Saut de Chat, en avant
Bertilda, my secretary, runs to the cafeteria and sticks fifty cents in the coffee machine. Fifty cents are hers, coffee is for me. Bertilda I call her, and she comes. Bertilda I tell her, and she does; as the centurion with Jesus, a word is enough. Bertilda runs coffee in hand and places it on my desk. Go home early Bertilda, but you always stay. Bertilda, how many coffees have you paid for? None, sir, and you type away like a concert pianist. Check if the stylist can see me. Send for Mathias’ report card. You jot it down. I leave at nightfall – hasta mañana – thinking you’re still there, in the same shoes you wore three years ago to your interview and your hatred comes to me in waves, frothy; suddenly I’m aware that, someday, you’ll jump from your cage and eat me alive, possibly shredded, into pieces.
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Mercury retrograde
Every morning you patiently wait for the sales people to finish reading the newspaper and you inherit it worn, the white parts gray already, black ink gray already as well. Then it‘s yours because newspapers belong to everyone and no one until it’s yours. You take your newspaper and unfold it over the cafeteria table. You concentrate on the front page, but don’t read it. Front page news you already heard from the accountants, who arrive before the sales people. You unfold the following three pages – local news – then the following two – international. You extract the business section and skip the socials; those you’ll hear from top management, who almost always arrive late. Only one section concerns you and, with difficulty, you turn pages with your right hand while the left irons out the wrinkles left by previous readers. Left index and thumb darker than the others, because you like to rub the paper while reading and it’s almost as pleasant as digging for boogers.
You stop at the funnies. Olaf, the Fourth Reich. You used to read them, not any more, not since they stopped printing Mafalda. Your eyes descend, maybellined eyelids slowly closing until there’s only the right opening you pose over the word horoscope.
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Every morning you patiently wait for the sales people to finish reading the newspaper and you inherit it worn, the white parts gray already, black ink gray already as well. Then it‘s yours because newspapers belong to everyone and no one until it’s yours. You take your newspaper and unfold it over the cafeteria table. You concentrate on the front page, but don’t read it. Front page news you already heard from the editors, who arrive before the sales people. You unfold the following three pages – local news – then the following two –international. You extract the business section and skip the socials; those you’ll hear from top management, who almost always arrive late. Only one section concerns you and, with difficulty, you turn the pages with your right hand while the left irons out the wrinkles left by previous readers. Right index and thumb darker than the others, because you like to moisten them with saliva before turning every page; almost as pleasant as digging for boogers.
You stop at the the funnies. Beatle Bailey, Marmaduke. You used to read them, not any more, not since they stopped printing Mafalda. Your eyes descend, eyelids slowly closing until there’s only the right opening you place on the word horoscope.
Because this is yesterday’s paper, many have already tried their luck at the crossword puzzle. The one in the blue ink more successfully than the black ink. You wonder if both read their horoscopes, if the predictions forged at the last minute will hold some truth, if they know you make a living this way; you don’t believe in these things, you; and you have to smile, just a little; the irony. You then think of the piles of lotto tickets that didn’t win a dime, the un-loves, brand-new loves, the arguments, the lawsuits; friendships lost, decisions made against sound council, the consequences accepted. The occasional mix-up. Almost like believing in a higher power, an order of things, the divine causality. The irony, you think once again, the possibility that god is you, millions of lives thrown off balance, off course –irreparably, you think – cast away into incertitude by a simple act of faith.
Mafalda a comic strip by the Argentine cartoonist Joaquín Salvador Lavado (Quino). The strip features a girl named Mafalda who is deeply concerned about humanity and world peace and rebels against the world as it is.
Lili Mendoza
Republic of Panama
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These short stories were published at IN OUR OWN WORDS A Generation Defining Itself, Volume 8 (MWE Enterprises, 2010)
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About Lili Mendoza
Panamanian writer born in 1974. She majored in Advertising and Fine Arts. When younger - much younger – she was a ballerina. She now owns a small advertising agency and produces la hoja, a syndicated radio show.
Her stories have been published in local news papers, literary magazines, and international anthologies. Her short fiction is raw, visual and to the point. Never the one to beat around the bushes, her stories are rebellious, bittersweet portraits of contemporary humanity.
Winner of the ACE Central American Short Fiction award in 2009. Patent Leather Heart A-go-go is her first book.
In love with the ocean, she divides her time between diving, reading and writing. She loves painting and doing her laundry.
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