Twenty-ten

TWENTY-TEN

What does the number twenty-ten mean to you? Probably nothing. You wouldn’t use it in the roulette or lottery. It’s not even an important year! (At least in worldly concerns, no meteorite it’s going to hit the Earth or catastrophe predicted by top scientists). To me? Well, that’s another tale, another dimension of the simple fact that any twenty-ten figure can represent.

My father had passed away two years ago, but even as important and soul-breaking this may sound, I’ve been doing very well these days. The only important factor to have in mind about this tragedy is that even now, more than eight-hundred days after, the legal issue was not over. Ever heard the popular saying that any passing minute it’s an opportunity to change your life? Well, that’s only true if you have no paperwork on the way.

I had to go to a big notary building, house of the signature virtuosos, the men and women that love the smell of newborn paper, stamps, coffee, warm photocopies and care for deep mental scrutiny of lawful points. As I was reaching there by foot that icy Monday morning, a ticket with the inscription “20-10” revolved crazily against the wind while being held by my right hand. Only a handful of citizens dared to walk the downtown streets, and hadn’t been for my delicate conscience or embattled spirit, my body would be wrapped up in sheets instead of exposing poor mortal bones to the sharp cold.

An enormous roman lintel guarded the entrance of the institution, being sustained by two broad Doric columns and an insignia that read: “We are guardians of your state.”

I made my way in by pushing the glass door that, although heavy, the hearty climate inside was received by my body as recently baked cookies from my dearest granny. The scenery seemed cozy and kind-provoking, defined contrast to the outside polar moors. The warmth provided by the standing lamps and suited men was inviting, as I crossed the hallway in the search for elevators.

Inside a booth by the end of the room between four elevator doors on the side walls, a rigid-faced woman with round thick glasses had the master console to control them. She decided, by pleasure and careful choosing, who was to enter the always crowded ascending cars. To my surprise, men and women wildly rushed their way before I could even take a pick. Contrary to one’s expectations, shirts and ties are no sign of politeness and citizenship. In fact it was me, wearing jeans and a stuffed winter coat, who filled the quiet room with noble “excuse me’s”. Every time one of those metal doors allowed a way through, my eyesight was suddenly populated by a dozen well-dressed souls, all fitting tightly into that mobile square, like twenty prostitutes inside a European automobile.

Taking the stairs seemed the most favorable option instead of being forcibly glued to people.

However splendorous this venture was presented in the first place, a strict staircase made out of concrete and dry steel banisters crossed my view in a violent manner now. What was even more violent was the fact that this pathway between floors was designed for one person only. Yet, people in the most expensive types of suits were scrubbing and rubbing each other as they went up and down rapidly in two’s. Before any consideration was to take place, three old men behind me with their white hair combed back gave a pushing look, enough to get me inside the tumultuous exchange of inner energy and contagious breaths.

A straight line of notaries walked up with me, many of them guarding my back, others being my only guides. But as I said before, a parallel row of public workers walked down next to me, each of them proceeding side by side, uncomfortably enough to rug my parts with everyone. If I turned around, I would face my precious front side of the body to grey-looking strangers; remaining as I was, my back and bottom received a kind but disturbing treat.

The first floor was finally done. To my grief however, the pushing men in single file were an unstoppable force, so I had to keep going without the joy of resting in the small hallway that preceded the second stairs. While walking frenetically, I gave a glance at the elevators. Three of them opened in synchronous tempo, letting people in an out until the steel box was filled over capacity.

Who was the architect that designed this? Probably a single man desperate for love and repetitive hugging. Some innovative ones actually inspire their creations on a single object most important or interesting to them. If this was the case, my mind remained blank.

After an arduous trip in the simile of an Egyptian slave march, I hopped to my right to be free of the human flesh chain. I was now in the middle of the third floor hallway, as four queues of ladies and gentlemen crossed the room in an “X” protocol, all waiting for the elevators to open. I was surrounded by them, all quiet but interestingly happy. To my greatest shock, all female users were physically able to drag any group of thirsty men if they wanted. To tell you the truth, I was dwelling on the reason that obliged me to keep studying at the engineering school instead of changing profession. Never seen more grand-looking formally-dressed dolls in my life, hiding inside their divinely shaped crotches more gates to paradise than heaven itself, all covered by skirt fabric in order to make all guardian angels jealous of not having Superman’s X-ray eyesight. Wait… What am I saying?

