XXXVI - Fighting Against Oneself

The repetitive bell ringing makes him sulky. Annoyed, Leonardo quickly finishes the morning’s last sentence and carefully closes the notebook, before rushing to open the door to his guest.

As he slides along the artery of white stucco that connects his depersonalized bedroom to the lobby, he reflects upon the structure of what he hopes will some day become his first book. The doubts that now so energetically stir his mind are mostly related to the tone of the narrative – should he adopt a Beatnick-like jargon, following on the footsteps of his literary idols Kerouac and Burroughs, or would it be better to adopt a more conservative speech, which is maybe a better fit to his own temperament? Or maybe he should adopt a style thriving with obscenities like good old Irvine Welsh. Writing like that has to be quite satisfying… Maybe the best option would be to create an original style, inspired by all those people as well as his travels and life experiences, without renouncing to his own identity. After all the best writers have their own imprint. You notice they wrote something as soon as you start reading it. Perhaps that’s the key to being a good writer, to be faithful to your own unique individuality, he concludes silently.

Even if he could not find an answer to such a difficult question straight away, Leonardo couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud of himself. It was still only the beginning, a dozen pages at most, but it was already something. He had finally stopped thinking about writing and started writing. Precisely two weeks had passed since, at a Starbucks café in the Baixa, Leonardo had started his “secret project”. 

Suddenly, Leonardo notices that he is walking in a rather unusual way. His steps are without a doubt somewhat abnormal: lively, inspired, enthusiastic even. His feet move graciously and elegantly, guided by the kind of certainty and confidence that he, more often than not, lacked. Maybe he is different because he just surfed a nearly perfect wave of inspiration that lasted the greater part of the morning… or maybe saying so would be somewhat of a romantic exaggeration. What is certain, however, is that Leonardo’s brain is now filled with ambition and ideas. They echo through his brain, creating the sort of vibrating resonance that reminds him of the coordinated movement of a huge crowd at a football stadium, stampeding the ground frenetically before a penalty-kick. Or, rather less poetically put, it also reminded him of a dildo.

On the other hand, he’s also a bit upset. The hysteric buzzing of the bell has effectively killed his momentum and, even in spite of his inexperience, he had quickly learned that inspiration is not always easy to attain and when you have it you shouldn’t let go of it no matter what. At least his faithful black Moleskin had kept safe all of the good ideas that had come to him that morning. Furthermore, he could already smell the yummy taste coming from the oven, where a (hopefully) delicious meat Lasagna was cooking. Also, he’s about to have lunch with two of his best friends, and they have the whole house to themselves the entire day so, all in all, life is actually pretty good in this particular Sunday morning.

While he fiddles with the intercom, in a clumsy attempt to open the door to his friend, Leonardo notices how his fingers are covered by small bruises and a number of ink stains, the marks of a whole morning of intense, violent even, writing. He now realizes, looking at it, that it actually hurts a bit.      

When he finally manages to turn on the small black-and-white intercom screen he sees a guy laughing at the camera, while proudly displaying a big erect middle finger which covers part of his face.

‘Hey man, I have a delicious lasagna on the oven, do you wanna come up or what?’

‘Hey Leo, you bet, I’m so hungry! I’m coming up!’   

Five minutes later they’re seating on Leonardo’s bed, looking at old pictures, a reminder of the old times when they had just met. The pictures reveal a miniature version of Leonardo, one meter and a half tall at most, playing with friends on the grass in some park, riding a muddy bicycle, or acting on a school play. The rest of the room’s decorations are equally anchored on a distant, juvenile past. The shelves are filled with toys and comic books, the sheets and blankets that cover the single bed are Disney themed and most drawers are filled with Leonardo’s drawings, stories and school reports at least a decade old, sometimes two.

‘So, do you think you’re gonna bring any girls here?’ asks David, while holding an oldOptimus Prime action figure, trying to figure out how to turn it back into a truck. ‘I bet that when you tell them that you wanna play they don’t think that you actually wanna play with toys…’

Leonardo smiles in embarrassment, whist twitching uncomfortably on top of his old Toy Story blanket. ‘Yeah, I really need to redecorate this room as soon as possible. It’s quite pathetic for a guy of my age to sleep in a room like this. Maybe I’ll use part of my first pay check to upgrade this room to the XXI century. In any case I don’t think I’ll stay in my mum’s place that long.’

