Por que meu terceiro casamento acabou.
Era uma noite de sábado e minha esposa, digo, ex-esposa e eu estávamos em casa, sentados no sofá da sala, assistindo a um programa qualquer que passava na TV. De repente, ela pegou o controle remoto, abaixou o som da TV, olhou para mim e disse:
– Ando cansada de ficar em casa. A gente precisa sair mais, ir ao shopping, a um barzinho, restaurante… Ver gente… Sei lá, fazer alguma coisa.
E eu, sem maldade alguma, respondi:
– Sair de casa pra quê? Toda vez que a gente sai, em vez de aproveitar o momento, o passeio, o lugar, você fica “rolando” Facebook e WhatsApp no celular!
Escolhendo tomates.
Ontem, fui ao varejão para comprar algumas coisinhas para a ceia de Natal. Lá, vi uma senhora muito delicadinha escolhendo tomates. Peguei um saquinho plástico, me aproximei dela e comecei a escolher alguns também.
Enquanto ela apalpava os tomates, como toda pessoa normal o faz, eu usava um método um pouco diferente: eu pegava os frutos e os colocava perto da orelha, um a um, como se estivesse escutando alguma coisa deles. Fiz isso com uns oito, mais ou menos. Alguns, eu coloquei de volta no monte; outros, coloquei dentro do saco plástico.
Enquanto escutava os tomates, eu disfarçadamente olhava a velhinha através do espelho que fica sobre a bancada. Reparei que ela me olhava com um ar de estranhamento e curiosidade ao mesmo tempo. Como ela olhava para mim, não percebia que eu a observava pelo espelho.
Ao finalizar com os tomates, segui em direção à bancada de cebolas. Passei pela velhinha, olhei para ela, sorri e a cumprimentei. Ela, muito simpática, sorriu de volta e também me cumprimentou. Repeti o processo com as cebolas. Pegava uma, colocava perto do ouvido por alguns segundos, dava uma balançadinha nela e depois a colocava dentro de outro saquinho plástico, ou a descartava, dependendo da minha escolha. Detalhe, sempre observando a velhinha, disfarçadamente, pelo espelho. Ela continuava na bancada dos tomates e não parava de me olhar. Ela estava muito intrigada com aquilo; era notável, em seu rosto.
Peguei outro saquinho e fui para a bancada das batatas. Mesma coisa. Batatas na orelha e etc. A esta altura, a velhinha já não escolhia mais nada no varejão; estava por conta de me observar, embora ainda segurasse um tomate em uma das mãos. De repente, ela se aproximou de mim e, muito educadinha, perguntou:
– Meu filho, o que você está fazendo?
– Oi?
– O que é isso que você está fazendo?
– Isso o quê, senhora? – respondi como se não estivesse entendendo do que se tratava.
– Você está colocando as coisas na orelha…
– Ah, sim. Estou escolhendo as batatas – eu disse educadamente e com a maior naturalidade.
– Mas você escolhe, colocando na orelha?
– Sim. A senhora escolhe apalpando ainda?
– É, uai. Eu sempre fiz assim, minha vida inteira – e deu uma gargalhada gostosa.
Eu ri junto e continuei:
– Eu fazia assim também, até que descobri esse jeito novo.
Ela continuava rindo, não se conformava com a minha técnica.
– Mas o que você escuta aí?
– Para falar a verdade para a senhora, eu não sei, não. Eu não escuto nada, mas, mesmo assim, eu escolho.
Rimos juntos. Muito. Ela era realmente muito simpática. Então, eu disse:
– Faço isso com alguns legumes e frutas. Já me acostumei. Só não faço com folhas.
– Essa é nova para mim, meu filho.
Rimos mais um pouco. Então, desejamos boas festas um ao outro e nos despedimos.
