‘Two quesadillas with chicharrón, some chicken chilaquiles and two orange juices.’
‘We don’t have orange juice.’
‘So get some from the juice stand next door.’
A fast-paced battle broke out between the tie man and the little bun, which reached its climax when the tie man conjectured that if the waiter were living in the United States he would die in poverty, and was settled when the man agreed to walk fifty metres in exchange for resale rights. After agreeing on the percentage of the surcharge the waiter made off, promising to be quick, efficient and eternally loyal.
‘You’re even good when you fuck it up. What’s the trick?’
‘There is no trick.’
‘And I’m a fucking idiot. Make no mistake, I’m not like those fools you scam. Can’t you see who you’re talking to, you idiot?’
He seemed to be trying to tell me that there were two types of people in the world: those who wore ties and the idiots. Regardless of how smart the tie was, it shone with the lustre conferred only by regular use. The worn-out fabric was compensated for by the quality of the wearer’s performance, that of a man destined for intrigue, for the world of the abstract.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Oreo.’
‘Like the biscuits?’
‘No, my name’s Orestes, but they call me Oreo.’
‘No shit. Are you Greek?’
‘No, I’m from Los Altos. My dad has a thing about the Greeks.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘Thirteen or fourteen?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Thirteen or fourteen?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘Are you sure? When were you born?’
‘In ’73.’
‘And how would that make you sixteen? Were you going to move time forward by two years?’
‘Eh?’
‘How long have you been on the street?’
‘Six months.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘San Miguel.’
‘Yeah, I saw your teeth. Why did you run away from home?’
‘I didn’t run away, I got lost.’
‘No one gets lost if they don’t want to. Did your dad get drunk? Mess around with you?’
‘No, no. I got lost, honest, and I didn’t want to go back.’
‘Where did you get lost?’
‘In the ISSSTE shop.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘It was really busy, because the shop had been shut for several days.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the Little Rooster’s supporters had occupied the town hall …’
‘Now you’ve blown it. You can’t be from San Miguel. Start again. Where are you from?’
‘La Chona.’
‘Lagos.’
‘I’m from Lagos.’
‘Yeah, I saw your teeth.’
The waiter came back from his excursion empty-handed. He hadn’t lost his defiant attitude, because his failure could be blamed on technical reasons. It was precisely to communicate this kind of news that he wore the little bun: a smart appearance is appreciated when you are making excuses.
‘There’s no orange juice. The juicer’s broken.’
‘Oh, is that right? Well, two Coca-Colas, then.’
‘It’s eight hundred thousand pesos.’
‘For what?’
‘For going to get the juice.’
‘But you didn’t bring shit.’
‘But I went. I fulfilled my side of the deal.’
‘No way. That’s a risk you take in business, my friend, no fucking way.’
The waiter went to avenge his defeat in the kitchen. I was left wondering if he would spit in the quesadillas or mix some of his snot into the melted cheese in the chilaquiles. I wouldn’t eat anything we were served here, in the hypothetical scenario of us one day being brought our food.
‘Why did you leave home?’
‘Because we lived on the hill and it was boring as hell.’
‘That’s a circumstance, not a reason. It’s not valid.’
‘I was hungry, we were poor and I’ve got lots of brothers and sisters.’
‘Very good. How many?’
‘Six.’
‘No. Six isn’t very many. Eleven’s better. How many?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Eleven. Who did you run away with?’
‘I went on my own.’
‘You’re lying. At your age you need someone to give you a push. An older brother.’
‘No, my twin brother.’
‘You have a twin brother?’
‘Uh-huh, but we don’t look alike.’
‘What the fuck do you mean?’
‘We’re pretend twins. We’re twins but we look nothing like each other.’
‘No. That doesn’t work. Don’t fuck me around. What kind of fucking confused story is that? Better make it an older brother.’
Apparently Aristotle had fucked with my life enough now and it was Socrates’ turn, only a Socrates in reverse, one who, instead of drawing the truth out from within you, would present it to you ready-made: this was a proactive Socrates.
The drinks arrived and the waiter opened them in our presence, as if to let us know we shouldn’t worry about this part of the meal, that he was saving the best for later. I held the bottle up to the light, remembering that my grandmother had once swallowed a cockroach while confidently drinking a Coca-Cola. The tie man didn’t bother verifying the quality of his drink, on the surface of which there floated a thin film that grew denser towards the bottom. Actually, this description isn’t valid from a scientific point of view. The position of the film in the liquid depended on its density; at the bottom it was denser than the Coca-Cola and so it was sinking. This was Archimedes’ field, but back then I was yet to be introduced to him. Being such a distinguished person, the tie man had been assigned the cask-aged Coca-Cola, which he began drinking in long gulps.
‘Who did you run away with?’
‘My older brother.’
‘Where were you trying to get to?’
‘Mesa Redonda.’
‘The hill? What for?’
‘To wait for the aliens.’
‘OK, damn it. Do you want to learn or not? Where were you trying to get to?’
‘Learn what?’
‘What do you mean “what”? To speak!’
‘I already know how to speak.’
‘Oh yeah? Well, you speak total shit that’s no good to anyone.’
‘And I can recite poetry too.’
‘Seriously? Go on, then.’
And I began:
‘Patria, I love you not as myth
but for the communion of your truth
as I love the child peering over the rail
in a blouse buttoned up to her ear-tips
and skirt to her ankle of fine percale …’
‘You’re fucking kidding me! Let’s just leave it there, shall we? So, where were you trying to get to?’
‘To Disneyland. We wanted to go to Disneyland.’
‘At your age? Don’t lie. Where were you trying to get to?’
‘Poland.’
‘Poland is nowhere. Don’t fuck with me.’
‘To Guadalajara.’
‘That’s more like it! Why?’
‘To live.’
‘To study.’
‘To study.’
‘What did you want to study?’
‘High school.’
‘Don’t be stupid, after that. What do you want to be when you grow up?’
‘A teacher.’
‘And starve to death? Don’t you want to stop being poor? Why not say a doctor.’
‘A doctor, I want to be a doctor.’
‘Very good — but you’re not studying.’
‘No. I left my brother behind and now I have to beg.’
‘Why did you leave him?’
‘We had a fight.’ I pointed at the scar criss-crossing my cheek; the vileness of the gesture brought a few little tears of shame to my eyes.