Jaumear

The optimistic: the world smells like flowers.
The pessimistic: that is the smell of shit.
The cynical: you can stand anything with a good air freshener.

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.

A morning like any other. Well, at least that’s what I think. The world outside must be the same as yesterday… Nope, there it is, that power some will call God and others climatic change, to show me the universe might be a lot of things but predictible. I walk out the room towards the bathroom and a snow rain (literally, none porno metaphores), falls at the other side of the living room’s window. Awesome. I go back to my room: “hon, it’s snowing”, I say with an unknown heat in my voice after waking up. She, still in the mental struggle to defeat the cold and rip the sheets out of her body, answers with a half dead “aha”. Like it happens all the time! If I said the backstreet boys were in the living room completlely naked, things would be very different.

A couple of hours later we step on the street with clear minds, clean bodies and our best antifreezing suits. This is what appears before us:

It’s snowing. It’s snowing hard. And at sea level. It occurs to me maybe destroying the ecosystem wasn’t such a bad idea after all. The camera gets wet. “Come on, run”, “comiiiiiiing”. People covers with no success under jaquets, waterproof coats and umbrellas.

¡It’s war! Everybody walks on the streets in a flurry. Those who work stare outside from inside their customers empty stores. Waiters, on the other hand, move crazy from table to table, serving hot chocolate, coffes and other stuff, not even noticing the snow. We head to the dubbing school, inside our coats and dodging pedestrians, under the miserable protection of a broken umbrella. We arrive to the metro station. “Do we get in or do we go on foot?” We can’t make a choice. Anyway we start walking while I argue something stupid about how close we are. Two steps further we turn back and enter the metro, like absorbed for a friendly force: the subterranean heat. My feet are wet. I put my hood away and some snow falls into my pullover and slides through my back: Good morning, friends! After a line transfer and three or four stops we are in the street again. What we see is not much better.

The floor is slippy, all covered in mood and footsteps. A viscous and brown fluid which used to be white and fragile fills the sidewalks and the asphalt. Little avalanches fall on the pedestrians like cluster bombs from balconies and roofs. This is better than medal of honor. We reach the school at last. We go in. “Hi, wassup…” We record a take, “come on, we are closing because nobody came”. The official version is they close for the students safety. I don’t clock in until eight, so we stay in the bar talking about life, love and other nonsense stuff with some school mates and the teacher.

Great day. I hope yours was even better.

In the middle of the battlefield the optimistic soldier sees himself as an invincible superhuman.
The pessimistic curls up on the floor and waits for death while crying inconsolably for the dark destiny he is been given.
The cynical lights up a cigarrette and thinks about how he is going to die for a colorful cloth he would rather use to wipe his ass.
Then there is the patriot, dreaming of glory and the one who actually declared war, who watches everything on television from home, sitting in his favourite armchair.

Every time the optimistic goes out partying he thinks he is going to score, for sure.
The pessimistic, on the contrary, finds himself so full of handicaps he can only think: who will ever want me?
The only certainty the cynical has is the whiskey will not let him down.
And then, there are the ugly who never make out and the handsome, too dumb to be tolerated for more than two days.

The optimistic thinks others’ nature is being good.
The optimistic believes the rest of the world is against him.
The cynical tries to survive by himself, even knowing he can only lose.

The optimistic: in six seconds I can make you smile.
The pessimistic: count up to six… a child just starved to death.
The cynical: how long does an average orgasm last?

The optimistic: she turns the world into a wonderful place.
The pessimistic: whenever she leaves, sadness will kill me.
The cynical: love is nothing more but overrated sex.