I’m startled by a series of sharp, quick noises. I lift myself from a dusty futon. I walk into a kitchen.
The residual moisture from the bottom of a pot crackles against a smooth ceramic stovetop.
The lights are off. I grab a spotty fork from the drying rack next to the sink and rinse it in hot water. Useful. I stir a half-cup serving of Macaroni’s, which swoon as they soften in bubbling water.
Once, I was a young man. That was long, long ago. Gosh. How long has it been? My skin shrivels in slow motion. My nose crinkles from the pollen penetrating my piso through shattered glass. My hands quake. Arthritis.
World. Passing me by. Boisterous and smug. Blooming with Spring’s yearly covenant of new beginnings. Manipulating the masses for leisure. Deluding the youth with a backwards grin.
World. Garnishing mountain tops with snow caps. Furnishing terrestrial surfaces with lush green meadows while hot, angry lava rumbles underneath. Paving pathways with crushed limestone. Merging distant cliffs with suspension bridges. Beautifying the dust that singes my blistering eyes with a canvas of burnt-sienna rock formations. Serrated and violent and imposing. Beautiful.
World. Quiet and warm and peaceful. Crystal clear waters and secluded beaches. Butterfly gardens and religious monasteries. Sunlight pouring through large windows of wooden cabins in the countryside, casting golden hues on a rustic interior. The subtle scent of burning candles and the temperamental hiss of firewood.
World. On trial. Proven guilty. For sickness and disaster. For thickening the smog of polarization. For sensationalizing treachery. For allowing miscreants and scoundrels to mine its abundance without restriction.
World. On trial. Proven innocent. The perfect alibi. Exonerated of all earthly sins. Everywhere. So nowhere. Every time. So never. The strongest dam eventually gives way to the tide of the river.
World. Eroding into hardly audible, nebulous whispers, which seep through the black mold spores that decorate the floor boards of my balcony door.
I’m eating pasta when the delivery man sends me an email. He says he’s leaving. I didn’t know he was here. He says I’m not here. I look down at crusty, yellow toenails. Here I am. I scamper through the stale, unpleasant must I call my home and run downstairs at the pace permitted by feeble limbs. I look both ways. I cross the street. Oops. Habit. Looks like the delivery man is gone. He’s not across the street. I’m wearing a dirty robe over breathable cotton boxers. I come back from across the street and check my doorbell to make sure it works. It does.
I’m staring at my feet. I wonder what it would feel like to look down and see webbed toes. That fitness influencer I saw on the Instagram said swimming is good for your physique. He was very convincing. A young man. About 25 years, I reckon. Great pectoral muscles. Broad shoulders. No webbed toes, as far as I know. He hasn’t shown ‘em anyway.
Maybe I could have been a good swimmer. If only I had webbed toes. Or maybe I’ll even take up swimming, when I’m young again. Olympic World Champ! Mr. Normal Toes!
Off I go.
A shimmering orb of sweat dances above overgrown eyebrows. I scurry up a steep hill, watching patterns form in street corners, building embellishments and café clientele. Two towns, distinctly their own. Close only in proximity.
The street I walk is narrow, but not claustrophobic. Busy on both sides, but not overwhelming. I’ve walked up this hill a thousand times before. Chiseled stone. Historic charm. Apartment entrances adorned in iron bars saying Keep Out or Please Don’t Let Me In. Terraces overflowing with vegetation build a ladder to the sky. Green meets blue. I prefer green meets white. Cypress trees scattered between whitewashed houses on winding streets. Pollen oozes. I sneeze.
My taxi driver offers, “Panuelos?”
I sneeze again and look out the window. When did I get in this taxi? “Ya los tengo. ” I reply politely. “Alergias.” I continue.
He nods, directing my attention through the passenger side window, across the empty highway to a cliffside Andalusian pueblo well within viewing distance. Green meets white.
“Cipreses,” he says, nonchalantly, shifting the gear stick in his right hand with the comfort of experience. I catch a glimpse of his face. He looks 100 years old.
World. Orange blossom trees glisten in hidden courtyards. Cascading ivy vines curl along textured stone. Terracotta pots hang from wrought-iron brackets, filtering fresh fragrances into warm air. Locals flock to plazas like bees foraging flowers in April. Cats everywhere. So many fucking cats. One cat wears a sweater.
World. Childhood dreams and traumas. Challenge and sacrifice. Heartbreak. Enchantment. Unforeseen circumstances. Resiliency. Lessons learned and forgotten, then learned again. The sublime austerity of knowing who one is and knowing what one wants.
World. Young lovers holding hands at a table. Delicate mist clinging to the exterior of a wine glass in the afternoon. Brown eyes, soft like honey, rest with levity and patience. They look out. The sun sets. They kiss.
I’m not sure I understand the appeal of tending meager homemade gardens. I’m allergic to cats.
I’m walking again. I check my pocket. Panuelos. I blow my nose. I look up. I am where I thought I was. Where was I?
I imagine a scrawny kid wearing white linen, maybe 15 or 16 years old, floating through these secret corridors in weathered sandals, knowing every shortcut, every veiled alleyway. When he touches the ground, he’s barefoot, and the soles of his feet camouflage with chalky cobblestone paths.
The artful maze. The village rhythm. Games of chess in the park. Hot herbal teas.
I imagine that kid, and I think about him respecting his elders. He acknowledges the esteem of hardship. He’s quick-witted. Curious. He understands the callous nature of time.
