Signal to Noise(32)

There was still enough money left from that time to go on vacation—at least a little one, at least Puerto Vallarta—but it was all in the family savings fund. Money which one day would go to Meche for university. Not a penny could be touched. Vicente didn’t have a say in the matter. Vicente didn’t have a say in anything.

Smoking his cigarettes in a corner of the apartment and nursing real and imaginary wounds with a few drinks, Vicente felt himself growing old.





“I DON’T KNOW,” he told his wife that night.

“You’re never going to finish that book.”

Vicente smiled and lit his cigarette.

“At the very least you should see about a promotion. Announcers don’t make shit. You should be a show producer.”

“I like being on air.”

“Announcers are becoming obsolete.”

“How are the acting classes going?” he asked, throwing the ball at her.

For the past year his wife had been taking acting classes at a little school downtown. He had seen the coach and could almost vouch she was also having an affair, but he wasn’t about to hurl stones. If it kept her off his case, he was frankly okay with it.

“Fine,” Natalia said, looking sour.

Vicente smiled. She had never been able to act her way out of a paper bag. At least Vicente could play an instrument, write songs, write a book (though it remained unfinished, remained an eternal work in progress). Perhaps that was where the animosity was first born. A bitter jealousy over his superior artistic talent. Talent which didn’t amount to much, but it was better than nothing, and that was what Natalia had: nothing. Not a splinter of artistic ability.

“Mmm,” Vicente said. “I’m going to listen to some music before going to bed.”

“Turn off the lights when you are done. You are always wasting power and then the bill comes very high.”

“I’ll turn them off.”





HE SAT IN the dark, listening to The Temptations and smoking.

He thought about what anchored him to this city, to this apartment, to this chair and found very little, the thread of his existence stretched thin.

Vicente saw himself exiting in the middle of the night, grabbing his leather jacket and his old guitar, and simply getting on a bus and heading to nowhere. He pictured himself as a shadow melting into shadows and disappearing.

He closed his eyes.

Vicente opened them when he heard voices. Male and female. Young.

“I found it in the park, just laying there. It’s full of money.”

“How much is in there?”

It was Meche talking to the tall boy, the one she was always with: Sebastian. He didn’t know what they were discussing. He checked his watch and saw it was late, stood up to remind them Sebastian should be home by now and promptly sat back down. Their voices sounded so content and happy. He remembered sounding like that.

He let them drone on until he heard the door close and Meche shuffle towards her room.

He thought what he might do if he was that young again, of opportunities lost and moments which pass you by.





MECHE LOOKED INTO the mirror, critically analyzing the neon yellow skirt. This was foreign territory. Her regular daywear included jeans, t-shirts and the occasional jacket, sleeves rolled up, with a pair of really heavy, masculine boots. There was no money for the latest fashions so she made do with leftovers from her older cousin or opted for cheap, unfashionable items. Meche looked positively... dainty in this outfit.

“Are you sure girls wear this stuff?” she asked Daniela.

“Look,” Daniela said, handing her one of the teen magazines tucked in her backpack.

She matched the girl in the picture. But Meche didn’t look like her—she was far less attractive. Meche felt like she was a cheap copy sold in La Lagunilla. This despite that they were shopping at a nice store because the money spell had come through in the shape of the wallet from the park, its contents promptly plundered. Finally, they could shop in Polanco. Sadly, nothing seemed to fit Meche properly.

“I like it. Do you like mine?” Daniela asked.

Meche glanced at her friend’s outfit. It was predictably pink and purple. Daniela resembled a large meringue, but Meche supposed it did look like the stuff the girls in the magazine were wearing.

“I guess it’s alright,” Meche said. She leaned towards the mirror, zeroing on the zits around her mouth, and sighed. “I need to fix my skin.”

“You should put on a nice avocado mask before going to bed.”

“I need a major intervention, not an avocado mask. How can so many pimples appear every damn day? It’s like they know I want to go to a party.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“You say that because you don’t look like me,” Meche muttered.

“Do you want to see what Sebastian is wearing?” Daniela asked.

“Okay.”

The girls stepped out of their changing room and knocked at one of the other doors.

“Seboooos,” Meche said.

“What?” came the gruff answer.

“Show us.”

“No.”

“Sebos...”

“No!”

Meche tried jumping to get a look over the door, but could not reach high enough. Over the stores’ speakers What I Like About You began to play and Meche began knocking on the door to the rhythm of the music.