world outside theirs. Second, because although she had a nice body and all the curves men would like to stare at, she didn’t found herself all that cute.

 She put on the boots in the living room and then went to the kitchen to throw away the sponge. She grabbed a yogurt, cheese and an apple from the refrigerator and ate them all practically at the same time. She hadn’t had a decent meal in a while and she had to take that moment to eat something recharge batteries. As she gulped down the yogurt, she realized her hands had lots of little cuts and she had blood under her nails. When Linda finished eating, she tried to clean it off but failed.

 It was time to go. Linda took out a cellphone and checked her messages. She had told Marlon to only text her and never to call her. Apparently he had gotten the idea because she had not received any calls, only one text when he asked if she was ok. She answered by only writing “yes”.

 When she walked out the house through the back, a gust of very cold wind hit her directly in the face. Maybe rain or some kind of snow front was coming. But that wasn’t important right now. She just closed her jacket the best she could and walked towards the car that was parked just on one side of the garden. It was one of those houses where everything looks perfect. But what was inside was not perfect, unless you were a homicidal maniac with a thing for order.

 Linda dismissed the thought of it all and got in the car. She had found the keys in an ashtray inside, as if the person that drove the car was always very careful about them. Linda drove faster than the previous owner, getting to the highway in no time. She tried not to speed in order not to attract any attention but it was hard. Her only wish was to be very far away from there, and that had to be done fast or they would link everything that had happened the last few days to her. And she couldn’t face that.

 Night came fast and also a thin rain, which was more annoying than anything else. She kept driving, remembering the faces she had seen recently and putting tags on the ones that she would never see again. Many people had died violently because of her lately and it was something that, although not honestly shocking, she did want it to be left behind. She wanted to be free from those awful memories and sights; she wanted to be left alone.

 However, as the “gas” sign on the car’s dashboard started beeping, she knew that wasn’t going to be possible. Right now, many cops, many people in general, were thinking that it was all her fault, it was all because of her and it was her who had done it all. And they were right, at least partially. Because she did have blood under her nails, because her body did ache because of the struggle and because she had seen what no one else had seen that week.

 Seven hours after departing the house, Linda pulled over a gas station. It was self-service, so she used the cash she had found on the house to fill the tank and hope no one would catch up with her there. She entered the store to pay and realized a table had been set up inside and, before she could walk back, the family having dinner there noticed her and smiled. Somehow, they were happy to see her, even if she had no idea who they were or what they were doing. Suddenly, people got up and smiled and she saw food on the table and remembered.

 It was Thanksgiving Day. She had forgotten all about it as she had been too busy dodging life. She walked closer and asked to pay for her gas but the family invited her to a plate. She insisted on paying but the mother replied they had all decided to celebrate the day there because the station was family property and they couldn’t close it down so the best way to celebrate was to do it in the store and give any costumers a plate to share the joy of the holiday.

 Linda insisted many more times, looking out at the car, but every single one of them kept insisting. They then put a plate on her hands and she had to do something she had almost forgotten how to do: act. She forced a smile on her face and went around the table putting various types of salads and vegetables and turkey on her plastic plate. She then thanked them all and told them she would prefer to eat it in her car, as she didn’t want to interrupt.

 Then, Linda heard it again. She froze right where she stood as the voice, which was not feminine or masculine, invaded her head. She didn’t understood how it had found her again. It had to be close. She asked for it not to do anything to her or to the people there but, when she realized it, she had dropped her plate of food and was now holding the knife they were using to cut the turkey. Her arm moved and she was inside of her body, unable to control anything. But as she was about to slash one of the attendants, a bullet entered her leg and she lost balance, collapsing to the floor. She lost consciousness right there.

 The woman had some awful dream, were voices in different tones told her what to do. One wanted her to poke her eyes out, another one advised to grab a knife and cut her legs off. Another, deeper voice, ask her to just drop dead. And then they all stopped talking and she heard a beautiful female voice. It was someone she knew or at least she seemed to be very familiar to her. But that didn’t matter. The voice told her, in words that felt like a medicine, that she had to fight back, not letting them in.

 Linda woke up, panting and sweating in a hospital bed. She had wanted to move but two things stopped her: she was tied to the bed, as they did with mental patients, and her leg was hurting too much, so she could barely move properly. She tried to fight her restraints but it was useless and she tried to scream too but her throat was dry and she would only hurt herself. Linda couldn’t cry either, as much as she had wanted to do so many times before. Somehow, she couldn’t.

