Santa Juan Pablo
There’s a man walking in the city park. His appearance is peculiar. He is shirtless and partially covered in tattoos. All he’s wearing are a pair of shorts, flip-flops and a traditional red white Christmas hat. In his right hand he holds a bottle. To everyone’s surprise there’s water in it.
He is I and I am him. So we are us and US is an initialism for the United States. Knowledge.
People cycling and jogging nearby seem baffled. They sport stares of wonder and brain fog. I can almost hear the one-worded question circling through their minds: “¿Qué?”
“¿Qué?” someone eventually yells at me, passing by on his bicycle.
“Porque I fucking want to,” I shout at him. “It’s thirty-something degrees out here, or whatever that may be in Fahrenheit times freedom divided by Times Square.”
For a second there’s a look of pure confusion in his eyes, as he’s processing this irrefutable argument. Then he crashes head first into the Christmas tree in front of him. As he should.
I promised myself to always spend Christmas and New Year’s Eve in a beach outfit. So here I am, unfazed by the surroundings.
While continuing my stroll and applying another layer of sunscreen, I come across a man dressed in a full on Santa-costume, sitting in front of a pile of fake gifts and a stall with baby Jesus and his entourage. Santa is smiling and taking pictures with numerous families. What a saint.
I hand him my bottle of water. Hopefully postponing the inevitable melting of Santa Juan Pablo. He mumbles a barely audible “gracias” and sips as if his engine to profusely sweat desperately needs refueling.
As I walk on I believe I see Jesus flipping me the bird and I hear Mary Magdalene calling me all kinds of unsavoury things. I sigh, turn the other cheek and promise to pray for them.
I go home and put on the air-conditioner. This year Christmas and, probably, New Year’s Eve will be spent alone, working.
And that’s fine.
There’s no beach nearby and I’ll most likely skip the parties. I’ll need too much medication in my system to somewhat function. Substances and dosages literally lethal with any considerable amount of alcohol. Guaranteed to leave any person hospitalized or worse. And I’d rather end up seeing tomorrow than end up in a morgue.
A healthy meal on the table, an alarm on the phone to know when the mattress is calling.
A fork to pasta, a pen to paper. Thus continues the incapacitated man with the capable mind his pursuit of dreams.
Merry Christmas. Happy New Year. Thank you for reading. Thank you for your support.
Be sure to follow: www.instagram.com/campdky