As we drove past one of the avenues that bordered San Cristóbal Park, Irene looked out at the pitch-black mass of trees and said:
"Jesus Christ, that place looks terrifying. Like a hundred times scarier than Central Park in Home Alone 2."
"Don't doubt it for a second," I said. "That son of a bitch isn't just creepy—it's dangerous as hell. I'd bet money someone's dying in there right now."
Irene looked at me, half shocked, mouth slightly open.
"Dying? You're kidding, right?"
"The kind of weird shit and monstrosities that never happen in the peaceful parts of this city? In there, it's standard practice, sweetheart." I turned to the driver. "What do you think, man?"
The cabbie said:
"I think if there really is an underworld full of demons, that place would be Disney World compared to San Cristóbal."
Irene squeezed my hand. But not out of fear—nah, Irene was turned on by the thrill.
We got out of the cab and went into the building. We climbed the stairs because, of course—and don't even doubt it—the two elevators, once luxurious, had been dead for years. Only God, and maybe also Satan, knew how many decades they'd been stuck on the ground floor.
When I moved into that building, I was fifteen and had just left home. One of the first things I saw was him—the old man in the elevator. The guy who thought he was Diogenes of Sinope—a Cynic philosopher, also known as The Dog—who literally turned that elevator into his permanent home. Once, he told me: "Don't be afraid of anything, kid. Not even death. If you believe in something with all your heart, do it, and fuck everything else. If you fail, who cares? At least you failed doing what you were sure you had to do. But to be sure, first you have to kill fear. A man ruled by fear never chooses well. Fear leads to doubt, and doubt straight to doing some dumb shit you never would've done if you hadn't doubted to begin with. And once fear is gone, clarity will come. Confidence too. I know what you're thinking—'Who the hell am I to give advice?' And you're not wrong. I'm a loser. A fucked-up, useless human. But hey, even a broken clock is right twice a day." Fucking sly bastard. He never let me talk. Before I could even ask him anything, he'd already asked it to himself and kept talking. And talking.
The guy died right there, in that elevator. When they told me—"The crazy old man Gaspar kicked the bucket, man. You know, his body's cold now"—I didn't ask how or why. Honestly, I didn't care. If it didn't have anything to do with me, it didn't interest me. Though maybe, just maybe, I didn't ask because I already knew. Maybe I was there when he croaked. Anyway. Didn't matter. Old Gaspar's story meant nothing to the history of mankind.
While we were going up the stairs, Irene asked me:
"Have you always lived here?"
"No, not always. Just since I was fifteen. Since I left home."
"You ran away?"
"Not exactly. You run away from a place where you're not free. That wasn't my case. I've always been free—no one's ever given a shit about my life."
"And your mom and dad?"
"Doing their own thing. Dad's a lowlife con artist whose scams almost always blow up in his face. Mom's a drunk who lives off a couple of subsidies."
I didn't tell her that my mother, in truth, had been a street prostitute for as long as I could remember. Didn't seem relevant.
Irene said:
"I never would've guessed you were actually poor."
"I'm good at hiding it. And you know what?"
"What?"
"My father hates that word."
"What word? Poor?"
"Yeah, that one. Poor. The bastard's never had anything worth a damn in his hands, but refuses to be called that. He says he's lower-middle class."
"And what do you live off?"
"For now—but not forever—I'm a good son of my mother and I do what she taught me. I also get a subsidy."
That last part was a lie, obviously. The rest was true. I made a living the way my mother showed me. I sold my body too.