 Two men then entered the room, a policeman and a doctor. The agent started talking about how she was going to be incarcerated due to her having murdered over twenty people the past few days and her attempted murder of a family that had been seating about to have dinner. Linda just shook her head, unable to speak. The men ignored this. The doctor then spoke, telling her that she apparently suffered from a condition in which illusions and voices were very present so he had recommended the police not to put her in jail but in a psychiatric ward.

 Again, Linda tried to scream, but couldn’t.

 She was transferred to a psychiatric hospital two days after they had extracted the bullet. There, she wouldn’t be isolated but she would remain for life. They had deemed her “incurable”, so she was just left alone with her thoughts.

 As much as she tried, for several years after her demise, she never regained the ability to speak. However, people understood her all the same. She had no idea why and she had no need for an explanation. The voices, both the crazy ones and the beautiful one, disappeared from her life. So she was just a regular girl living in a place filled with the most criminally insane people in the world. And all because of what some voices had told her to do, controlling her mind and body.

 As she got older, the clinic used her as the patient that welcomed any new additions to the madhouse. It was then when she realized how it was possible that people understood her. And it was amazing no one had said anything, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Maybe she was manipulating them too but realized that was too far fetched. Linda could only be in their heads, that was it.

Dolor de sueño

   Lo único que podía hacer era arquear la espalda, girar la nuca para un lado y para el otro y tratar de encontrar una nueva posición en la que dormir. Pero como todos sabemos, eso no es posible. Muy pocas personas son tan adaptables y yo simplemente nunca he sido una de esas personas. Intento acostarme boca arriba y lo único que hago es dejar los ojos abiertos y mirar al techo, así la oscuridad sea completa. Si duermo de lado, siento que estoy atrapando uno de mis brazos y siento como se va durmiendo lentamente. Ya me ha pasado antes que me duermo encima de uno y a la mañana siguiente me siento como una marioneta.

 Lo mío, sin lugar a dudas, es dormir boca abajo, con la cabeza girada, ocho veces sobre diez, hacia la derecha. No tengo ni idea de porqué es la única manera en que me quede dormido. Puede que cuando era un bebé tomé esa costumbre y ahora no la dejo por nada del mundo. No lo sé y la verdad puede llegar a ser bastante molesto.

 Comprar un nuevo colchón no era una opción pues la casa no era mía y simplemente no iba a gastar un dinero en algo tan personal para que después alguien lo usara más que yo. Nunca me ha gustado hacer caridades y menos aún cuando no tengo el poder adquisitivo, o mejor dicho el dinero, para hacer semejantes contribuciones. Así que simplemente trataba de encontrar mi mejor ángulo para dormir y listo.

 Una vez, recuerdo, estaba haciendo mis ejercicios de cuello y espalda en un tren, uno que iba considerablemente vacío, y varias personas se me quedaron mirando, como si jamás hubiesen visto a alguien con cuello. Eran tantas miradas y de manera tan penetrante que agradecí llegar a mi parada para no tener que sentir todos esos ojos encima mío. Se sintió extraño y ese día solo caminé a paso veloz a mi casa para hacer allí los ejercicios y hacer que mi espalda crujiera y aliviara mi dolor.

 Averiguando por ahí, encontré una masajista que decía ser la mejor en males relacionados con el sueño, así que concertamos una cita y fui a su consultorio. El resultado fue bastante pobre y estoy seguro que cualquier persona que yo conocía hubiese tenido más fuerza en las manos que esa pobre mujer. Lo único que me causó al final de la sesión fue dolor y no solo físico sino en la billetera al cobrarme un precio exorbitante por haberme hecho sentir más dolor. Por supuesto, jamás volvería a un masajista ya que soy de las personas que juzgan a un grupo por lo que hace uno de ellos.

 La acupuntura ayudó y resultó ser más relajante pero la verdad era que requería más fuerza, más insistencia, y resultados más rápidos. No podía estar yendo a cada rato para citas a ver que podíamos ir trabajando. Así que la opción era buena pero no lo suficiente.

 Cualquier amistad que viniese a mi casa tenía que soportar la extraña pregunta: “Te parece muy raro si te pido que te sientes en mi espalda?”. A muchos sí que les parecía raro y descartaban la pregunta como si fuera una de esas moscas gordas que entran en las habitaciones únicamente a molestar. Otros, los mejores amigos sin duda, aceptaban así no estuvieran muy seguros de que tenían que hacen o como tenían que hacerlo. Pero al fin y al cabo que no era ciencia nuclear sino sentarse en mi espalda.

