8 martie

10 03 2010

In food-court, la Plaza, pe la un 19.30, ia un loc la masa din fata mea, in stanga. Isi da jos geaca groasa, de un gri cu negru patinat de timp, deformata probabil de mai multe ierni de purtat. Isi da jos si pulovarul alb, pe care vremea l-a facut usor crem, tocit si largit la maneci si la coate. Ramane intr-un tricou albastru cu Suedia, pe maneca stanga vazandu-se emblema Euro 2004, strans cu o curea maro cutata in niste jeansi urati – care se termina cu o pereche de sosete albe ce ies din niste pantofi negri uzati.

Are intre 20 si 25 de ani. E brunet, cu ten deschis, proaspat ras si tuns. Isi scoate pe masa o sticla mica, de plastic, de Neumarkt, banuiesc ca de 0.33. Cea mai ieftina bere, care nu cred ca trece de un leu sticla. Se uita la sticla. Isi fixeaza privirea pe masa. Isi strange degetele in pumni. Ridica ochii si tinteste un punct fix, undeva in cupola mall-ului. Ramane pe ganduri cateva minute. Desface capacul berii. Ia dopul intre degete si ramane din nou cu privirea blocata. Isi frange degetele mainilor. Ceva il macina. Ia prima gura de bere.

Trec inca zece minute. Scoate un telefon. Nu aud decat “Buna…  Sunt in oras…  Vroiam sa te intreb daca vrei sa iesi… da… da… da… inteleg… da… OK, nu-i nimic… pa”. Priveste trist undeva spre stanga. Pune telefonul pe masa. Nu misca deloc. Ia dupa cateva minute a doua gura de bere. Incepe sa se joace cu eticheta. Rupe o bucata mica. O plimba intre degete.

Brusc, se ridica de la masa. Geaca si pulovarul sunt inca pe scaun. Merge grabit cinci metri in spate pana la primul cos de gunoi si arunca bucata de eticheta cu care se juca. In jurul lui, la alte mese, tavi cu munti de resturi de la KFC si Mac.

Revine la masa. Isi framanta mainile. Privirea tot pierduta. Ia telefonul. Suna. “Salut… Sunt in oras…Vrei sa iesi?…A… iesi cu prietena in seara asta… da… da…da, nicio problema… pa”. Pune telefonul in buzunar. Pune ambele maini pe sticla de bere. Priveste in gol.

Trec inca 15-20 de minute de nemiscare tacuta. Se ridica, isi pune pulovarul si geaca pe el, baga sticla de bere in buzunar si merge incet spre dreapta. Se opreste catre Mezzo di Pasta. Langa el, un banner roll-up mare cu un meniu la doar 9,99 lei. Ii vad spatele si vad fata omului din spatele tejghelei. Se vede ca vanzatorul e surprins si fata ii arata un pic de compasiune. Omul cu pastele da o data din cap in semn de “nu”. Inca o data. Si inca o data. Apoi da din cap ca un salut de despartire si pare sa aiba o mina trista.

Douazeci de minute mai tarziu trec prin fata unui magazin Leonardo si il vad inauntru. Incetinesc si ma uit un pic. E la un raft de pantofi de dama. Pretul este scris mare: 49,9 lei. Ia un pantof in mana. Se uita la el. Il cantareste. Se uita in jos. Duce mana la buzunar. Se uita dupa ceva in buzunar. Se uita la pantof, apoi in jos si in cele din urma il pune la loc in raft. Imi reiau mersul si dispare definitiv din campul vizual.

De ce toata povestea asta? Pentru doua idei. Sunt intotdeauna alti oameni care au probleme mai mari decat ale tale. Si in timp ce ne plangem, vaitam, ofticam ca am stat zece minute in plus in trafic, ca nu ne merge mail-ul sau ca avem o eroare de conexiune la wireless, uitam sa invatam sa fim un pic mai fericiti.

Un om singur, cu posibilitati modeste, razbate cateodata intr-un mediu in care nu se misca natural. Il vezi ca merge greu si nu il ajuti. Dar iti dai seama ca te ajuta pe tine, fara sa isi dea seama, sa vezi viata altfel.


Protected: Imi bag p*** in parada voastra

28 11 2008

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De pe nor in sant

30 03 2008

Un om de cacat ramane de cacat indiferent de cat de mult mi-as dori eu sa nu.
Nu-i asa?
[Daca te plimbi pe strada si te impiedici de un pic de bun simt, ia-l si pastreaza-l. Ai nevoie de el]

Sick or sad?

28 01 2008

Am vazut ieri in Sofia o fata extrem de frumoasa. Cu niste trasaturi perfecte. Parul saten-blond, ochii verzi, si o fata de coperta de revista. In scaun cu rotile. A fost prima oara cand chiar mi-a fost mila de un om in carucior. Judec superficial, dupa aparente si ce urmeaza poate parea ceva bolnav, dar sunt obisnuit ca oamenii din scaunele cu rotile sa fie urati, diformi si freaky. Cu mirosuri gretoase. Si pana acum senzatia pe care am avut-o a fost de sincera repulsie. Ieri insa am avut un sentiment ca tipa chiar nu isi merita soarta.

Sweet smell of blood in the morning

13 01 2008

[The officer rings the doorbell]

Mrs. Greenwood? Good morning, ma’am. I am officer Johnson. I came here today about your missing daughter. A 21 year-old Carrie Greenwood, correct?

