Jaumear

He aquí el relato breve que escribí para el concurso de TMB, bajo el pseudónimo de Juby McFly.

Sale el sol después de muchos meses de lluvia y mal tiempo. Los campos y jardines se colorean de flores. Sonríes más porque es primavera y porque has visto a la rubia que está sentada frente a ti en el metro y, maldita sea, si no vale la pena sonreír por ella no vale la pena hacerlo por nada.
A tu alrededor hay un montón de gente. El vagón está casi lleno. Te levantas para salir de allí y luchas por llegar hasta la puerta. Te rozas con todo el mundo y notas su calor corporal y su aliento sobre ti. Su sudor, su olor. Nunca has sido más parte del todo que ahora. Y, de repente, tienes una especie de revelación. Te das cuenta de que todas aquellas personas que jadean y transpiran asquerosamente cerca, tienen problemas propios. Sueñan, aman o desaman, tienen sexo o lo desean… En definitiva, son como tú mismo. Porque aunque te joda, amigo, tú también sudas y apestas a humanidad por mucha eau de toilette que te eches por encima para intentar camuflarlo.
Vuelves a mirar y el metro sigue avanzando, moviendo los cuerpos al unísono, como si bailaran todos alguna canción estúpidamente lenta. Al tomar una curva se te cae encima una abuela y la sujetas con desgana para que no se reviente la cadera contra el suelo y sonríes. Te sale solo. Es un mecanismo automático. Porque no quieres ser amable. De hecho, de importa una mierda la vida de todos los que están a tu alrededor. Y a los demás les pasa lo mismo.
De golpe eres consciente de que nadie daría la vida por ti, aunque tú tampoco la darías por ellos. Ni por todos. Si el diablo (o en su defecto el dueño de algunos grandes almacenes) te ofreciera la posibilidad de salvarte tú o salvarse todos los demás… Bueno, digamos que habría una masacre.
A nadie le importas. Si tienes suerte en la vida, quizá tu padre y tu madre te quieran. Quizá logres convencer a un par o tres de personas de que no eres tan mezquino como realmente eres y te quieran también como amigos. Puede que incluso encuentres a alguien con quien además compartas la cama y que te diga que te quiere. Pero tienes más posibilidades de que te salga todo mal y que por cada diez personas que acaben apreciándote, termines con doscientas que te odien. Eso, si tienes suerte.
Somos una raza violenta. En el medievo se quemaba a los reos condenados en la plaza pública porque así el pueblo aplacaba su ira. Además de que aprendía que al de arriba, ni tocarlo, claro. Pero lo que no se relata en los libros de historia de las escuelas es que el cuerpo humano al calentarse tanto, explotaba. Literalmente. Y la gente adoraba eso. De hecho se peleaban por lograr las mejores vistas del show.
Echas otro vistazo a tu alrededor. Miras al tipo de tu izquierda. Él te mataría. A la abuela de tu derecha. Ella te dejaría tirado en una cuneta. Miras a la rubia. Ella te devuelve la mirada y sonríe. Quizás ella te hiciera alguna putada también, pero al menos es probable que te la tiraras primero. Y eso es lo más hermoso que te ofrecerán en este vagón. Porque nadie dará un duro por ti a menos que ganen algo con ello. Nadie te daría comida si tuvieras hambre. Pero sí te darían una patada gratis o te incinerarían en un cajero. Sólo se dan ayudas a los bancos. Puede que alguien venga a curarte las heridas, pero por cada uno de éstos, vendrán mil dispuestos a herirte. Nadie te dará una manta si estás en plena calle, solo y muerto de frío. Pero tranquilo, todavía es primavera.

This story begins with a visit to a website for actors which name is not relevant. There I find a casting RTVE (Spanish National TV Network) is going to do in order to find the cast for the musical version of Spanish well known tv series about the life of a family after the civil war called “Cuéntame” (Tell me), and which title is going to be “Cántame” (sing to me). I send my resume and some pictures where I look handsome (I don’t know how, but my friends are genius photographers). Two days after I receive a call from the studio to give me an appointment for the last March the 17th at 8:30 in the morning. I’m told to rehearse three different songs. So far so good. Weird things start: the girl who called asks if I’m going alone or with company. “Eeeeeeer… alone”, I reply. She tells me that I can take relatives and friends with me so they can dance and make the chorus while I sing. I flip. I recover, nevertheless, thinking of something rational that would explain such suggestions. Something rational I can’t recall, of course. I put down the phone and I stop turning it over in mind.

