Day n.3
Act III: "The central drama"
The third act is original.
is the fifth day, the last at last. Our hero is on the train and remembers the old days, beginning to tell from where it stopped. And then the third day so all told in flashback. In the early hours of the morning are already being felt anxiety and agitation that will be two constants of the rest of the day. Today is my father, coming soon. Luckily I have time to assemble everything before it gets to him, without telling me that everything I put you in the wrong place. I put everything as it happens, then he will see him. This is the policy we adopt that everyone with him: leave him much space as possible. What do whatever he wants and tell us to do what he wants us to do, they do not break my balls. We prefer now to endure fatigue and tiredness rather than contradict. The energies that disperse arguing with him are four times higher than You squander on a rope to pull a bus for 19 km course, comes when nothing goes right, everything moves, draws, discarded, create, and so on. And that's all I have to tell really because then nothing happened. The third act, the third day, is an introspective journey into the dark depths of our hero. The work is not only absent, but got into you own your ass. People pass away and be scared by the prices or ask me a coffee. I do not sell coffee. The coffee they do next to me. And so I am a human sign. An indicator. A tissue. This is my only function. Those side should pay me for all the coffee that I "sent".
Still in my chair and go watch these crappy old horror I feel for them. Their skin falls limp on their tired faces and vulgar. Years of bad things seem to lodge in their small, dark eyes. The hands are stained skeletal and tools that extend wearily outside of their coats and they toccacciano and touch my stuff without permission and direction. It makes no sense, you know? It makes no sense that people of a certain age are so fucking disgusting and rude. And then I think. I think I do not know why they are there. I think I should be in many other places but not here. I think if there's only because as he said a cricket speaker came out from his role last night, I try to please my father. But it is late. I realize that time escapes me in your hands, always him. I am 22 years old and at times I feel him 300. I'm 22 and I feel that my time is so offended by the fact that the exploitation duty takes revenge by putting it in the ass and getting out more quickly.
Rage oversized rooms in my body. Now take the chocolate and throw in the face of the old bitch next to me asks for a coffee, then jump across the counter, pick the hot chocolate and gave it to push against the wound that I opened with the launch. When I hear that the meat smokes off from the chocolate from his face and fatigue began to kick what's left of it. As the last breaths and lifeless flex its muscles in the final spasms I kick in the stomach and spit on them. Nobody involved are all petrified. And this is just the beginning, the next is my father. I get down on the floor below me and make my way among the people elbowing, cursing. When I arrive at the dealer does not even look at him in the face, the single cry against unspeakable things and attacks him. Totally out of me I was stopped by the guards that have arisen in the meantime and as I dragged away screaming and insulting everyone, finally saying what I think of them what they deserve, they and their faces horribly vulgar, just need money and other vulgarities . But when I bring out ... I'm so glad I finally freed and so I thank my captors, though they can not understand. They do not understand, but I feel so free in prison.
Suddenly I realize I'm staring at a point in a vacuum and that all this just happened inside me. An old woman looks at me, in our eyes meet and I lower my eyes now, fearing that she has seen it all inside me. Yes, she has seen it all, you know. Yes, she knows everything, knows that she could be of the old chocolate, but he knows that I never will. She leaves and I am ashamed. I am disgusting because I do not have the balls to say what I think, to do what I want and then look.
Appearance.
Then look again. You should know that this is something I can very well be an expert in appearance and make the time pass without anything happening and the days go by without anything in my life has meaning or leave a mark.
When my father comes to rescue me from the boredom of captivity took away the tray with the money (until the tray is at the counter I can not remove and I am a prisoner) I'm starting to do the other thing that I find it very well: complain. I prematurely the hysteric, which threatens to go away and leave that shit. I freeze, I am useless, my foot down and make a fuss. My father understands that there is no way to reason with me right now and so does what he must do and leaves without giving weight to my words. He knows that I would feel too guilty if I left, despite not having the sense that I stay here. When he leaves me feeling a bit 'relieved. First, I can smoke, and apologize if it is little. Then secondly I do not have eyes in the promoter of my agony. And last but not least I'm going to eat pizza. My aunt and consuocera not want to spend, but I say with cock!, After a hellish day of "work" the least I expect is a sacrosanct pizza sitting comfortably in a fucking pizza! Sborosissima I order one thing, while my aunt and consuocera only a daisy. The pizza fan sucks, I will not know how to stomach. As I write I'm still sick. My aunt says it's good but I explain that no, not good, but actually sucks and I'll explain why. Then I realize that if I know these things because my father taught me. I realize that all I have I owe to him. But I also realize that it is not enough. I'm sorry, but it is not enough. It is not enough to justify such reckless use of my person and my time. And it's not enough to do something to my back, something big, something revolutionary in my life, which marks a point of no return. But that's another story, another day, perhaps this tragedy, or perhaps to another work, why not, perhaps another of my life.