Well, yes. We did find her. Partly. What I mean to say is that while our DNA tests matched her body to the samples you provided us, facial recognition is… let’s say highly unlikely. And while we have recovered most of her remains, three of her limbs are still airborne, the shipment being scheduled to arrive tomorrow. I can assure you that our team works around the clock in order to find what used to be her left arm. But trust me ma’am, we have an area of over five square miles to cover and there is a chance that, if found, the arm will reach you a tad too late to fit in the grave.

Yes. She is dead. But I think, for what it’s worth, you should take heart and consider her death a good thing for your daughter. Considering the excruciating pain she has been exposed to, she would have lived like nothing more than a limbless vegetable on a hospital bed, without the sense of seeing and… with no tongue.

Yes ma’am. Her tongue was among the first parts that your daughter had to lose. By the way it was cut, I would say that the murderer was annoyed by her screaming. It was probably right after he started chopping her ears and cutting her face. But if it can shed a ray of light on this bleak day you are having, those cuts have almost healed by the time she passed away. It was a different kind of torture that made Carrie lose the final fight.

No, please, try to remain calm. I know how hard this is for you. I have a child myself and I know that losing him would bring me to the end of my days. If it’s any consolation, Carrie must have died of sheer horror. Not pain. By the time her left foot was virtually ripped apart by that devilish machinery in the basement she was encaged in, she must have probably passed out. Everything that followed was in the dark for her. And I would say, also, for her best.

You know, the only things she must have felt before her heart reached 200 bpm and snapped, was the peeling of the skin on her forearms. This must have come as some sort of punishment from the slaughterer. Your daughter, after having one of her legs sliced and salted, tried to chew her own hands. Out of desperation. In order to get out of those handcuffs. And while most normal people would have fainted after eating a finger, Carrie’s tremendous fear determined her brain to block the instinct of self-preservation and her teeth gained a mechanical strength. Her lack of feeling actually made her not only spit but also swallow parts of her fingers. The irony is that by the time she was caught in the act, she only had one thumb left. Almost free.

Do you need a glass of water? You look kinda pale. This should bring a smile on your face. You know, Carrie chipped two of her front teeth. That happened while chewing on her fingers. She ran into her engagement ring. Her teeth clutched onto it with such strength that they snapped. We found the ring in her stomach, at the autopsy. Here, I believe you may want to hang onto it. We washed all the blood and bodily fluids off it.

What happened afterwards…well, Carrie never felt anything anymore. Definitely not after the first in the series of sledgehammer hits to the back of her skull. You know, her head looks half the size of the one of a baby-born now. And the face…I really would suggest not to have an open coffin. Her facial structure was irremediably damaged by prolonged contact with a hot iron.

Her eyes must have remained open, thus causing a violent reaction from the assassin. He injected her ocular ducts with pure adrenaline. But the overwhelming fear rendered your daughter unconscious before rapid cardiac action sprayed her tears ten feet from the meat hook she was hanging from in the cage.

One thing is for sure. All bodily parts belong to your daughter. We double-checked the ones in the cage, with the DNA from the hook, ceiling, sledgehammer and the chunks found in the electric meat-slicer. We still haven’t found the blades and the knives. As for the rodent bites all over her neck and shoulders, we found half a dozen of rats within the walls of the basement. We also had a tough time cleaning the body of all vermin, but I am afraid you will still feel a specific stench once you see the bag of flesh that used to be your sweet daughter.

No ma’am. I’m afraid we have no clue whatsoever on who the killer may be. But look on the bright side; this happens only to an insignificantly small number of extremely unfortunate families. Normally, these things do not happen. Your daughter meeting such a deranged individual is just an exception. Rest assured. Suicide is out of the question.

Thank you for your time, ma’am. I will be waiting for you at the morgue later on today. Please try to be fast, as we cannot hold the decomposing process for much longer. Have a wonderful day!

Viata fara Internet

19 12 2007

Risca sa amplifice viata sociala reala. De duminica noaptea nu mai am Internet. Multumita UPC (sunteti de cacat). Am trecut prin mai multe faze. Nervi. Incercari de a il reface. Resemnare. Iar nervi. Am vazut mai multe filme. Am citit mai mult. Am ajuns sa ies mai mult. Sa nu ma mai grabesc acasa. Sa stau mai mult la servici ca am net, din categoria „am I lame or what?”. Sa descoper ca am o comunicare deficitara cand ies din schema messengerului. Deja sunt ceva de genul obisnuinta cu ideea ca nu il mai am. Profit de el la munca si profit de oameni si de viata dupa munca. In loc sa ajung acasa si prima grija sa deschid computerul. E si asta o mica schimbare. Dar probabil totul va reveni la normal candva in viitorul nedefinit in care cei de la UPC (sunteti de cacat) vor avea bunavointa sa remedieze situatia.

Piss off!

26 11 2007

Citizen Erased. Play. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Tare in casti, sa nu aud nimic in jurul meu la birou. E luni. Azi noapte nu m-am prea impacat cu somnul. Azi dimineata a inceput cat se poate de prost. Diseara sunt toate sansele sa se termine foarte prost. Sau foarte bine. Plictiseala crunta. Singur la birou juma de zi, fara nimic de facut si fara chef sa caut ceva de facut. Afara ploua sau ninge sau dracu stie ce se mai intampla. Vara nu e, asta e clar. Ziua morocanosilor. I just wanna get the fuck outta here.