Desbordamiento
Also Known as Overflow
A young man rises, reluctantly. The clock labels a time. The calendar circles a day. A humid wind whispers the weather forecast through the balcony doors.
He passes a mirror, which extends a glimpse of heat-frizzled hair and rose-smothered cheeks. He slides on his Goodr sunglasses. Ready to go.
On his way down the stairs, he greets the tubby bald man with the barking dogs. “Buenas,” he offers politely, despite the commotion. The man wears the same black t-shirt and jean shorts as every other day. He angrily grunts in return.
A building door swings open.
Right on Calle de Atocha. Sushi restaurant. Vietnamese food. Bike shop.
Right on Calle del Marques de Toca. Cocktail bar, cat-themed. Taberna Jam, Spanish tapas with an Asian twist. He’s allergic to their falafel. They insist it does not include frutos secos, but his body reacts in disapproval every time. He eats them anyway.
Left on Calle de Santa Isabel. Outdoor terrazas. Movie store, not to be confused with a theatre, and not a Blockbuster either. He’s not really sure what they do in there. Today they were talking pictures in the foyer, giggling. Kids crowd the street, walking home from school in boisterous, white-clad bunches.
Right on Calle del Doctor Fourquet. Construction. Plant themed balconies. A homeless couple smokes crack out of a pipe on the dirty cobblestone floor.
Right on Calle de Argumosa. Fountains. Tables. Chatter.
The young man enters a building. A petite, elderly gentlemen in a white lab coat and a blue mask welcomes him. “Pasa,” he says kindly.
The young man humbly obliges, only slowing his steps as he approaches the red curtains that drape from the ceiling and require a sidestep lunge to circumnavigate at any height above 5 feet 4 inches.
“Pasa,” the doctor repeats, ushering the young man through a waiting room adorned by hand-sculpted wooden statues, sticky red leather seats and overlapping rugs that look like they once belonged in a Turkish bazaar. The whole theme of the place is vaguely Buddhist. Is that possible?
“Siéntate,” the doctor insists. Again, the young man obliges. “Dime,” the doctor continues. Curt, but friendly.
“Well doc,” the young man begins. “Thanks for taking me in on such short notice.” The young man only called for the appointment roughly 30 minutes prior to arriving. He likes this doctor because he’s always available, though he’s not sure if that’s a good thing. “I’m sick, you see,” he continues. “Real sick,” he reiterates with a flare of self-disapproval.
“Pues, cuéntame. ¿Que te pasa?” The young man braces himself, as if he’s about to reveal a great, unlived secret.
“I’ve got all this love to give, and nowhere to put it anymore. It’s swarming inside me, like moss in the shade on forgotten stone. Or wildflowers where no one thought to look. It feels like I’ve been forgotten, but love never forgets. So, it swells and it swells, like waves in the ocean. Or maybe, for a more medical term, kind of like blue balls, you know. Like blue balls, but in the heart.”
“Como como? ¿Has dicho cojones azules?” the doctor questions with a sideways grin.
“Yeah, exactly! Como cojones azules, but in the heart. Maybe I should say red balls. Yeah, that sounds more scientifically accurate. The balls in my heart that are swelling to the point of explosion are probably more red than blue. And I just can’t fit any more balls in there. The heart’s a pretty big muscle, or so I’ve heard. But these balls, man. They’re pretty big, too. And they’re throbbing. And they won’t stop.”
“Cuando comenzaron los síntomas?” The doctor inquires, in that monotone doctor voice, like he’s had this conversation a million times before.
“About two months ago,” the young man answers. “But it’s gotten particularly bad the last few weeks,” he concedes. It always surprises him; the way things tend to get worse before they get better.
“Que ha pasado hace dos meses?” Another calculated doctor question, leading the witness into confession.
At first, the young man remains silent.
“No te puedo ayudar sin los detalles, ¿sabes?” The doctor adds with a full body contortion. The kind of movement that screams, “Oye, pues,” without vocalizing it.
“I understand, doc,” the young man admits. “I guess let’s just say… I was giving that love to a place that doesn’t exist anymore. I didn’t want it to, ya know, stop existing. I don’t even really know why it stopped existing. But it did, and I haven’t stopped producing the love.”
“Ahh. Ahora entiendo.” The doctor nods. He’s pushing 90 years old, of course he understands. Wisdom thrives on brevity. It recognizes truth right away, like a website recognizes a correct password.
“I knew you would. So, what can I do?” The young man panders hopefully, longingly. Dreaming up a pill that will cure his heartache in an instant.
“Pues, no estas enfermo. Estas perfecto, en realidad.”
“I’m not sick?” the young man replies, incredulous.
“No. No estas enfermo. Es que tu capacidad ha crecido mas rápido que la circunstancia.” When the line was spoken, time thinned around him. For just a moment, the earth quit orbiting around the sun. He is stunned at the notion that his illness might be his superpower.
“What?” He inquires, though he recognizes the doctor’s sentiment more intimately than he’s recognized anything before. It’s a glimmer of wisdom that now penetrates the young man’s spirit. Like a truth he’s known forever was finally acknowledged out loud.
“Tu observas,” the doctor begins. “Te sientes. Te amas. No tienes un vinculo para poner el amor, pero eso no significa que no lo produces. No es enfermedad. Es desbordamiento.”
“The red balls ripping through my chest are overflow?”
“Si. Desbordamiento,” the elderly doctor responds. “Ahora te escribo algo.” The young man waits patiently, cracking his knuckles in his lap and tapping his heel to the ground with obsessive compulsion. The doctor slides a folded piece of paper across the cluttered desk. The young man opens it, and reads it aloud.
¿Donde puedes ponerlo ahora?