Anyway, no matter how much stench from fine perfumes flooded the air, I opened my arms and went through the small masses just to get to a door. No complaint from people however, no matter how eager they were to be inside a cubicle. Now the reasons as to why a human being chooses to be a notary became clear. Yes, it’s because of the women, and if the salary it’s not good, then there’s always an unlimited quantity of paperwork to perform: after I entered the room, piles and piles of different color papers arose from small office tables, each of them having their own purpose, their own meaning and objective in this vast machinery. I don’t want to imagine the material consequences of this building being burnt down.

But the room I got to was empty. A surrounding three-side square of tables and counters held nothing but shut-off computers and invisible bureaucratic ghosts.

Where were they? I was in such a hurry! The soft-core staircase erotic odyssey took me over twenty minutes. The time for retrieving papers was already late. This is most of the time exact. What was happening?

After a single moment of looking thoroughly for important signs, one of them revealed the cause of stress: “Changed schedule for holidays.” If I was to get what I wanted I might as well go out to a bar crowded with simple men and fill my liver with a royal quantities of quality beer.

I couldn’t, though. I had to get those papers right away, satisfy my narrow expectation of this procedure. Where were they? I wasn’t prepared to face that killer cold again with nothing on my hands. What was the damned “20-10” number? A new symbol for bad luck?

Even though I could graduate for a PhD. in kindness, I was determined enough to be lost in this labyrinth of mysterious glass doors and empty offices. Let anyone who wants to stop me be in their rightful purpose, but let me stay clear that I’d only leave the building by force.

I commenced to walk slowly and stare at the paper skyscrapers with fearful eyes. No phone rang, no voice heard, no racket from outside. The group of desks seemed to have been taken out from a western ghost town, similar to those places where the bad guys were around. Was I the outlaw around here?

I decided to open some random door and go in without looking. A fresh and fluid breeze now caressed my red cheeks. I opened my eyes to see a long wooden corridor with nothing but more doors on each wall. The light was dim: only a sad incandescent light bathed the scenery. What door was I to choose?

Before any rodeo of conflictive thoughts took place inside my brain, an ear of mine reacted with canine velocity to a far sound. What was this? What was invading this quietness? What had the bravery to let itself be known to me, a young man that was enraged, looking for a person to point at?

I followed the sound with careful steps, as my fingertips were getting to know the environment. I felt now like a hunter ready to strike. I was going to open the door immediately and surprisingly at anyone –no matter who – that remained behind. He or she was to be the plain listener of my inquiries, no exception.

Then the sound felt like the moan of a trapped animal inside a cage being bothered with hard sticks by laughing suited bastards. So strange, so off-putting. Who, why and where? As I reached the end of the corridor, a wet tiled floor made me slip and hit my back. I got up and kept going, but couldn’t avoid thinking that, metaphorically speaking, it was like being inside a female reproductive organ, a moistly cavern of hidden secretes.

Finally after several doorways, a big room was extended in front of me. It looked clean, neat and sparkling. White exuberant tiles acted as floor. Different to the previous corridor, the roof had plenty of incandescent lights, all adding their own heavenly brightness.

But before I could even remain pleased for a moment, that gasping, panting dissonant music called me for attention. This oasis could not distract me from my motive. I was to get those damn papers, even if I had to surrender myself sexually to someone. Wait… What did I just say?

I walked rapidly three steps and put my body lying over a wooden door, as I drove my ear next to it.

Terror and excitement stocked my mood. Is that what I was hearing? Was that truly what I had in mind? To my already troubling experience, it was.

I opened the door quickly to find the most out-of-place theatrics to my knowledge. Dozens of naked men and women, all wrapped around by themselves forming a human hill of sweaty limbs in an Olympic gesture of muscular showmanship. Group sex? Much more than that. A stack of shirts, trousers, skirts and ties drew a mountainous landscape similar to the Himalayan spectacular giants. No part to be differenced from the other, no face to be considered important. They were all mixed, screaming legal terminology and procedures unknown to me, every word in great pleasure. For the final touch, one of them opened a cardboard box filled transparent rubber objects, some imitating the popular forms of between-knees equipment, others that could be taken for extraterrestrial pieces of archeological interest. And then it came to my mind: the whole place, the stuffed elevators, the sticky stairs, the hot women, all designed in such a crafty manner as to break into tears any ascending erotica artist. Every single detail conceived to make anyone feel, think and act sexually. That was the secret of the notaries, the benefit that was expected and promised to all members, to those common people that graduated for this singular work.

They didn’t notice, I tried not to notice them. I left the room, then the corridor, down the stairs again and off the building. Instead of visiting a bar, I bought a steaming coffee from a street vendor and sit on a bench that could be considered as a view point for the deserted streets.

THE END.