A coin spins rapidly, fast enough to give the thin metal the illusion of being a sphere that moves on the mahogany bar like a planet orbiting the sun.
Ricardo smacks the coin. "Heads or tails?" His eyes fall on Augusto who remains standing on the other side of the bar. Augusto observes him with the amount of skepticism that his beard—whiter than the flowers on his Hawaiian shirt—grants him.
Augusto moves his toothpick around his mouth a few times. “I don't see a difference.” He crosses his arms disinterestedly. “You'll have to pay for the beer either way.”
Ricardo releases a sigh more discomposed than his blue and white checkered tie. “Aren't you even going to try?”
“Cara,” Augusto growls.
Ricardo smiles confidently but is interrupted by his Blackberry starting to ring. He takes it with his available hand and reads the number on the caller ID and identifies him as one of the collectors. His smile evaporates instantly and he tosses the phone back onto the bar.
“It's the fourth time, it seems important,” Augusto raises his eyebrows as high as his level of sarcasm. “You should answer.”
Ricardo sucks his teeth in annoyance.
“Rejoice, Christmas is coming,” Augusto says, pointing with his thumb at a tiny Christmas tree and a Christmas series that decorates the shelves behind him, coloring the liquor bottles like a rainbow.
“Then why do you bring that stupid Hawaiian?”
“It brings me luck,” Augusto responds proudly.
"Impossible."
“Yes,” Augustus removes Richard's hand from covering the coin. “Cara, see?” Augusto pockets the coin and goes to prepare a round of drinks. Ricardo takes a big sip of his drink and frees himself from his last trace of formality, his tie and jacket. Augusto serves a Tequila caballito.
“No, Gus, I don't want to drink today.”
“Then you should cum.” Augusto slides the drink to Ricardo. “This one goes for the house.”
“Okay,” Ricardo says. “Only because I hate being rude.”
A Camaro of the year is parked outside the bar with a fierce competition between the 22” rim tires burning on the pavement or the eight amplified horns playing. Guns n' Roses to see which one is louder. The young driver gets out of the vehicle wearing an immaculate Lacoste polo shirt, khaki pants and leather loafers, arranging his hair as if he were acting for a commercial.
“The only thing I needed,” says Ricardo.
"Do you know him?"
“His name is Erick. “He is the son of the owner of the company,” Ricardo says without enthusiasm. “My boss, technically speaking.”
“Great, now you can buy him a drink.”
Ricardo shakes his head. “No, I don't want him to see me.”
Erick enters the place holding his iPhone against his ear with his shoulder. “Why do you say that, darling? …no of course not, it was great last night…I haven’t forgotten it.” Ricardo turns around the moment Erick reaches the bar. “Ok beautiful, I'll call you later… ok bye.” Erick hangs up the phone.
“Hello, what would you like to drink tonight? Augusto welcomes you.
“Mmmm,” Erick scans the shelves back and forth a couple of times without finding any of the brands that satisfy his delicate palate. “What is your specialty?” Finally he answers.
“The tequila that the gentleman enjoys.” Augustus extends his hand pointing to Richard who, cornered by the situation, greets him feigning surprise, but casts a vengeful look that almost would like to crucify Augustus.
“Ibanez? What a surprise,” Erick responds.
“Mr. Miller, how are you?”
“Very well, but just call me Erick please.” Erick turns to Augusto. “Send a bottle to the corner table with two glasses.” Erick pats Ricardo on the back. “Would you mind accompanying me?” Erick walks towards the table before giving Ricardo a chance to respond.
Augusto chuckles.
“You know, Augusto, the day this bar burned down two years ago,” Ricardo drinks his Tequila and gestures as he passes the strong alcohol. “That day you were wearing that shirt.”
Augusto's smile fades and he spits out the toothpick as Ricardo leaves the bar laughing.
“The creative Mr. Ibañez,” Erick welcomes him. “You know, I always find your imaginative ideas and your impetuous proposals of great value to the company although…” Ricardo gets lost in his thoughts looking at the car keys, Erick's Camaro against the '04 subcompact that he drives.
“No offense intended,” Ricardo interrupts. “How does it feel to have someone pay your bills?” Ricardo regrets saying it before finishing, cursing the alcohol and his big mouth, but a part of him feels somehow… liberated.
Erick gets serious and, staring at him, pours himself a drink. He takes out a pack of cigarettes and offers one to Ricardo who rejects it by shaking his hand. Erick pulls one with his teeth and lights it.
“I imagine everyone in the company is asking the same question.” He says exhaling the smoke. “But I thought you, with your intelligence, knew the answer.” Ricardo sinks his head unable to correct his mistake.
"This is why?" Erick pushes the phone. "Or this?" He does the same with the car keys.
Ricardo takes his drink in an attempt to pass the bitter pill of his shame along with it, or at least numb his senses enough to forget it.
“Let me ask you something Ricky.” Erick pours another shot. “Do you think my life on this side of the table is happier?”
Ricardo nods his head. “I'm convinced, I've seen it.”
“What you have seen of my world is driving luxurious cars, dining in elegant restaurants and vacationing in exotic destinations.”
“I can get used to it,” Ricardo smiles.
“Of course you can,” Erick drinks his tequila. “But this is the problem.” Ricardo says holding the small glass cup in front of him.
“Alcoholism is not exclusive to social classes,” Ricardo points out.
“I mean glass,” Erick explains. “In my world you are surrounded by a thick glass barrier. A barrier that, instead of protecting you from the outside, prevents loneliness from escaping.” Erick takes a deep drag on his cigar releasing a large puff of smoke. “Doesn't a painful life surrounded by luxuries make sense to you? I bet not, because glass distorts reality.”
Ricardo listens attentively, surprised by the confession.
“But you have the freedom that a simple life provides, I'm not saying it's simple, you work hard, I mean you're free from those illusory things that drive you crazy.”
“I am not free, I work daily to acquire economic independence only to end up possessed by the things I buy, fleeing from collectors.” Ricardo clenches his fist.
“I'd rather run away from debt collectors than deal with the stares of the thirty employees I had to fire this month.” Erick fills both glasses. “I don't know who wants my friendship just for my money, if women's words of love are sincere. “My sister is pregnant by a man who just wants to use her, but… I can’t do anything.”
"Because you can not?
“Do you accept advice from strangers?” Erick lets out a laugh. “My sister and I are strangers, the only thing we have in common is our last name.”
Ricardo drinks his shot and plays with the small glass that rotates on the table like that old game called “the bottle” that I played as a child. The image of all those countless times he asked God—considering that he is a man of little faith, as he calls himself—begging for money to solve his problems came to mind. And from the other side of “the bottle”—Erick's perspective—he understands that money can solve some problems but it will bring with it new ones.
“Could it be that happiness does not exist?” Ricardo says, staring at the spinning glass.
"Do you have family?"
"Wife and sons."
“What are you thinking of doing for Christmas?”
“Turkey,” Ricardo smiles. “You are more than invited.
“Thank you,” Erick returns the smile. “I would like to spend Christmas with my family. But I can't lie to you, the truth is that I will take the first flight to any destination as I always do,” Erick checks his watch. "I have to go."
Erick stands up and looks for his wallet but Ricardo stops him. “No please, I'll treat you this time.”
“Ok, see you next time friend,” Erick pats Ricardo on the back and leaves the place.
Ricardo remains thoughtful, turning the glass. Your Blackberry vibrates with an incoming call. Ricardo smiles and answers the phone. "Well."
The glass spins near the edge of the table and finally falls and explodes, producing hundreds of small splinters of glass. But regardless of the size, each of them is capable of refracting sunlight.
M. Ch. Landa