I see it all again and again and again as if it’s the first time. The glimmering light of love in the dark. In a cave, where light shines the brightest. To be with a place forever, you’d think one grows weary. I meet the perpetual state of change with the a perpetual state of learning. The quest for wisdom. An eternal pastime.
Or am I just an old man whose lost his agency? Lacking fortitude. Privy only to the shadow that grows within myself. Am I toothless? I feel an empty slipperiness in my mouth. Where are my fucking dentures?
Th sweat droplet drifts off my temple and tumbles to the ground. I hold more bags than two hands are built to hold. What the hell is in all these bags? Medicines. Toolkits. Answers. Solutions.
Unclosed loops and unresolved problems. The sweet relief of forgiveness.
Once I was heroic. That was long, long ago. I echoed the path of the sun. I moved in harmony with the wind. I never imagined such a slog. Mind-bending disillusionment. Sudden onset blindness. When I went to bed last night I could see everything. Then I woke up. And I can’t see a damn thing.
Manically, I laugh to myself. I’ve been outgrown. I am nothing but soil. Fertile forever but reaping no rewards from the seeds sown within my spirit.
Hot tea for breakfast. Hot tea for lunch. Hot tea for dinner.
I haven’t had a calorie in days.
I haven’t had a carb since 2005.
Frail. Malnourished. Emaciated.
The cobalt blue of my duvet cover clashes with the turquoise blue of my pillowcases. An air purifier hums, and then rattles. The box promised me 3,000 hours. I’ll be lucky to get 300. I guess the delivery man came while I was gone. I must be home again. The sound. The stench. It’s all too familiar.
I set down a trove of empty paper bags. Figures surround me. Apparitions vaguely resembling the human form. I’m not alone anymore. Maybe I never was. Why is no one doing anything? I’m out in the world, busting my ass. Moving to and fro. I’m surrounded by ghosts. I hate laziness. I hate the lazy versions of me even more. I haven’t been lazy in a long time. I hate it too much.
I hate the crowded bustle of working café’s. A trendiness contrived to usher the thoughtless through the door. I can’t use my computer here, or over there, or even way over there. I have to sit at the IKEA kitchen table at the center of the main floor with a bunch of strangers scrolling the Instagram behind a computer screen drinking black charcoal matcha. I’ve never owned a computer.
Someone hands me a cup of pills and a glass of warm water. I wash down my last pill with my next pill. I’m a shadow among white fluorescent lights. Everything is far too bright. I talk to a computer screen. I ask him if that was okay. The pills. So many of them. In quick succession. Should I consult a healthcare specialist? I ask him lots of questions. He’s always got an answer. Or she. Or they.
The pharmacist down the street knows my social security number. The woman at the herbolario and the woman at the laboratorio used to smile when they saw me. That smile has withered into a flimsy facelift frozen by botox. Unnatural. Skittish. Brooding.
Smooth morning coffee replaced by the gaminess of bone broth. Ham and eggs and oatmeal. Everything dry. Everything bland. I am toothless. I live a toothless existence.
Diluted nostalgia. Like my heart and my brain are at a disconnect. I’ve been here before. I’ve seen this before. I’ve felt this before. Despite the familiarity, my spirit can’t decipher how it’s supposed to feel. My soul is drifting from cloud to cloud to cloud on a foggy morning, praying the smog lifts and the sun inspires a direction. I can’t move my feet.
What governs me now has never governed before. My energy is depleted. I only have so much. I am old now. What I prioritize becomes who I am. The flowers do not stop blooming and the seasons do not stop turning. I, however, do stop breathing, between breaths, every second of my waking life.
It’s in the podcasts I listen to and the newsletters I read. The reels that captivate my decaying attention span. The conversations I muster the courage to participate in, which emanate off loudly lit plastic tables and permeate ventilated air.
I’m asleep.
I wake up in a disheveled trance. Cold sweats. I can’t find my keys. I’m locked in. Did I ever have keys? Where are the keys? I search for a jingle. I bang on a door.
“Someone let me out!” I scream.
The door opens.
Someone hands me a cup of pills and a glass of warm water. I wash down my last pill with my next pill. I’m a shadow among white fluorescent lights. Everything is far too bright.
Where do they come from? Where do they go?
Where do they come from?
Cotton-Eyed Joe.
I douse bland pasta in olive oil and oregano. My brown leather couch is crisp on the exposed skin of my under thigh.
I stare at a dirty fork. Wet. Useful.
I stab at the pasta. A starchy smoothness fills my toothless mouth.
I look up at Tube TV. It’s the fitness man again. He looks much older now. He’s grown out his beard. Oh my, what abdominals. I never had a beard. The hair on my head is stringy and spotty. Moles sprout from my scalp. Benign.
I look to the right and see a name-tag. Geraldine. Heavy-set woman. Kind eyes. She adjusts the dress worn by the most beautiful shadow in the room. Vaguely recognizable, that one. Shadows. Mirrors. Past lives.
Geraldine approaches me. I cower. She continues. She prances playfully, like we know each other. I don’t remember knowing her. But I think I could remember knowing the shadow in the dress, if I sat down to remember it for long enough.
Geraldine touches my shoulder. It’s calming. I stay seated. I look up at her big brown kind eyes.
“Would you like to go for a walk today, Mr. Normal Toes?”