You are asleep in your crib, Daniel. Mom and Grandma are on the sofa eating cashews and drinking clear soda. I am standing in front of the television when suddenly I hear, “You make a better door than you do a window. Move it,” but I don’t want to miss a single detail of Miss Venezuela’s outfit. The dress is a light rose-pink with large flower petals blooming on Miss Venezuela’s breasts and reaching her fluorescent cheeks. It has a low-cut neckline and doesn’t show too much leg. It’s to die for.
“JJ, sit down and relax,” Grandma yells at me. Mom flings a cashew and it lands on my head. With my eyes glued to the TV screen, I explain to them, “if Miss Venezuela wins this will be the second time in three years. It would be a great honor for the Latin America of the twentieth century.” Grandma’s demands grow louder while a teary-eyed Miss Brazil gives a lame answer and destroys her chances to be the next Miss Universe. “JJ, your grandma is talking to you,” Mom reprimands me, and meanwhile Miss Venezuela gives a dumb answer to the final question. She says “world peace” and just like that the crown no longer returns to the south. More cashews bounce off my head, now followed by a pair of Grandma’s sandals, and I pray that Miss Canada will freeze up when they ask her the final question.
The battle finally comes to an end. The little old man holds in his hand a slip of paper with the winner’s name written on it. Mom demands that I “stop the racket.” But try as I may, I can’t. Only three remain standing, and if Miss Venezuela wins, I won’t be able to contain myself. Now only two remain. Miss Venezuela is gripping Miss Canada’s hand. A ton of hairspray is holding up her voluminous hair and her face is glowing from all the estrogen. “She won, she won, the Venezuelan won!” I burst out. I cover my face with both hands to catch my tears. “She gave a great answer. Peace on earth. What a great answer. The Venezuelan… She’s drop-dead gorgeous,” I say, but Mom and Grandma are not watching the crowning anymore. They’re observing me jump around the living room, and demanding that I calm down. “Listen, I told you to stop your antics,” says Mom. I exclaim louder and louder, “the first time was in 1979 and again now in 1981!” and they start furrowing their brows. I want to tell them to join me, to celebrate with me, but my mouth only manages to say, “That woman has baby-soft skin. The Miss in pink is giving Latin America another crown. It’s the second time in three years.” Grandma finally realizes that my excitement is not going to let up, so she stops looking at me and starts scowling at Mom. Mom can’t stand it so she gets up from the sofa, puts on her pink robe, and runs to the telephone to call Dad.
Dad didn’t come see me until the following week because he was very busy with all of his business affairs, and his wife had kept the message from him.
“We’re taking him straight to the psychiatrist. He’s going to be seen by the best Panama has to offer. I’m not paying a fortune for an American health insurance policy for nothing, shit,” said Dad after patiently hearing Grandma’s and Mom’s whining.
Mom found not one but three psychiatrists.
“We work as a team, and we are not psychiatrists. We practice psychology and specialize in child development,” the three women clarified in chorus before launching into a series of questions, endless silences and eternal sighs. Tired of Dad and Mom’s evasiveness, they abruptly escorted me out of the office and, without the slightest regard for Mom’s anguish, they walked me to the end of the hallway, where an empty, windowless room with blue light bulbs awaited us.
“Wait for us here until we come back,” they say in unison before exiting the room and closing the door. The lights go off but it’s not dark. Without the blue light, one of the walls comes alive and transforms into a glass window revealing the room next door. I’m standing, and I see the three quacks walk into the room on the other side of the glass, each one carrying a stack of books, notebooks, and pencils.
The three of them are watching me and waving their hands around, and then I notice that one of them is wearing azure nail polish, a trend that died over three seasons ago.
They sit down on three wooden chairs arranged side-by-side.
They look at me. They smile. They talk among themselves. They take notes.
They look at me. They talk among themselves. They furrow their brows.
They look at me. I look at them. One of them is wearing white heels. I guess she’s taking advantage of the August dryness. The other two have the nerve to show up to work wearing cloth sandals with plastic straps that cover their feet. The one with azure polish consults one of her books while the other two talk among themselves. They look at each other in agreement. The one in heels bursts into tears. The other two console her with hugs. She gives a sign of agreement and dries her tears.
They turn to look at me.
I look at them and my conclusion is that those three could use a jumbo-size bottle of hair conditioner with paraffin wax.
