Smartystan

Hector Vergara enjoyed his French onion soup. As he finished the bowel, a slight slurp came from his lips. He scrolled through the news on his phone. The story about how he could possibly shut down an entire, newly formed country struck him like a piano note. His eyebrows raised and he sighed. I was an exasperation of approval and a commitment to his life’s work. He got up and paid his bill.

Without considering the fact he could be targeted at any given moment, he experienced a chilly suspicion that he may be on someone’s hitlist. While in the SUV, he continued his odyssey of reading through the media and looked at his face plastered all over the Internet. The rumblings of hatred and malcontent seemed to roar in his head. He considered his family. His wife Alejandra and daughter Lucia remained probably more protected than he. This comforted him..briefly. The pangs kept coming back, If something awful would happen to them, he would find whoever perpetrated against them and probably thank them. “Do good to those who hate you.”

With this in mind, still, he did not seem happy. In fact, he never seemed so in an unmitigated sense. His state of being tried to strip him of any pretense. Speeches and all sorts of engagements and press runs all coalesced into a tiny battle of indifference. He didn’t feel the hatred of those who didn’t understand his cause. Patience granted him the chance to see things with a clear-eyed view. Mostly, the touring energized him. He was famous enough. In certain circles, while largely never heard of in others, hence the diner stops. The people lived on the outskirts of the new country. Vergara knew this to be true.

As he looked out of the window, he saw the faces change. All shades dotted the portrait. They cheered when they saw his motorcade. Volume kicked in ever higher as his door swung open to claps and shouts. With a megawatt smile, he fastened his suit button and ventured into the venue. Leisure time became Vergara’s goal. He found his seat on the floor of a boxing match. Sports always kept him attuned. Futbol and boxing emphasized metaphorical positions in the world. He knew in order to play the former, you had to keep your compatriots in line. The latter brought into perspective the notion of “move or get punched in the nose.” As the fight continued, he didn’t smile. Nothing in his face said joy.

He gritted his teeth like he was grinding on a bone. Finally, the fight ended. He netted a cool two million dollars. This money, of course, did not belong to him but to any slack-jawed, parasite-ridden louse he could consider. The average man of ability, like any other Vergara, thought of the poor, needy, malnourished and flea-bitten as kings and queens and he anyone of the ave guard (they even refused to capitalize their moniker) must take care of those lacking ability or remained limited in some way. If a beggar asked him for a nickel, wouldn’t automatically give it to him. For Vergara, the vagrant had to prove, somehow, his inability to continue on from there. When Vergara could ascertain when the deficiency could warrant “his money,” he grinned and offered hundreds even thousands of dollars.

He didn’t mind it, but because it wasn’t his money to begin with, knowing that he could not only be selfless but he had the power over another life. The rush of understanding that he could have this kind of control boosted his egotism but he knew not what an being an egoist entailed.

Somewhere, driven down in his mind and adolescence, something pushed back by years of struggle continued to drive him. Vergara kept coming back again and again to the same fact that he possessed advanced skill. But he didn’t have the smarts to challenge the big questions of the ideas that came from the intellect. He relied on the simple form of logic: common sense. It took him no to realize this was in fact, a virtue. He, however, still had a sneaky, vaporous notion that it was never enough. His parents often encouraged Vegara to gain insight in the world, from books yes, but in human interaction all over the world. Common sense carried him from Zurich to Zimbabwe. He soaked in the cultures, yet there was still something amiss. Common sense was a treasure but it failed to show its luster in matters of greater magnitude.

Vergara journeyed to the next veteran’s hall. His swagger remained undeniable, fresh from the match, he looked well put together and sharp. His mouth felt grainy and a metallic, acidic taste pervaded his mouth. He did, nevertheless took to the stage and grabbed the mic. He rocked the crowd.

At a hotel room adjacent to the hall, Vergara wept uncontrollably and almost unceasingly. Cries for himself ruled the hour. He was shaken and ashamed. He knew he had a modicum of ability but that he could not express his superior skills of thinking and writing and computing. He’d be a man in a wasteland with no hope for an oasis. His tears rolled down his cheeks in tiny rivulets. He looked at himself in the mirror.

The struggle to keep a new identity as someone with extraordinary ability masquerading as a man with limited gifts led Vergara to forever cast doubt on himself. Depression set in and he reached for his pills. He popped two and sipped water. The inner fight became an all-out brawl for his soul. He could speak and he was the ultimate representation of course. To be called someone of superior ability in his painting and music, it certainly would be an affront to his constituents. After the prescribed drugs took effect, Vergara cried his last tear for the night and shut off his lamp. He would need every ounce of sleep to continue with the challenges of the next day.