Memoirs of an Old Man from the 21st Century
Today my gaze is a bit more tired.
Waking up isn’t always easy, especially after going to bed late to finish those family matters you can’t escape from.
I turned off the light and closed my eyes. I couldn't take it anymore.
A closed door, a shutter pulled down.
The distant border, I can’t see it anymore.
She’s always been there, ready to forgive me.
Not me—I’ve always condemned myself.
But not her, and neither the priest. So, I figure, neither did God.
No one, nobody. No one got mad at me.
A mistake that’s been around for 9 years.
I get mad at myself, of course, when I think that I have a daughter who considers that wonder of a child, my nephew, as her own.
A mistake, not so much for having him born, but because whatever he does, he gets it wrong.
He’s a living mistake. The perfect incarnation of error.
An anthropomorphic fool.
And serves her right, with his brazenness.
My daughter graduated with top marks, even better than her mother.
She married the man of her dreams, thank God.
She gave birth to a child with an innate artistic sense, but who’s hopeless at anything not related to art.
Her great-grandmother was a painter, and her great-grandfather dabbled in amateur artistic productions too.
I hope she understands that art doesn’t provide a job. Art doesn’t solve problems.
Art only gives answers to questions you’re not even sure you know how to ask.
My daughter's husband is black.
He’s black in skin, a black fascist, and black in mood too. He used to work for a funeral home, bricking dead dogs in the cemetery ovens.
He found in her the only way out of the contradiction that was his life.
He, a black fascist, angrily black, never loved by anyone.
She, a white vegan, in love with flowers, cabbages, and living flesh—not dead on a plate.
They met at our dog’s funeral.
Some things I still can't tolerate.
Since when do they bury dogs, with “ceremonies” paid for by the Region, my balls have dropped.
A celebrant with a tricolor sash, a Pluto mask, and a book full of formulas to recite, guaranteeing the deceased pup eternal (secular) rest.
Call me old-fashioned, but for me, when a beast dies, it doesn’t go to heaven.
At best, it ends up buried behind the house under a little flower, just to say, "Dear Fido, you were really sweet, thanks a lot for your loyalty, and say hello to the worms."
Fido, what a wonderful dog.
What a predictable name, dirty fur, and crappy attitude.
But never once did he let a thief into the house, never once.
The thieves, the gypsies, the Jehovah’s Witnesses—they all feared him, and I knew they’d poison him.
I think it was that priest who once got bitten by Fido in the butt… So many laughs!
I miss Fido, a bit, but for my daughter, his loss coincided with the loss of innocence.
She was 15. Never a doubt, proud carnivore and devout Catholic.
Then that episode, she never forgave the priest.
Yes, she still goes to confess to him sometimes, but not for the priest.
Fido’s death made her start eating only beans and salads, celery, tomatoes, and corn.
She went off the rails, poor girl.
I can’t tolerate certain things.
I don’t tolerate dog funerals.
I don’t tolerate people who put cheese on tuna pasta.
I don’t tolerate those who, at my age, still go to the gym, get a new girlfriend every year, and think they’re the ones who don’t want kids.
I don’t tolerate this lack of responsibility in men.
Women don’t need men who aren’t responsible. They need men who are men, not sissies.
Otherwise, everything makes sense, from dog funerals to banning marriage between man and woman if they don’t have kids.
I would have laughed if someone told me that when I got married.
Zero growth. Every woman has 0.05 children. We’re all just old.
At 65, I’m still young compared to the people around here.
My daughter had a child right away, now she’s expecting another girl.
Not because she wanted to, but because if you don’t have a child every 5 years during fertile age (not a year more, not one less), they annul your marriage, and you get a hefty fine.
She wanted a big family, but then the law passed, and you can’t have kids anymore unless the health service sends you a reminder.
Every 5 years, the health service calls the city’s wives, gives them a pill to get pregnant, and gives them 30 days.
60 days after the reminder, there’s a check-up: if the woman didn’t get pregnant, medical exams follow.
If it’s the first time, and the woman is sterile, the marriage annulment process begins.
If it’s not the first time, hormone treatments are administered for clinic-assisted fertilization.
Luckily, it wasn’t a big issue for my daughter.
She got pregnant on the first try with that amazing fool, my grandson.
A blond kid, how he turned out that way, I have no idea. My daughter has raven-black hair and green eyes, and he only vaguely resembles her in the softer features of his face.
The donor father must’ve been Nordic.
My daughter’s husband didn’t know he could have kids.
No one ever taught him, because by now, it’s something no one believes is possible.
I did get my wife pregnant, but those were other times, and such things could still happen.
The good old days, when you could ride a motorbike without a helmet or smoke in public places.
Not that I smoked; I was only 12 when the anti-smoking law passed in 2003.
But the air was different, maybe because there wasn’t such a need for so many laws back then.
5 years after conceiving that little fool, the black fascist got my daughter pregnant again, and I’m not sure how that happened.
I mean, I know, but I didn’t hope it was still possible.
My daughter had to report to the health service that her husband wasn’t sterile.
They checked him out, did all the treatments.
They discharged him after a few days, declaring him healthy, and offered him the chance to become a sperm donor.
He didn’t expect it, and I think he’ll decline.
People like him and my daughter sometimes prefer not to accept such modern practices.
There’s not much time left.
I’m 65, and I think my days will end sooner than expected.
In any case, I don’t know how much longer my wife has.
She’s 66 and still beautiful despite her age, but she’s starting to show some wear.
After menopause, she’s had a slow but progressive decline in mobility.
We are two, we are not alone.
When certain encounters happen, your reality can no longer be virtual.
You have to tire yourself out, get dirty, give in.
You have to wake up more tired than when you went to sleep.
That, virtual reality doesn’t allow.
My memory ends when I run out of data on my phone.
“Too much time spent on your phone,” she tells me.
“Too many apps, and I can’t apply myself,” I think.
My skin is thin. It tears with a scratch.
Just missing my dentures breaking too, and I’ll be condemned to a lifetime of broths.
Luckily, there’s not much time left.
It was easy when I was young, handsome, tall, slim, funny, with a hard cock, and free as a bird.
And I loved making silly rhymes; I’d win poetry contests with my friends by going for nonsense.
It was easy back then, or maybe I made it easy.
Now it seems pointless.
The pain peeler has stripped the tangy, fragrant peel from that swollen, juicy lemon that is my life.
My shriveled body has squeezed it out.
Now I must drink from the bitter cup all its sour juice.
Too much lemon. If those who live in hope die shitting, I hope I don’t die constipated.
Who will give me back the vibrant zest of those young years, spent making choices?
Who will give me back the opportunities I lost, the decisions that were mine, but I left to the couch?
Who will give me back the freshness, courage, and observation I replaced with an app to organize my life and make it devoid of surprises?
Who will give me back the best years of my life, now that I’m old?
My life. One, only.
You have to be two to not be alone.
A breath of fresh air in this humid, breezy morning on the outskirts of my city.
I was born here, raised here, got married here, gave birth to my children, aged, and died here, over and over again.
Every time without hope because I had already made the biggest mistakes.