The Key Pocket by Marwa at Inkitt

Francisco and José

Rubén is used to touch that pocket with his outstretched hand, waiting with confidence for the bundle of his bunch of keys. It is small certainty among the others that make a day good. He already felt once the anguish of not having them and having to stay out of his room until the guesthouse owner arrived with the copy. The sour old lady looked at him like she did not understand that kind of mistake young people make. Supposedly, their heads work much better than hers. He was almost four hours of waiting, praying that his neighbor José did not see him outside his room with his plucked rooster face. Surely he was going to make fun of him with a certain affection that was also a slight superiority for Rubén. Unlike him, a lonely young man who came to work alone in Santiago, José’s wife was waiting for him in the room with her baby. Nobody would worry about keys when they have someone to open the door for them, being welcomed with a kiss and a meal.

The silence of his room receives his tired sigh. Rubén throws his suitcase and his shoes to faint on the insulating cloud his bed is, suspending his feet on the edge to float and leave his heavy loads resting above the crimson vinyl floor. He does this by closing his eyes before his face is caught by the pillow. It drains the thoughts of the day from his body because it is not only physical but the daily routine tiredness, the work accomplished. Sometimes the cry of José’s baby or his Colombian singsong appeared in this empty white reverie, sounding further away than they should be. His breathing is the torrent that drags and kidnaps him from that place. It is enough for the working weekday. It is his daily taste followed by the “once” with tea and bread with avocado, a quick shower so the neighbors do not complain -although they have never done it- and to sleep feeling the darkness that falls on the plants, flowers, and bushes of the common patio, which reaches him stealthily like waves crawling on the sand.

-What is your motivation in life? -

Damn question. Just because he told a colleague that as soon as he gets to his room, he went to sleep. He had thought it was a privilege in this city since having children or more responsibilities does not allow it. Francisco made that question with slight compassion that became irritating. Even worse, Rubén was unable to give a response without panicking a little.

-I like plants. Sometimes I water them in the common patio.-

That’s almost true, only with less dedication than he implied. Sometimes its leaves seem damp and he does not have the spirit to check it. The owner is the one who dedicates to caring for them. She even talks to them as if they were children.

- Man! That’s kind of grandpa stuff and you are twenty-six years old, what the fuck… -

-Maybe you’re right, I don’t know. I fucking grew up in the south Pancho… - He replied between soft laughs to better hide the shame of his terrible response. Actually, he does not have any motivation. How can anybody have motivation when leaving home at eight o’clock in the morning and coming back at seven o’clock in the afternoon? Being exhausted from working and making the long commute in the subway and the bus?

-To be honest... - Rubén continued thinking something better.- ... my motivation is to become something in life. That’s why I’m here, struggling every day.-

-You really like this shit? Uh, I wish I was like that.- Francisco stares at his computer screen with disdain. It must be difficult for him to concentrate as he works for a three-year-old son and a woman who does not love him, who lives in another house with his partner, just demanding money. As if they had not been lovers for ten years since they were high school students. He already had the disapproval of Renata’s parents because he was a humble young man, a lonely scholar in an upper-class high school. There were ten exhausting years in which Francisco had to constantly demonstrate to Renata’s parents that he was a worthwhile man, that he could be compared to the couples of his brothers-in-law, all from wealthy families. Renata visited them to account for her husband’s achievements, not only in the workplace but also in the human sphere. However, the image of Francisco’s parents was never erased: they were a nanny and a gardener to their eyes. The lady had brown skin and indigenous features, while the gentleman was taller and European featured but wearing a suit that was larger than the size he should have. They barely greeted each other in the marriage, which was the beginning of the end. They lasted less than two years, shortly after the birth of her son. Fortunately, for Renata’s family, the newborn was as white as his mother.

The boy came into the world to be overprotected by the prestigious Zegers Risopatrón and away from the Meyer Huenulef, less fortunate mestizos who succumbed to discrimination. Deep down, the grandson would have a better future without them. Francisco has had the strength of being in a routine job that does not require great intelligence, that does not mean a challenge, the type of job that he would have rejected as a university student. His father urged him since childhood to solve problems, to test his intellect and that helped him to go far.