Amarrei meus saquinhos e me dirigi ao caixa. Paguei a conta e, enquanto esperava o rapaz colocar as compras nas sacolas, olhei para a velhinha. Ela estava em frente à bancada de abobrinhas, segurando uma na mão direita, perto da orelha. Poucos segundos depois, ela colocou a abobrinha no saquinho plástico. Aí, ela olhou na direção do caixa e me viu. Eu fiz um sinal de “jóia” para ela e perguntei:
– Funciona, não funciona?
Ela também fez um sinhal de “jóia” e respondeu:
– Funciona!
Rimos muito e nos despedimos com gestos. Peguei minhas sacolas e fui embora.
Do…
Do as I do, not as I say. No, that’s not it. I do as I say, not as I… No, no. I do… No. I say… Ouch! Do… Yes… Do as I say, don’t do as I… Damn it! Do as you say, not as I… Aaaaargh! Don’t copy me, listen to me!
Faça…
Faça o que eu eu faço, não o que eu falo. Não, não é isso, não! Faço o que eu falo, não o que eu… Não, não. Faço… Não. Falo… Iiih! Faça… É… Faça o que eu falo, não faça o que eu fa… Caramba! Faça o que fala, não o que eu… Aaaaahhh! Não me imite, me ouça!
Random dialogues
– Father?
– Yes, my son.
– I’m scared.
– I understand. It’s natural.
– What if they do not like me?
– Oh, certainly, many will not.
– How do you know that?
– Well, because that’s just the way people are. No one is obligated to like anyone. People like each other or don’t, for one reason or another. It is the nature of the human being.
– Hum. Now I’m even more worried.
– Why?
– How can I get close to these people, gain their trust, if they are that unstable?
– Well, with your charisma, your friendship, your history, and especially with your word. As I told you before, your posture, your tone of voice, your certainty during a speech, everything counts. Now, of course, there will be people who do not share your aims and ideals.
– But that’s the point! How will I be able to captivate these people?
– You will not.
– How so?
– The option is theirs. Either they like you and trust you or they don’t. It’s up to you to try to bring them to your side, gaining their trust and so on. But, if even after much effort, some still ignore you, all you have to do is be patient.
– But I must have everyone on my side, right? That’s the idea!
– At first, yes, but this is utopia. You will never get a hundred percent approval. The idea, in fact, is to have as many people as possible on your side.
– So!?
– You see, my son… I understand your concern; but you also have to understand that not everything depends on you. You can do a beautiful campaign, exposing your proposals, your history, showing who you really are; and yet many people will not follow you. There’s no way to force them to like or believe you. As I said, it will depend a lot on your word, your speeches, your truth.
– What if they doubt my word?
– Well, I will always support you, so you can, or rather you should always say you are my son. My morale is high and undoubtedly of great help.
– What if they don’t believe it?
– What?
– What if they don’t believe I’m your son?
– Well, prove it! Show them you are not lying.
– Father?
– Yes, my son.
– What if they ask who my “grandfather” is?
– Jesus, enough of bullshit! Go down to Earth and just do what we agreed, okay?
– Yes, sir.
Distorted values
Doctors save lives.
Garbage collectors collect doctors’ waste.
Doctors do not collect their own waste.
Doctors study hard.
Garbage collectors do not study as much as they would like to.
Despite much study, doctors still do not collect their own waste.
Garbage collectors depend on doctors once in a while, when they get sick.
Doctors depend on garbage collectors every day so they won’t get sick (with the accumulation of their own waste).
Mankind and their unfortunate habit of distorting values, giving more importance to “having” and “looking” than to “being”, disparaging those who so richly deserve credit and giving prestige to those who also deserve it, but with an unnecessary exaggeration.
Oh, humanity, if you were more human…
The job interview and the contretemps
Once, I woke up early and decided to prepare a typical American breakfast: scrambled eggs with bacon and orange juice. It was excellent. Quite different from the bread with butter and coffee I usually have. It’s good to vary from time to time. After washing up, I rushed to take a good shower because I would have a job interview at 10 AM and I intended in any way to be late.
