Late One Night

A bottle crashed against the wall just above my head, showering me with broken glass and warm beer. The punks that threw it from their Fast and Furious little econo-box must have  thought I was a drunk tourist or something.  I couldn’t blame them. It isn’t usually the locals you see at a bus stop in L’Eixample at four-thirty in the morning, vomiting on their own shoes. At least not the respectable ones, anyway.

I wasn’t drunk. I was sick. I hadn’t felt well in weeks. At first I thought it was something I had eaten, one of those cold-in-the middle steaks that passes for well-done around here. Or maybe it was the pinchos skewers of mystery meat. Those things have a radioactive-red glow that kind of freaks me out. When my stomach pains got worse instead of better, I thought it might have been the flu or a virus, maybe a bacteria. Campylobacter Jejuni Bacteria can make your guts bleed.

Thanks to the internet and too much time on my hands, I’m always self-diagnosing. My doctor hates it. I think he’s jealous that me and Google are just as smart as he is, and we didn’t waste all that time and money on medical school. When I puke myself to death from this bacteria and not from the “nervous stomach” that he diagnosed, boy will he be sorry!

As I continued walking, I tried to drag my shoe in such a way as to scrape off some of tonight’s dinner. Doner kebap puke is the worst.  I just wanted to get home, but the damned 45-degree angles of every street corner in this neighborhood mean you’ve got to walk twice as far to get anywhere. When I heard the sweet voice of an older woman behind me ask if I needed some help, I ran. I really could have used some help just then, but I was both sick and paranoid, and all I could think of was that little old Gallego lady a few months back that killed all those people. She wasn’t getting me. Not tonight.

The street was buzzing with moto whines and the echoing growl of garbage trucks. I passed a couple making out, a homeless guy trying to break in to a bank’s ATM lobby, and a bunch of cats. I had lived here for years and never knew about Barcelona’s cat problem.

I tried to wave down a taxi, but their little green “libre” lights mocked me as they all just passed me by. Maybe that guy who drove me earlier had told all his little cabbie friends about how I had projectile-vomited all over him in his cab. He should have had one of those Plexiglas dividers if you ask me. No matter; I didn’t have any cash on me anyway.

I didn’t notice the flashing blue lights of the police car that approached me from behind until I heard the officer shouting at me. I wasn’t sure what he wanted, but I immediately went into “I’m sorry officer, but I’m not from around here and my Spanish isn’t so good” mode. It worked, I guess, because the frustrated cop shouted “Go home!” in English and left me in my misery. I’m going to assume that by “Go home” he meant “Be safe as you get your law-abiding butt to wherever you’re staying tonight” and not “Get out of our country, guiri.” (foreigner)

That’s me, always seeing the good in everyone.