‘It’s kinda weird that your mum kept all your childhood stuff but almost none of your high school things, don’t you think? I mean is there anything left from that time at all?’

‘Nah, not really… a few books and videogames pretty much. I guess she prefers to think of me as a child and not as a somewhat problematic teenager. I can’t really blame her though. We all do the same thing in one way or the other, nostalgia is one of the best natural drugs that exist in the world. When the present is not to our liking, we escape into the past or into the future which, in our heads are miraculously always better than they really were or ever will be. We look back to our past and start trying to make it better, and little by little we start to believe in our own lies,’ says Leonardo, whilst picking up a portrait of himself apparently having fun at some fair or festival, somewhere, sometime, lost in the past…

‘Well,’ says David, bringing him back to the present, ‘if you wanna look for some of your lost teenage stuff I can help you, I’m sure there’s some stuff at least, maybe hidden in some obscure box in one of the closets spread around the apartment.’

‘Yeah, it’s a possibility… maybe we can look for that stuff after we have lunch.’

‘Sure, when is Alex coming?’

‘He’s supposed to be on his way…’ Leonardo is interrupted by the ring of his cell phone and as soon as he presses the green button he hears Alex’ voice on the other side of the line:

‘Hey man, I’m running a bit late but I’ll be there in fifteen minutes tops ‘right? My ruddy sister took forever to come home so I didn’t have the car till now…’

‘No problem man, I’ll keep the lasagna warm for you so take your time… as long as it’s not too much time,’ he says, before hanging up.

Out of all his friends, Alexandre is probably Leonardo’s closest friend, the only one who (almost) “gets him.” He’s sort of a strange mix between Woody Allen and Jerry Seinfeld if you can even imagine such an unorthodox character. His self-esteem was so low that you couldn’t help but instantly feel some sympathy for the fella, and his spot-on sense of humour manufactured a sugary shell for an otherwise lonely and vinegary soul. Every time he felt like crying, he added a new joke to his now vast repertoire, every time he felt lonely and depressed he did his best to muster a convincing smile, capable of fooling even himself if he cared to look into a mirror. As the years went by, Alex managed to develop a formidable capacity to mask his cognitive and behavioural dysfunctions. Most people who had just met him would think that Alexandre was a happy guy, lively and vivacious. Leonardo knows better. He sees Alex the way he really is, like a fine poker player, capable of deceiving anyone, bluffing his way through the entire “game” if necessary.

´So, when is he coming, I’m fucking hungry man!’ said David throwing an American football at Leonardo, a reminder of his time playing that weird, violent game, when he went to Uni in England.  

‘He’s a bit late, but he said that he’ll be here in fifteen minutes, let’s have some crackers in the meantime or something like that,’ answered Leo, throwing the football back at David.

We strode towards the intercom. This time around, the black and white monitor revealed a tall, skinny fella, waving and smiling rather awkwardly. Alex is the kind of guy that always makes you laugh, even when he’s not trying to be funny at all.

‘Hey Alex, welcome to my humble palace, come up,’ I said, whilst pushing the red button to open the door downstairs.

We waited for Alex a few minutes, by the front door, but he didn’t show up…

‘That’s weird,’ I said.

‘Maybe he forgot which one is your floor…’ suggested David.

‘Maybe…’ In the meantime, my nostrils were invaded by the poignant odor oozing from the kitchen - its source was the lasagna that I had prepared the day before and was now baking on the oven – the smell of delicious melted cheese and cooked beef was now impregnating the whole house. ‘Can you stay by the door and wait for Alex? I’m gonna check on the lasagna.’

I walked towards the kitchen following the yummy smell of meat and cheese. I then opened the oven and carefully examined the contents inside. Leaning towards the oven I must have resembled a gynecologist on a work day, thoroughly perusing the small, stuffy whole. Everything seemed to be going according to plan on that end; in five or ten minutes it should be ready, I thought. I was satisfied, the Lasagna looked just how I had imagined it: tanned, crunchy and delicious. Man, I had gone a long way since those times when I had just left my mom’s house and had found myself living by my own, having to cook in order to survive.  At first, the things I cooked at home were so bad that it had proven a real challenge to actually eat them.
 My self’-adulation was suddenly interrupted by a familiar vibrating feeling coming from my back pocket.  In a move worthy of an expert juggler, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, answered the call, closed the oven’s door with a gentle kick and stood up on my feet.      It was Alex calling.