Rubén admires Francisco despite his history because he knows that he deserves more in the future and he will eventually succeed. His friend has suffered enough for decisions that he made with the utmost conscience. Unlike him who has suffered for not having the courage to decide, having a much calmer, carefree time. In other words, he is focused only on being “someone in life”. What a confusing expression. It should be “someone else in life”, someone who ends up doing what others expect him to do.

Sometimes he feels angry, such as now. The only way is to assume that he is another slave to the shower and coffee in the morning, to the clothes heated by the electric stove that hides from the owner so she does not complain about the electricity bill, to the TV on in a corner that displays the time with music videos from the eighties, to his suitcase, wallet, and keys that he keeps in the right pocket. He is also a slave to the common patio submerged in the bluish morning light, to the light breeze that plays between the leaves and the roses. It is his real alarm clock: the one on his cell phone only lifts his body but does not make him lucid. Walking down the hall and wishing not to meet the owner and the forced grimace of her laughter, perching on the sidewalk to close the door and heading to the subway station, ready to spend forty-five minutes imprisoned by other bodies that keep other routines.

How could it not be a pleasure to lie down like this, after getting your muscles used to the same movements from Monday to Friday. What does it matter to be hypocritical and to pretend that you have some motivation when the daily routine prevents it. Maybe he does have a motivation: “to become nothing in life”. Fadeaway from the people, be a lazy breeze. It seems like a suicidal thought, but he looks at the window through which a serene light falls, similar to that of that horrible day when he did wish to die and he reaffirms that this feeling is different. It is not the wounds of that week that burn again with the cold of the memory. He has sublimated that pain, slowly turning it into something as insignificant as the owner’s smile. Perhaps the breezes that raise dust in between our steps are more alive than we are, subjugated as time goes by. It is to perceive existence in another way, in which the misunderstandings, the destructive criticism of your boss, your mornings of anguish, are mere sneezes in this immense world, where what counts at the end of the day is if you keep living here. By now, he is breathing, his mind is still working, wanting to stop being a person. What if he were one of the plants in the yard? Bathed in the morning sun, watching the neighbors’ cats passing by and urinating the trunks of the bushes, listening to the laughter or cries of José’s baby, following the light that moves until it is placated by sunset when the owner’s plastic sandals announce that the warm water will fall from the hose.

The door rings. It’s José with a pair of hot arepas in hand, covered with napkins moistened by their steam.

- Hi, my pana! - José says, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

- Hello José! - he answers turning on the light.

- Oh, I’m sorry! Were you sleeping?-

- No, don’t worry! I was just resting ... -

- They are made of cheese, the kind that my girlfriend likes.-

-Oh my, thanks! Come on po! How are things going?-

José sits at the foot of Rubén’s bed, handing him the arepas. He leaves them on his dining table, where Ruben puts his dirty cup, the apple and cinnamon tea in bags and the empty bread basket. José enthusiastically tells him that he has a chance of working in a better place where he will be paid more, which would make it possible to pay for a nursery for his son, so Elena could work too. Having two salaries they will be able to rent an apartment or a house, which is the dream they have shared since they arrived here. Rubén lets his neighbor carry the conversation because he feels that he can barely tell everything he wants to. He is proud of the progress this family has made and he shows it. Even though José regrets that he will stop being his neighbor, so he asks him to keep in touch. It is the first time that Rubén has such affection for neighbors. They have sheltered him like his Santiago family. They were on that day, consoling him in their place, which is so different from his: it is slightly larger and looks more like a family home. It feels warmer and scented by incense and spices, with a more flirtatious decoration of saint’s images and candles that cover an entire corner and the colorful rugs under the furniture. In the middle of the room, there is a generous table that is usually a good memory when Rubén has breakfast at his quiet table in front of the window.

-… you know, we invite you to our new house when we get it.- José gives a hug for saying goodbye.

-Thanks, Josecito. See you then. And give an arepa to the vieja.- Rubén whispers over José’s shoulder. They both laugh cheerfully. It is good to keep the landlady happy in some way. José leaves, the arepas remain. Then it’s time for “once” watching the news on his cell phone.