«I bet that whatever you grow up to be, it'll be worth the wait.»
I thank my critters DarkStuff,
Civil Western,
Kothardarastrix,
Siddartha Alonne and
Uncle Nicolini.
My friends used to call me Jota.
It’s exactly the sort of thing that just happened at random back in the day and it just clicks perfectly in place when looking back. Maybe it’s just my mind trying to make sense of those awkward years. Maybe a part of me did go back to those years when I was trying to figure myself out.
On paper, a Cuba fresh from the Cold War isn’t a place you can picture children growing up, making their fondest memories, and planting the seeds of the adults they’ll become, but no country really is. Children are born everywhere and all the time. It's not like anyone has asked them where and when to be born beforehand, they'd have no clue what the question means anyway.
As for me, I was born into the burning air of a tight apartment. My parents prayed every single one of the Saints displayed by the Catholic faith so that some pencil-pusher would perform the holy act of granting them a government-approved visa.My maternal grandpa was a veteran. He had fought for our country’s liberation but still shared my parents' dream of a better life elsewhere. My paternal grandpa was much more coherent. He was a medic during the war and, despite his fleeting hair, he grew his beard thick and curled as was commonplace among his brothers in arms. The last time I saw him was on my sixth birthday. I don’t remember his voice, I remember him arguing with dad as the parade was marching about our neighborhood. I can't remember the conversation itself, be it fault of the loud music or them using words way too camplicated for me. It's most likely the latter. As you can imagine, I was a child, and I didn’t understand shit.
One Saturday evening, a little Jota was speeding through the streets of Havana on their sturdy chivichana. The wheels had started producing an awkward squeak, imploring me to replace them already. The screeching didn't matter though. What mattered was the box under my armpit and the person I was looking for. This person was my school friend Ernesto and yes, he was named in honor of that famous Ernesto. He was not much fun, but he was very reliable overall and most importantly, he was someone to do good trades with. He had a total of twelve aunts and uncles, all childless. It goes without saying that he was flooded with presents on each of his birthdays. His house was a museum of toys he barely had the time to play with. This made him more than willing to trade them off and if he wasn't fancying what was offered, there was always his sister. Her taste just so happened to be her brother's opposite.
But if I remember that day so fondly, it's because I didn't get to see Ernesto.
I didn't find him, let alone his sister. The door and windows were locked. Only then I remembered all the vague remarks about a soon-to-come family trip he exchanged with me in class. Had I cared enough to ask him where he was off to and especially when, I wouldn't have made that pointless trip. I figured the departure would be on a weekend, but the possibility that it could be the same day I wanted to get rid of that box flew right over my head.
I headed back home, box in one hand and chivichana in the other. I didn't feel like skating anymore.
I walked with my head low. I didn't need to look ahead anyway, I knew the trip by heart.
I hoped to spend a good chunk of the day with Ernesto right after the trade, so what now? When I had no one to play with I could at least play make-believe with my Fanfa but I was getting too old to have a toy blanket. No, I was growing up so at the very least I'd better get to playing with-
«Jota! How are things going?»
I turned my face to the kid on the other side of the road just to confirm the souspicion that voice has spawned in my mind. It was my cousin Isabél.
I could bet she was about to go on and off about how good it was to be back in Havana and how many tourists there are in Havana and how many jinoteros were sucking dry all the tourists in Havana and how my uncle told her about all the things that had changed in Havana. I’d have had no issue making up an excuse on the spot and going my way. But I could very much feel the box still in my hand, so I figured she was as good as anyone else to dispose of it.
I dropped my chivichana by my feet and made my way to Isabél, both my hands held the box pushing it forward. I could tell myself I was giving her a present to welcome her back in town.
«Isa!» I greeted her. «How long has it been? Where are tío and tía?»
«They are home with your folks, they sent me to look after you.»
«Wait. Didn't I tell them I was going to Ernesto's?»
«Seems like you didn't.»
«Dang it.» I started fidgeting my fingers by tapping them onto the cardboard. «Should we hurry?»
«They just told me to keep an eye on you. As long as we are back for dinner, we’re in the clear.»
Exactly the kind of crap my parents were pulling as of late. I gasped, a part of me felt like Isabél would have read it as a sign of annoyance towards her which it wasn't, not fully at least. Whatever, time to get right back on my objective. «Do you want to give a look at what I got here? If you fancy it, I might even let you borrow it.»
She raised and tightened her lips, I had her attention. Still, her second nature kicked in. She immediately resumed her usual, grating, candied, lip sticked smile. «Can I show you what I've got first?» She had the tone of someone who knew that whatever I wanted to show her, she could top it without batting an eye. Damn right she was.