 Es magnifico lo útil que era a veces. Sentir el peso de alguien sobre ti, es obviamente intimidante y da mucho miedo por la parte de quedarse sin aire, pero también es algo liberador. Es como si los males que te aquejan adquirieran una forma física que puedes quitarte de encima cuando quieras y que puedes sentir más fácilmente. Y lo normal es que sea más fácil para nosotros manejar lo que vemos y conocemos que lo que no tenemos ni idea cómo es.

 Pero al cabo de un tiempo tuve que dejar de hacerlo pues ya no tenía ningún efecto. Una amiga me aconsejó entonces que fuese a un doctor. Me sugirió que tal vez mi dolor de espalda provenía de una falta de vitaminas y minerales esenciales y que de pronto tomando algún tipo de medicamente podría mejorar estado de salud.

 Odio ir al médico pero a esas alturas estaba dispuesto a intentar lo que fuera. El doctor era uno que había encontrado casi al azar. El caso era que hiciese los exámenes pertinentes y encontrara una manera de quitarme la incomodidad de encima. Hablaba con esa voz y esa paciencia que bordea en lo molesto, esa que tienen muchos doctores como si con solo la voz ya estuvieran salvando al planeta de su destrucción. Me revisó superficialmente y al final me pidió una muestra de sangre.

 Los resultados se demoraron una semana en estar listos y estaba seguro  que era tiempo suficiente puesto que la cantidad de sangre que me habían sacado era suficiente para una buena cantidad de pruebas. Esperé en una sala de varias sillas y donde todo el mundo se veía como si estuviese a cinco segundos de su muerte. Siempre he pensado que los hospitales y centros de salud son deprimentes, pero esta gente de verdad que no se estaba ayudando. Era tan horrible estar ahí, que tuve que ponerme de pie y esperar admirando falsamente un afiche sobre enfermedades venéreas.

 Cuando por fin me hicieron pasar, seguí rápidamente al consultorio y me resultó especialmente curioso que el doctor no estuviese solo sino que estuviese acompañado de quién parecía otro doctor. Me iban a coger de conejillo de Indias o mi doctor era de esos que creo que cualquier momento es bueno para socializar, así haya elegido la carrera que más restringe cualquier construcción social en el mundo?

 Al rato me respondió que ese señor era un especialista del sueño que trabajaba cerca y que estaba interesado en mi caso. Por un segundo me dio risa pero después decidí mejor no reírme y únicamente sentarme al lado del doctor que no conocía.

La verdad fue que sentí como si hubiese viajado en el tiempo a la época en que iba a clase y no entendía ni jota de lo que me decían. Esto porque cuando los doctores hablaron, quedó en ceros completamente. Sé que me decían cifras y hablaban de algunas vitaminas pero también de compuestos que yo ni conocía pero también decían nombres raro y asentían entre sí como si fuera lo más obvio del mundo pero yo, con el pasar de cada segundo, entendía cada vez menos.

 No soy bueno en momentos así, cuando me siento con mayores desventajas que otros. Y la verdad es que con el tiempo he aprendido a no ser un idiota y a poner mi pie en el suelo y exigir que mi presencia sea reconocida. Así que lo que hice fue ponerme de pie de golpe y salir del consultorio. Fue tal cual, sin decir nada ni despedidas ni ninguna floritura social de esas que a la gente le fascina. Solo me fui.

 Al no ser una película, obviamente nadie salió corriendo detrás de mí. Además la cita estaba pagada por mi seguro entonces podía hacer un poco lo que se me diera la gana. En cuanto al tiempo del doctor ese, la verdad me da igual. Como gasta uno su tiempo es problema exclusivamente propio, así que cuando caminé esa fría mañana hacia un café y me senté a desayunar, no tenía la menor culpa.

 Sin embargo, el problema persistía. Como suele pasar, el cuerpo recuerda cosas de un momento a otro y de la manera más cruel: apenas me senté sentí como si la espalda se me fuese a romper ahí mismo. El dolor fue máximo y quise gritar pero no dije nada pues nunca me ha gustado llamar la atención. Entonces llegó el mesero y le pedí lo que quería. Se me quedó mirando raro pero se fue al instante.

 Cuando se movió de mi campo de visión, me di cuenta de algo que no había intentado en estos días para remediar mi dolor. Era una respuesta tan obvia, que me reprendí por no ser tan ágil como para haberlo pensado antes. Cogí el celular y empecé a escribir para arreglar todos los detalles. Como sabía, todo fue a mi favor y de la mejor manera posible. Cuando el mesero volvió con mi pedido, lo recibí con una sonrisa y un guiño. Puede que lo que iba a hacer no funcionara pero el ejercicio no me vendría mal después de todo.