‘Hey man where the fuck are you?’ I asked him, mildly impatiently.

‘You’re not gonna believe this… I’ll give you ten euros if you figure out where I’m calling you from.’

‘Are you still at home?’

‘Still cold.’

‘You’re at the front entrance?’

‘Getting warmer…’

‘Are you on your way here?’

‘More or less... that is I WAS on my way but not anymore...’

The plot thickens…

‘Okay, I give up. Where are you?’

‘I’m trapped in the fucking elevator man. This won’t go up or down and the damn button is as silent as a frigid woman. The lights stopped working too so it’s pitch black in here.’

These news didn’t come at a total surprise. After all, Alex always was the unlucky type. His was not the kind of bad luck that will get you killed, but rather they type that drives you more pessimistic and neurotic than you’ll care to admit.
Pretty much ever since we first became friends, Alex had built a might impressive curriculum filled with unbelievable episodes of bad luck, some of them so unlikely to happen to “normal” person –as in someone who doesn’t have chronic bad luck.

So when I heard the news I actually chuckled a bit. Then I realized that maybe the situation was partially my fault. The two elevators in the building had a history of giving a hard time to the building’s residents, sometimes stopping between floors, although the problem would usually fix itself after a few seconds or a couple of minutes at most. Still… I should have told Alex to take the stairs considering the nature of his rare “condition”.

On the other side of the line, Alex was starting t freak out a bit.
‘Dude, you gotta call someone, do you have the elevator company’s number? Call them or call someone else, the firemen or something and tell them there’s a very unlucky guy stuck on the elevator. If they don’t come quick I think I’ll piss my pants, I really have to go to the bathroom Leo…’

It figures…

‘Look don’t worry, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll try to get you out of there as soon as I can.’

‘Ok chop-chop Leo.’

I hung up and started looking around, like a headless chicken, for a number I could call. After roaming around the house a bit, I finally found the yellow pages and then dialed the fire department number.

‘Hey Alex, hang in there, they’re coming.’

‘Cool, I’m actually quite relieved now. Who did you call?’

‘Firemen. Don’t know if that’s what you’re supposed to do in this kind of cases but they said someone’s on their way so I guess it worked.’

‘Nice. I bought a Guinness six-pack on my way to your place so I’m in luck. The perfect survival kit.’

‘Ern... I don’t know about that. I’m afraid it’s not such a great idea if you wanna keep your trouser dry for when your saviors show up.’

‘Oh shit! I forgot about that...’ he says, before hanging up?

‘Hey Leo, what happened? Why were you running round the house like that? Is everything okay?’ asked David.

‘Yeah… Alex is trapped in the elevator, I called the firemen, they’re coming… I guess you’ll have to stay hungry for a bit longer mate.’

‘Shit man, that guy really doesn’t have any luck…’

Almost two hours later, a beaten up Alex was finally liberated, crossing the metallic elevator walls and leaping into safe ground. As he abandons the lift, it lights up again, attributing almost a biblical tone to the unlikely scene. Alex realized how bizarre the situation was and decided to joke about it.

‘Do not worry friends, I have finally arrived, followed by the celestial light – he says with open arms – yet I beg you, do not hug me with vigor brothers, because if not I will piss all over my legs.’ This prompts everyone to laugh, even the two firemen at the site. 

Sadly, after being put on hold for two hours, the Lasagna had lost but all of its gastronomic potential. Something that could have proven an abundant source of gastronomic pleasure, turned into a mere source of nutrients, eaten by formality and necessity rather than enjoyment. As we processed the dry, hard pasta, we asked the usual questions; ‘what have you been up to lately? ‘did you meet any girls?’, ‘what are your plans for the future?’; and so on…

After we finished eating, we decided to continue our conversation in the living room. Alex and I took a seat at the metallic-blue couch –it had a really modern look to it and I’m sure it was made by some pretentious fuck like most of the pieces of furniture at my mom’s place. David on the other hand preferred to seat on one of the expensive chairs in the living room, a strange looking chair that didn’t seem much comfortable at all.

