Issue 23

Jorge Largo
Translated by David Pegg

Medellín May 2020

I don’t really know why I don’t like watching movies at home. My girlfriends set up their devices in bed, in their living rooms; they place their computers, their cell phones, on a side table. Some bread, something to eat, something to drink, and they start watching a movie. They’re not bothered by what is going on around them. The avocado seller, their mom nagging, their brother and his music. Their sister-in-law singing while she irons. The dog. The cat. WhatsApp. They’re not bothered by the distractions. They get distracted and who cares.

People say I’m old school. And since I am, I don’t mind going to the movies by myself. I like movie theaters. Period.

Chumi understood me right off the bat. I didn’t have to explain myself to him at all. If I went missing for an afternoon, a whole evening, he would be waiting for me. He wasn’t keeping track of me though. We just liked running into each other. Sometimes, thank the Lord, he’d be right there as I was leaving. And then we’d go out to eat pizza, drink beer, talk about nothing in particular, which is what you do when you just like being around someone. It was great! He was great. Everything.

The other day the movie ended, and as always I stayed to watch the credits. The extras. The black cat: Ramón. The pit bull: Killer. The dog with spots: Ramba. Suddenly I saw someone’s head, a man’s arm, a woman’s hair.

Excuse me, young lady! A movie usher wanted to get by to pick up some trash. When I looked back at the screen, they were gone. I left the theater to look for them out on the sidewalk. Nothing. Nobody.

I’ve seen him again since then. The same arm, the same woman’s hair. It’s him. Chumi. And I like seeing him. What worries me though, is that if he was killed during Operation Orion, how is it the two of us still end up at the same movies?