After entering the car, still in the garage, I felt some stomach tremors. “No biggy,” I thought, and headed to the interview. Along the way, the feeling of an intestinal earthquake was increasing and I started to get worried. Then, I associated the situation to such a breakfast I had had because I was not used to eating that every day, so it certainly should be a kind of a lightning reaction to that unusual petit déjeuner. Time passed, the situation got worse and the traffic, which was absolutely normal that day, looked heavy. My vision began to blur. Anyway, I arrived at the building where the interview would take place. I poorly parked the car, to not lose too much time and especially to not have to push hard, because things were getting a little dangerous.
It was twenty to 10 AM, then I thought, “I go to the reception, announce my arrival to show them that I’m not late and then ask the receptionist where the toilet is, making a gesture with my hands, as if to wash them. Then, I go to the bathroom, do what I have to do and come back for the interview, still on time.” Oh, I wish it were that simple!
I took the elevator. With me, six more people got in: an old lady, a very elegant woman, two guys in suits and ties and a lady with her daughter – a little girl around five years old. I hit the 43rd floor button. They all chose their floors too, the lowest was the 27th. My situation was already critical and the sudden start of the elevator going up collaborated with my disgrace. The two men talked. The elegant woman was serious – Veronica Maia was the name written on her badge. Mother and daughter held hands. The old lady was counting a few coins on her palm. And I… well, I just sweated. “Gosh, I was sweating!”
Roughly between the 6th and the 7th floors, I felt a helical spasm in the gut that left me no alternatives… I farted. What a situation! I didn’t know if I celebrated the luck of not having shitted in my pants or if I got worried about the future impact of the incident. Since it had been a silent fart, I remained still, held my countenance and pretended that the fact had nothing to do with me. The smell, or rather the stench began to spread around the elevator. Everything was blighted.
Think about the stinkiest fart you have ever done in your life. Now, raise it to the 25th power. Done? Well, yours might have been more or less “half” of mine. I swear to God; my fart stank absurdly. It was monumental.
The odor was so strong that it seemed to have poisoned the interior of the elevator. The mirror got blurred. The two guys shut their mouths – perhaps to hold their breath, I don’t know. The old lady who had the coins must have lost the numbers because I noticed that she began to count them again. The elegant woman, who was already serious, got more serious, now showing an angry face. Mother and daughter looked at each other. In fact, I was very sorry for the girl because she was next to me and more or less as tall as my hip. Undoubtedly, her nose was the first one to feel that stench. By the way, she had this lace ponytail holder that seemed to be untying by itself. The reek was so strong that it must have loosened its knot.
Suddenly, someone spoke up. Who? The little girl, of course. It’s a fact, children do not understand diplomacy – if that applied there:
– Yuck! That stinks!
– Quiet, darling! – her mother said, trying to apologize for the girl; but, deep inside, she was undoubtedly proud of her brave little daughter’s attitude. All that frankness and puerile naivety, for a few moments, made her the spokesperson for the occupants of that cubicle.
– What a lack of manners! – said one of the guys. The other one just nodded. The elegant woman remained silent, but there was a remarkable air of indignation on her face. The old lady mumbled something, but I didn’t understand it. I just shook my head, as if to show a sign of disapproval, but actually I was thinking of the next fart that was about to come and would not take long. That was when one of the guys pressed the 21st floor button – we were close to the 19th. The elevator stopped, the doors opened and everyone left hastily, smothered, in search of fresh air… except me. What a blunder! It was the same as signing my confession. Everyone else looked at me disapprovingly, but, to be honest, I did not care much, because at that moment I felt a delirious colic and, as the elevator door closed, I dropped the second fart. This time, I almost shat my pants. That was close! The atmosphere was “colored” again. A stench that I had never felt before in my 28 years of age.
I kept on looking at the digital panel of the elevator, counting the seconds to reach the 43rd floor. When the door opened, I saw the reception of the company. The urge to run up there was huge, but the courage was little. I walked slowly, with short steps and legs together; fearing a third accident could happen – not to say “a turd accident”.
