Shorts by Alberto Fuguet
Author:Alberto Fuguet
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780061762734
Publisher: HarperCollins
LOST
In a country full of missing people, disappearing is easy. All the efforts are concentrated on the dead, so those of us who are among the living can fade quickly away. They wonât come looking; they wonât even realize youâre gone. If Iâve seen you before, I donât remember. You see, everyone down there has bad memories. Either they donât remember, or they simply donât want to.
A professor once told me that I was lost. I replied that in order to lose yourself, first youâd have to know where you are.
Then I thought: What if itâs the reverse?
I was erased for fifteen years. I abandoned everything, including myself. There was a quiz I never took. My girlfriend was having a birthday party and I never showed up. I got on a bus bound for Los Vilos. I didnât have a plan; it just happened. It was what had to happen, and there was no turning back.
At first I felt guilty. Then pursued. Would they be after me? Would they find me? What if I run into someone?
But I didnât run into anybody.
They say that the world is a handkerchief. Itâs not. People who say that donât know what the world is like. Itâs huge andâabove allâstrange and foreign. You can roam far and wide and nobody will care.
Now Iâm an adult. In some ways. Iâve got hair on my back, and sometimes the zipper doesnât zip. Iâve been to a lot of places and done things I never thought Iâd do. But you survive. You get used to things. Nothing is so bad. Nothing.
Iâve been to a lot of places. Have you been to Tumbes? To the port of Buenaventura? Or San Pedro Sula? What about Memphis?
Like a puppy, I followed a Kmart checkout girl as far as El Centro, California, a town that smelled of fertilizer. The relationship started off better than it ended. Then I went to work in the casinos in Laughlin, Nevada, that lined the Colorado River. I lived in a house across the way in Bullhead City with a woman named Frances and a guy named Frank, but we never saw each other. We left each other notes. Both of them were bad spellers.
Once, in a diner in Tulsa, a woman told me that I reminded her of her son whoâd never come home. âWhy do you think he left?â she asked. I said I didnât know, but maybe I did.
Or maybe not.
Without wanting to, I ended up teaching English to Hispanic children in Galveston. The Texas flag looks a lot like Chileâs. One of the girls died in my arms. She fell off the swing set: Iâd pushed too hard and she flew out of her seat. It seemed like she flew for two minutes through the hazy Gulf sky. I didnât want to hurt her, but nevertheless I did. Soâ¦what?
What can you do?
Have you been to Mérida, on the Yucatán? In the summer there it hits 108 degrees, and they close off the downtown area on Sundays so the people can dance.
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