STAR

On the lawn of an eternal summer I am sitting with my grandfather. He was my age once, so his dad gave him money to buy eggs but he went to the movies instead. That didn’t end up well. He was dragged from the theater back home and thrown into another dark room. No food allowed  for a day. But his mom sneaked in and gave him something. What did she give you? A slap on the face. I’m not satisfied with this answer. I wanted secret compassion. But humor is born out of disappointment. Disappointment gets recycled, and everything goes into the same bin. My grandfather kept on going to the movies. Until he and my grandma saw A Clockwork Orange. They never went back after that. He played drums on his watermelon belly while her arms were wing pillows. Arguably, my grandfather looked like Marlon Brando. Marlon Brandon, my grandma said. Jame Esteban was James Stewart. I swam like Estér Williams. My grandfather was proud he knew the word star in English. But that’s too little! I’m too old to learn. I’m too old to even eat new things. He had false teeth looming in a glass of water overnight. His taste buds were issued before food was an industry. He spat a candy heart right out. A violet pastel splattered on the curb, as if it had jumped from the balcony.

Locksmiths used to be expensive and rare. A profitable career. So my dad preferred to jump into our balcony from the neighbor’s. It was a third floor. Which would be a fourth floor here. My dad’s name is Andrés. I’ve seen a different Andrés climbing to a different balcony to rescue a different set of keys. He had a hammer to break the glass and he was wearing flip flops. It was Rocío’s fault. Rocío loved A Clockwork Orange. Her email address was the main character’s prison number. She had left her parents’ house with me but without the key. We locked everyone out. Her friend Andrés was around, summer dressed with his flip flops. It took many tries because the glass was double. All the neighbors in the street looking up in suspense, concentrating on the same point. Wishing upon a star. Stubborn glass piñata finally gave up and everyone but Andrés cheered. Rocío’s birthdays were always epic. While we were watching her friend breaking into her childhood home, Rocío squeezed my arm. I don't believe in metaphors. How can you not? It is just what it is. But a metaphor also is. Yeah but why would you want a metaphor when you can have the real thing. The Andrés that is not my father moved to Paris soon after to work in theater. He’s a good actor. The kind of actor people love to watch.