– Good morning. – I said to the receptionist – My name is Bruno. I have a job interview scheduled for 10 AM.
– Oh, yes. Please, take a seat. Mrs. Maia is already on her way. As soon as she gets here, I call you.
– Mrs. Maia?
– Yes.
– Veronica Maia?
– Yes, why?
– No, nothing. Please, where is the toilet? – I asked, making a gesture with my hands, as if to wash them.
– In the middle of the hallway, on the right. Make yourself at home.
– Thank you.
As I headed to the bathroom, I heard the bell of the other elevator which had just arrived. The door opened and out stepped Veronica. I quickly went into the bathroom. She did not see me, but I saw her. By the way, it was the last time I saw her.
I can not remember the excuse I gave the receptionist not to do the interview, but I remember very well my relief when using the bathroom which, by the way, got the same putrid odor of the elevator. At one point, I had the impression that the lid of the trash can, next to the toilet, opened and closed by itself, as if it desperately tried to “fan” that nauseating atmosphere away. Certainly, a post-evacuation delusion of mine.
Nowadays, every time I have scrambled eggs with bacon, it reminds me of Veronica Maia and of me never taking an elevator again.
Memory…
My memory sucks. My friends and family know what I’m talking about. Because of that, I make use of some techniques which help me remember things. For example, I always write important things down on a paper and keep it in a safe place. Then, I write a note to myself, telling me where I put that paper, just in case I forget about the place. After that, I get my phone and text myself to remind me of the note. Then, I… Uh… Oh, yeah… I send an e-mail to mysel… No! That’s not it. I tie a piece of string around my left pinky to… – or is it my right pinky? Hum… No, it’s my left pinky, for sure. Wait! I have to write this “left-pinky-thing” down before I forget about it. Where did I put my pen? Well, I can do it later. Hi. What were we talking about?
If my puppy could send me text messages…
Not long ago, I saw somethig on the Internet that would simulate hypothetical dialogues between dogs and their owners by using mobile phone text messaging. Hilarious! Incredible! Then, I started thinking, “What if my puppy had a mobile phone and could send me messages over WhatsApp?”…
DIALOGUE 1
– I’m hungry. What time is lunch?
– I’ve already put dog food in your feeder.
– I know, I saw it.
– So, bon appetite.
– No, what time is YOUR lunch?
DIALOGUE 2
– I’m getting on the couch.
– No, you’re not!
– Yes, I am!
– If you do, you will sleep in the garage!
– OK, getting down.
– Son of a gun!
DIALOGUE 3
– Dad, open the door! I want to come in.
– But you just got out…
– Yeah, but I don’t like this smell in the garage.
– Smell? What smell?
– Uh, I don’t know… A garage smell.
DIALOGUE 4
– Branca, what’s all that barking for?
– I’m talking to Rex.
– Who is Rex?
– The neighbor’s dog.
– But is that noise really necessary?
– He doesn’t have WhatsApp.
DIALOGUE 5
– Gee, my father is so square! He won’t let me date.
– What kind of bullshit was that, Branca?
– Oops! Sorry, dad. It was a message for Rex. I sent it to you by mistake.
– Show more respect, OK, young lady? I’m not square!
– It’s that or grandchildren. I’m in heat. Do you want grandchildren?
– OK, just send this message to Rex.
Why my marriage has come to an end.
It was a Friday evening, happy hour, and my wife, I mean, ex-wife and I were at a bar, among other couples, friends of ours, eating, drinking and shooting the breeze, as usual. The intimacy among us, couples, was huge, so it was a very open dialogue. At a certain time of the night, a small talk about “married life” popped out and then each one started talking about what the partner used to do best. Some of them said it was making love, others said it was cooking, others said it was giving massage and etc. Then my wife, I mean, ex-wife asked:
– And you, honey, what do you think I do best?
And I, completely full of innocence, answered:
– Uh, I don’t know… Sleeping?
Bruno Magalhães - O Blog 