The third day ends in my hotel room, exactly where they finished the first two and will end up where the last one.
the night do not sleep. Interlude No.4
Day 2: "NuoveFoto"
The fourth day is the one with less work for everyone. I decided to face my sworn enemy, boredom, and I try to book to read while there is not any. I do not read when I try to sort and analyze what is around me. The radio is run by two forty horrible and incompetent. Radio VALLEBELBO, avoid it carefully. The songs are always the same damage, there's certain to be repeated three times a day. The pieces are the worst in circulation. To my great sadness I find I know a lot of Italian songs by heart that I would not listen even for a second that I will never hate the person more in my entire fucking life.
desks next to me are one family, and I'm on the sidelines, some 'happy with the fact, a bit' jealous. The people now consists of only two people, or those who pass have the same face that differs only in sex (and old whores old bastards).
the evening are in the room, of course. Listening to Black Celebration, of course.
Smoking, of course.
Day n.5
Act V: "The Bitter End"
the fifth day since arriving as a few other things in my life. Today the leader is to take, and this troubles me. My father shakes. Knowing that he is coming as I mount the bar is already in the flask and a move from jerk to explain that I'm not back a flood of hot chocolate on the table where I work. After pulling down strokes of blasphemy different pantheon of different religions remain transfixed in front of the brown lava that spreads in front of me. So i just stopped for a few minutes. The temptation to turn everything down and go back to sleep (and where? You have left the hotel just now, idiot!) Is very strong, but breathe in, I clean, I smile quite false to those who pass the mountains and the rest of the bench. Before he arrives I smoke a cigarette, covered by my aunt. The rest of the day goes incredibly smooth. I mentally
a budget stay in San Remo and obviously does not draw anything positive. Public relations is the terminal phase. Every person I see is me on the cock and the most degrading images in erotic situations possible. The organizer, for example ... she was on the cock from the first time I saw it two weeks before the exhibition, the conference presentation. Low, curvy but not fat, it looks like career woman, but that does not forget its place beside her husband. Schizoid traits in her emerge as the blades through a normality that does not have. You see and you struggle. It almost jerky. I can not help but think in a latex catsuit White, an oxygen mask on her face and her perfect blonde bob that cum gutter. This is the first time I see her. As the days pass I am always more on the cock (the first person I see when I enter the last when I go out, think I'm the fucking obvious) and the last day every time I see I know she takes it in the ass only by men with giant dick and I know he feels compelled to suck cock then stained with shit and cum. I know, I read him in the eye. As I know that the old woman who has a bench in front of my downstairs you piss in your hair. I know, I smell. It is fascinating, I feel it's just me because I know, no one else pays attention.
Old passing now are so disgusting that I do not try to be nice either. When I come to ask for something and do not greet them as servant's hand in the face "Fuck You" by Lily Allen, I hope you know what that means.
A couple of times I pretend not to see them and I continue to read "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" that finally completed, remaining totally shocked. Totally incapable of expressing an opinion about this work I seek refuge in fear of being like him, like Dave Eggers, to be a devourer of people and I am pleased scared.
God wants us to reach the last four and disassemble the bench for the last fucking time. The fact that I walk away all while still working allows me to avoid the odious climate of fair order in which we all salute and shake hands. Fuck me yours, you idiot? 5 days that I do not have shit. Fuck greetings? I decide who I greet and salute very few people.
I walked out, I light up a cigarette and are in seventh heaven.
get on the train with a paninazzo, a bottle of water and my trusty PC which is the only thing that made me company in addition to telephone support for one of my few true friends.
While in Liguria and although not too short a list of people that I should see I was always alone, and you certainly can not say that no one knew how bad there themselves. I've never been the guy who keeps for himself something when you can not complain. And the list of people that I could see was a little-known by people far more important. But as I learned to despise the old Ligurian, so I knew nothing of not having to wait for the young. It matters little now, it's all over now and I like to think that for the last time.
I like to think that tonight or tomorrow I'll find at most the balls to tell my father everything that I think of him as a worker. The balls to tell him that that is what sucks so much as a craftsman as a trader. It really sucks as a trader, we are a small company that can not run the risk of making an investment as big as a fair 5 days in a place so far. And there is nothing wrong with that, you just need to understand and work accordingly.
And I'm tired of having to call his own fault. My time, my energy and money is short and I have to put them to good use so that I finally explodes in the right direction, in the words of Jiminy Cricket came out from his role as I mentioned above.
The story of the past three days is over, my Alcinous is so happy that finally does get the train to Turin.
It's time to return to Ithaca.
And take out the suitors.
hope.
END
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