It’s the 17th. I’ve got all I need for the casting. I wake up at 7 to shower, get dressed and have enough time to reach the train station and grab a train to the place. It’s so cold in the street. I rehearsed three songs, including Robbie Williams’ “Angels”. I, poor dreamer, think I will impress them. After the train journey and a little five minutes walk I reach the studio. There are people queueing, but it’s still 8:15 in the morning so It doesn’t bother me much. Fifteen minutes later all remains the same, only now there are more people queueing behind me. I hear conversations of the people around me: some ladies brought their husbands and even some daughter (chan-chaaaaan), I have a feeling that this isn’t just right: are these people pros?

Nine o’clock. More people queueing. We still can’t go in. It is so cold I can’t even feel my feet. I feel a little breeze of madness coming up my throat. I breath. And swallow. Nine thirty in the morning. I no longer feel my calves. People starts singing the song “Cuéntame, cómo te ha ido…” (from “Formula V”) but changing the lyrics with “we wanna get in” and other stuff. We are all pissed off. I can see in the distance a worker from RTVE placing at the entrance of the main building a banner which goes: “Cuéntame, the musical”. This happens about twenty feet away from where we stand. I must add: in the freaking street. Chan-chaaaaaaaaaaaan. Second warning, that banner is not for us, it’s probably because they are about to film this whole circus. It’s some kind of talent show.

Nine forty-five. Four camera guys exit the main building, everyone accompanied by another sound guy with mics and all. No chan-chaaan no crap, this smells like scam. Some girls with papers in their hands also appear and they start speaking with the people outside. One of them begins her interviews with the people who stands three spots ahead of me. It’s a woman and her husband. Interviewer question: “why did you come to the casting?”, woman’s answer: “because I always loved singing”, thought in my head: “Where the hell am I?”. Next group of people. Another woman. “You came alone?”, “no, my husband is over there, pretty upset for the waiting”. And which was the interviewer’s answer?

Option a: I’m very sorry, madam, but we had some trouble getting started.
Option b: He better get used to it, madam.
Option c: Mint is my favourite ice-cream flavor.

Hint: the girl didn’t have much manners and it was certainly too cold to think of ice-cream. So yes, the only answer left is b. That’s right. No apologies nor shit, they are a big TV channel and they begin the castings whenever they please, hell yeah. Another wave of madness comes to my head. On the other hand, the woman just replies with a slight laughter. She wasn’t professional either. Next: the girl just in front of me who comes accompanied by her father. “Can you sing?”, and pay attention here, because the answer is absolutely true and must not be missed: “yes, I can, in the shower”. No words. I’m out. My turn.

I ask: what is the schedule?
She answers: we will stay here for some time.
Me: time, how long?
She: whatever it takes, that’s the way castings are.
Me: no, they are not.
She: well, those for TV are.
Me: eeeeeer, no. I worked for TV and their are not this way either.
She: god knows what TV you were in. But, hey, good start…
Me: (an answer pops to my throat: in a TV where castings started on time; but I hold my horses) ok, you’re right, I’m an asshole. The only thing I want to know is how long do you plan on ending the casting.
She: don’t even thing of going back home until ten p.m.
Me: well then, I’m out. Thanks for everything.

And that is the way my little trip to RTVE lands ended, ladies and gentleman. Be nobody is rough. If some day this happens the other way around, I hope to remember this day. The big ones should be there to protect the little ones. They step on them instead. Greetings and good luck, you are going to need it if you are a little fish.

¿Does anybody remember the tv series Doogie Howser, M.D.? A guy who knows what he is doing, but whose youth incites criticism. This blog is rather the opposite, a guy who has no idea and is too old to start blogging. Welcome to my little personal universe, I hope you find something interesting in it.