‘Cool dude, after all that time spent travelling and living abroad you’ll have plenty of source material for your writing. I think you should definitely do it!’ Alex seemed genuinely excited for me when I told him I had started to write a book based on my life experiences. Looking at him, I noticed how little he had changed since we had finished high school. He was still skinny as a teenager and was wearing a super-hero teacher. It was all red except for the golden Flash icon in the middle. The shirt itself was quite old, and I recalled seeing Alex wear it if not at high-school than only a couple of years later. His jeans were torn down, so you could see his skinny knees breathing through. I wasn’t sure if that made him seem cool, Kurt Cobain style, or it made him look like a homeless person. His feet were sporting, like always, a worn-down pair of tennis shoes, made to work hard in his almost daily long walks or runs. Alex was like one of those Ethiopian runners that run everywhere, except he was white and wasn’t a pro marathon runner. 

‘Yeah man, that’s the fucking plan. Write. I think that in a way that was always what I really wanted to do you know?’ I said, while I fiddle with my American Football. ‘And also, deep down, I think that writing is a lot more honest work than being a journalist. I mean, I went to Uni and all but all I really learned was a lot about theoretical shit basically, and world politics and stuff like that… I never really learned to do anything practical. It’s like, I’m fooling people pretending to be like them you know? At least when I write I’m not fooling anyone, it’s me and my thoughts and a piece of paper. I feel good about it, I don’t feel the way I feel at work, like I’m a fraud or something, that someday some dude is gonna point a finger at me and say get outta here you big fat liar!’

‘Join the club man,’ said Alex ‘I think not a lot of people really feels prepared to join the real world after Uni these days. I’ve had a job for a while now but trust me, everyday I think I’m gonna get fired. I even think that my boss hates me. Some day soon they’re gonna kick me out, but I don’t care, that’s just things are nowadays. I don’t know… it’s all about doing stuff because people expect us to do them isn’t that how it works?’

‘Well what if you just say fuck you to everyone and do what YOU want?  Anyways, I feel good about this! ‘I said, so excited that I had to get up and kick the air in front of me, as if it were an imaginary enemy.

‘And how are you gonna do both things at the same time – work at the newspaper and write your book? – I can only imagine that after a whole day spent in front of a PC the last thing you’ll wanna do when you go home will be to spend your evening punching keyboard keys away - Especially when you have a room full of toys to play with.’ asked  David with a smirk on his face.

‘I gotta say, David has a point there, ’agreed Alex, ‘personally, I have the same problem. I would like to dedicate more time to my blog but after a day at work I never find the will to write any posts.’ After a short pause, he proceeded ‘Look why do you think that porn stars are the worst girlfriends in the world? Okay, there’s the whole VDs and dishonor stuff, but other than that. Don’t you think that after they spend the whole day being fucked they’re gonna wanna have more sex when they get home to their boyfriends or husbands? No fucking way.

‘That’s a shitty example man’ I said, seating down again, a bit discouraged.

‘Look don’t get down like that bro, I’m just trying to be realistic here. We both know that you’re not the kind of guy that can work eight hours in an office and then work two more hours at home man, you’re a lazy bum… a lazy bum with a lot of interesting things to say I think, but still a lazy bum…’

‘Thanks…’ I said ironically.

‘Look this might be shitty advice, but why don’t you do it full-time if you really wanna do it? Realistically, that’s the only way you’ll ever get it done.

‘I think it’s not a good idea.’ Intervened David ‘After all he just got a great opportunity at the newspaper. Throwing it away is a very stupid move I think. If you wanna write a book, write it in your free time Leo, that’s my advice.

‘Well what do I know? David’s advice is probably a lot wiser than mine… still, I think that you shouldn’t neglect your dreams, no matter what. You have only one live to live, one chance, one opportunity. Sometimes you need to have ball s to seize that chance. - Something I don’t have by the way… - but I think that you have the capacity to do it.

‘I don’t know Alex, I don’t think I have the balls either. It takes a lot of courage to go against the current, to do your own thing. It’s hard to be a freak.

‘It’s even harder to fight your own nature man, and we both know that’s what you’re doing right now.’



Co-Written with Goncalo Barbosa