One comes to memorize great stories without really remembering who told them. They are so memorable that, even if pieces, voices, and details are lost along the way, one knows that in the end, they will appear intact. It's an exercise like any other, like picking your belly button until you fish out a speck.
Whether the final version is true or not, let’s leave it to the biographers…
Cristina was overwhelmed by Marlon’s jealousy, her husband. Sick jealousy that had cost them both snot, tears, and broken dishes.
The man was unbearable, among other things, because he worked all day, while the wife remained alone and neglected. Understandable. He had no reason to be jealous, except because Cristina was very attractive, and all the guys in the neighborhood undressed her with their eyes. But no, what a serious woman. Marlon was narcissistic, misogynistic, and drowned in his own vanity. He couldn’t accept that she had friends, especially not if they were more attractive than him. And she, noble and devoted, agreed. Cristina was so concerned with appearing faithful that she almost bordered on foolish; she wouldn’t go out so Marlon wouldn’t think badly, and even proposed, to cool the relationship, to double down on affection and attention.
But even then, Marlon didn’t trust her. No. One day, he left for work as usual with the idea of sneaking back early to see what Cristina was up to while he was away. It turned out that she, that very day, in her eagerness to cure Marlon’s schizoid jealousy, wanted to earn points by fixing all the clothes in his closet. By the way, excellent decision.
In the midst of taking out and putting away, hanging and unhanging, and opening and closing, Marlon’s wardrobe gradually fell apart until it collapsed like a house of cards in front of Cristina’s eyes. Damn it. Cry…
But it was early, and Marlon wouldn’t return until 6 p.m., so the woman decided to call Don Edwin, the kindest and, by the way, least flirtatious neighbor, to ask for help. He was also the ugliest neighbor, just in case.
Let’s get to work. Don Edwin, as best he could, adjusted here, hammered there, matched here, tightened there, and there, the wardrobe stood upright. But as he was leaving, bad luck was entering. Outside, a Transmilenio speeding down the street made the walls vibrate and the floor of the small apartment shake. Boom, the wardrobe fell.
Cristina and Don Edwin looked at each other, wanting to laugh. Once again, the neighbor, as best he could, returned to the room to adjust here, hammer there, match here, tighten there, and there, the wardrobe stood upright again. Don Edwin said goodbye to Cristina, and this time, the floor throbbed like a hippo’s belly. Another Transmilenio passed by, making the place tremble. Boom: the wardrobe fell again.
This time, at the door, both rolled their eyes. Resigned, Don Edwin returned and, as best he could, tried to stand the damn furniture upright while Cristina, also resigned to the failed attempt to organize Marlon’s clothes, tried to stuff them into the drawers without any effort.
Don Edwin was ugly but no fool. He was determined to find out where the problem was and saw no better solution than to patiently lock himself in the wardrobe, waiting for another bus to pass, to see why a simple vibration made the damn wardrobe fall. The entrance door was heard. “Who were you talking to, damn it?! Where is your lover, don’t hide him!”.
Marlon had arrived and looked like a bull loose in the house. He was foaming at the mouth and everything. He found nothing, but he gradually exhausted the most famous hiding places of lovers: under the bed, behind the curtains, in the bathroom ceilings… Nothing.
And yes, one was missing, the most obvious place, his two-meter modular wardrobe: he opened the wardrobe, the damn wardrobe:
“You, son of a bitch? Are you the one screwing my wife? And you, Cristina, with this hideous old man? I knew it! Damn you both! Tell me the truth! Confess now! Explain this or I’ll burn you both right here!”.
Don Edwin, still among Marlon’s dresses and pants, neither too curled up nor too upright, with nerves in shreds and already all sweaty, had little time to understand what was happening and even less to know what to say. Cornered, he played his one and only card: telling Marlon the truth…
“Neighbor, you won’t believe it. I’m here waiting for the Transmilenio”.
Stories by Palabraseca