The lights come back on, the glass wall disappears, and the silence leads me to conclude that the professional woman of the eighties is neglecting her basic obligation to society by ceasing to read health and beauty magazines. Fashion, good looks, and style aren’t a matter of taste; they’re the lubricant that soothes the hard and constant friction of society.
I stand in a corner of the room and watch as the three psychiatrist-psychologists ask Mom more questions in chorus. “Why do you allow him to watch soap operas? Children have no other option but to imitate behavior.” When Mom’s stony look destroys them, they turn on Dad. “And when was the last time you took him to the park to play soccer? Have you taken him to the beach? Just the two of you? What kind of films do you watch with your son? Have you ever taken him to judo classes? Boxing classes? How about swimming lessons? Children have no other choice but to imitate behavior.” Now they’re met with a second stony look, and one of the quacks concludes in a tone suited for a speech in the 1:00pm Mexican telenovela, “I do not know how to put this, but your son was not born with this condition. You caused it.” Dad hurls insults at the gang of cheap stylists before turning against Mom. “Where did you find these clowns? A bar? Grab the boy. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Daniel, with Dad in charge of the mission, it took less than two days for the countless medical exams to begin. These would eventually reveal my terminal diagnosis. Male doctors, female doctors, nurses, and a certified witch-doctor with a framed diploma hanging on his wall examined the organs and fluids that I refused to believe existed inside of me. It took that group of explorers more than two months to discover that I have a condition that enjoys its degenerative power so much that it qualifies as a syndrome and is cured by the brute force of pills combined with an unattainable willpower.
First, there were the routine exams: the eyes, the ears, and the heart. The internal medicine specialist offered his recommendation, “Men with his clinical presentation are prone to overexcitement. A daily dose of Digoxin for the rest of his life. It will calm his heart.” Then things got a little complicated. They took me to an orthopedist who is practicing without a license since he is German, and around here, only Panamanian doctors understand the needs of Panamanian patients. He suggested that my balance problems were caused by an underdeveloped auditory system, and that this explained my disturbing hip movements. My dad asked him to prescribe me something, anything, so that I could achieve balance, and the German demonstrated his knowledge of Panamanian laws and said that there was no treatment for my case. An endocrinologist with offices on Peru Avenue pricked my entire body and concluded that even though nothing abnormal showed up in the exams, my problem was hormonal. The recommended treatment? Zinc supplements and fish stew on a daily basis. A nurse with banana-colored hair stuck dozens of white, yellow, and green cables to my head, arms, and legs. It turned out that my cerebellum and spinal cord were not the problem. The iridologist asked if my urine was white, and I didn’t know how to answer because I always sit down to pee. Why should I pay attention to fish food? “He pees sitting down,” the iridologist repeated like a parrot. I nodded and my dad sank his head into his hands. “Nothing fatal here,” the homeopath pronounced, “Nothing a mango egg-white juice can’t fix.”
Finally, the pediatrician called my dad and told him that he and his colleagues had met and come to a conclusion. “Juan José’s Condition is the result of a combination of illnesses. A syndrome is attacking his body,” Doctor Santos explained to Dad, who then explained it to Mom, who then explained it to Grandma. Mom told Grandma that I will eventually lose control of my body and that soon I will become very depressed. Sooner rather than later I will suffer from something called promiscuity. Grandma cried out, “Havin’ to deal with those problems at such a young age. First, Doctor Santos didn’t know what to diagnose. Now look at that!”
The worst part about it, Daniel, is that this mix of illnesses will eat up my brain before the worms get a chance. My mind is going to keep running, but processing information as it pleases, “without a moral compass.” I will be like an Atari that runs Space Invaders when you insert the cartridge for Pac Man. My software for “things to do past midnight” will stop functioning and instead of entering sleep mode, a little button in me to “wander around vice-filled streets” will ignite. My controls for reminding me “not to pee here” and “not to overeat” will get stuck, and instead of going right, I’ll go left. It appears that I’ll lose my sense of hearing and go color blind before the game ends, but I’ll still have my sense of smell and that will be the only software left to inform me that I’ve shit my pants. It turns out that the effects of the syndrome are so devastating that “North American studies show that those who suffer from it have their life expectancy shortened by twenty years.”
In the end, my brother, none of that will matter. My depression will be so deep, Daniel, so sharp, and so painful that my Atari’s CPU will order me to execute the only possible logical solution to my condition and blow out my brains with a little gun from Space Invaders.
Translated by Alexander Aguayo
