Signal to Noise(31)

“Isadora is passing with flying colours,” Meche said. “Maybe I need to flash my panties at the creep more often.”

Sebastian gave Meche an irritated, sideways glance, his jaw growing tense at the mention of the girl he liked.

“She does not flash her panties at anyone.”

“Oh, hoho. With that short skirt?” Meche said, snorting. “She flashes plenty. And her squeaky little voice. ‘Mr. Rodriguez, I don’t understand why Anna Karenina throws herself in front of the train.’ Newsflash: because it’s f*cking foreshadowed like pages before. Even I got that.”

“If you’re going to be a bitch why don’t you do it alone?” Sebastian said, grabbing his backpack.

“Where are you going?” Meche asked.

“I’ve got a shift at the supermarket.”

“At six?”

“Yeah, I think I’ll leave early.”

“Ugh, Sebos, don’t be a dick.”

“Bye,” he muttered.





NINE O’CLOCK AND two more hours until he could take off his vest and roll into bed. Sebastian bagged groceries robotically, tossing onions and avocados and potatoes together, stretching out his hand and waiting for the clock to advance another minute.

He felt the headphones pressing against his ears as Meche stood behind him, standing on her tiptoes. He turned around and raised an eyebrow at her.

“What?”

“You said you wanted to borrow my Walkman so you could listen to music at work tonight,” she said.

“You didn’t have to...”

“It’s got The Who on there. Which is probably like giving pearls to a pig, but knock yourself out with it.”

Sebastian shook his head. Even when Meche was trying to apologize in her own Meche-way, she had a way of insulting you once again. And yet, looking down at the girl with her oversized green jacket, the sleeves covering her fingers, the collar of her shirt sticking out at an odd angle, he thought she was the only person who ever got him.

“You shouldn’t talk shit about other people,” he said.

“That’s what they do. What do you think they say about us?”

“Yeah, well. We’ve got to be the better persons and all. I suppose.”

“Says who?”

“I dunno. But I don’t like gossipy people.”

Meche snorted, shuffling her feet.

“Fine. I won’t talk crap about Isadora if you don’t want me to.”

“Thanks.”

Meche saluted, a mock-serious expression on her face. She stepped back and started walking away.

“Thanks. I’ll get it back to you later,” he called after her.

Sebastian pressed Play and the drums began to roll as The Who proclaimed this was their generation. Sebastian bagged his groceries to the rhythm, bobbing his head up and down.





WALKING HOME THAT night Sebastian decided to cut his way through the neglected, concrete wasteland of the park. It was arranged in the shape of a large rectangle with four paths leading to the centre, where the hobos and the hoodlums tended to gather. Sad trees and ugly bushes looked at the large cement benches. The northeast corner was an impromptu waste disposal facility: people who missed or did not care to wait for the morning garbage truck dumped their supermarket plastic bags filled with garbage there, attracting many stray dogs looking for a meal.

As he walked by a cement bench he noticed a wallet on the ground and picked it up. It had no identifications inside, only bills. Lots of bills. Sebastian looked around, checked nobody was watching him, and tucked it in his trousers.





THREE TIMES A week Vicente Vega stopped by a little travel agency and met with Azucena Bernal for an hour of sex. He could not say it had started innocently but he had never intended for it to become what it had become. Unlike many other Mexican men—fixated with the idea of being macho, with a desire for a casa chica, for a mistress and its ensuing complications—Vicente had never seriously considered establishing ties with another woman.

Yet there he was, with Azucena. Three times a week and just as many phone calls when they did not meet. They were into the fourth week of their relationship and it showed no signs of stopping or ceasing in intensity. Meanwhile, Natalia stared at him across the table at nights, ate him alive with her words, piled indifference and scorn upon his shoulders. Azucena, as plain as his wife was beautiful, was sweeter, more understanding, did not yell at him demanding he turn off the reading light or ask him to explain why he was still working on that worthless book. Vicente was seriously considering moving out. If he had a little money he would definitely do it. They could move to Puerto Vallarta and he would play his records until late at night with no one to tell him to turn the music down.

Vicente looked at the brochures he’d picked from Azucena’s office: beaches, happy couples holding hands. And he, still young, not yet old, trapped in the middle of his life with a woman who resented him, growing greyer and fatter by the day. To escape... to start anew...

If only he could finish his book. Vicente had thought that by now he’d have it all edited and proofed. Then he could sell it. He might not make a fortune, but enough to ditch Natalia.

Natalia who had never allowed him to go to Puerto Vallarta because the sun was bad for her skin even when, back then, her father had agreed to pay for the trip. Instead, they went to Cuernavaca on their honeymoon and Natalia spent the money her dad had reserved for the trip on a new wardrobe. When her father passed away, leaving Natalia a bit of money, she refused to take a vacation in Cancún. She had bought herself a new car—not their car, because he was not allowed to drive it—and some jewellery.