«Fine. You go first.»
I was used to her pockets having weird shapes. Unlike mine wich offered a paper-thin compartment, hers were always baggy and heavy. Filled with glass marbles or the occasional smooth rocks she had picked up at some beach. She was tinkering to get something relatively big out of her pocket, it was most likely she had gotten a new slingshot and wanted to show it off. It was all by the book, she had proudly shown mw her new slingshot everytime she had broken the previous. What could another replacement be much about?
She pulled out a pair of scissors.
Plastic, bright, rounded, aggressively purple and yellow scissors. Both "blades" were brandished with a golden wriggly W.
«They're not sharp, so mom said I could take them with me.»
«Boring. They’re not even toys.»
«I got them on a counter at La Güinera. Didn't see anything like them around so I figured they are one of a kind, and they are.»
«You bought tijeras because they looked shiny? Dios mio, you're starting to think like a tourist. How much did you dump?»
«Half a dollar.»
This made me double take, lowering the box. «You paid those in dollars! What has gotten into you?»
«Papá had a spare 50 cents that were too little to get anything so he let me buy these»
«Couldn't you save the money and wait to get more?»
«Eh, you're starting to talk like an adult.»
«I'm not an adult!» I took that weirdly personally. Feeling a cold pin-prick of shame I shut my mouth.
She took it as a cue to continue on whatever she intended to do with those.
«They're worth it. I promise. Now show me what you got.»
«Ehrm, I- well, it's nothing of note, I was thinking I could, you know, gift it to you. Maybe, of course.»
From her look, she was either annoyed or unconvinced. Not both.
«Cut the chatter, I wanna see what's in the box.»
If I wanted to sell her on taking it, I had no other choice but to comply.
«Here.» I opened the box with one hand. «Paper dolls. Twelve sheets total, all uncut.»
Her eyes filled with sparks. Not the number of sparks you'd expect from a kid having found a toy they are extremely fond of, it was an amount of sparks I'd associate with having found a lifetime supply of said toy.
«They're perfect!»
Was her voice always this high-pitched?
«You like them this much?»
«Fetch me one of those, now!» Her left hand was frenetically fidgeting the purple scissors.
I produced the first sheet in my reach, one of a muñeca and her dress decorated with flowers.
She grabbed the sheet with a snap and gave me her back flashing me with a smile bigger than her face. I heard plastic cutting paper, followed by an acute squeak. She sure was getting giddy but this was too high-pitched a sound to be hers. I was about to walk over and peek at what she thought was worth hyping so much. But before I could finish that thought, she turned around to proudly sport her creation. A crudely cut paper doll, all the accessories were placed on top of her slender frame, her legs were rigidly standing on Isa's crossed fingers. Her paper-thin right hand waving in the air and her ink face smiling brightly at me.
«Tadaaa!»
«Does it talk?»
«Well, she just mumbles, but on the other hand: she walks, she dances, she sings, she pretends to eat an most important of all…»
«What?»
«She hides from adults. She's a toy that can never be taken away!»
It's safe to say we sat ourselves in a spot where we could craft unbothered. If Isa was right, adults wouldn't be an issue so we only concerned ourselves with avoiding any other kid that may walk on us. A dumpster in a back alley did the trick. Our cutting abilities weren't exactly top notch but we could pretty much blame it on the scissors not being actual scissors. The doll Isabél had cut out was running around with her hands in the air and was soon joined by six of her peers. One was in a blue dress, one was in green and orange, one had a huge red hat, two others had sunglasses and the last one had a dog on a leash, it came to life as well. At first, they got in a circle and did a merry go around, then, one of the dolls with sunglasses made her way to my chivichana and used her floppy legs to push it in circles. One by one, they all got onto the ride and started sprinting around the dumpster.
Having discovered this new breed of toys was fun and all, but now we just had a bunch of paper cutouts running around, no different from having a pet. The joy was in creating, watching paper come to life was the heart of the experience. Disappointed that there was nothing more to give life to, we started wondering where we could find a stockpile of paper.
Our safest bet was to rummage the basurero, but its lid was too high up for us and there was no guarantee we could get out once in. We were close to settling for getting a newspaper and giving life to the images, still, the prospect of giving life to pictures of some boring politicians and world leaders was less than appealing. Isabél was just about to get on her feet when I was struck by lightning.
«The blank parts of the sheets are still paper. Maybe we can shape them how we want.»
She jumped back on the ground with her legs crossed and clapped her hands like some automated contraption.
«Jota, you're a genius!»
Had she never tried it before? How long has she had these? It was no time for boring personal questions anyway. We went straight back to making work of that pile of unused scraps.
She settled on creating boyfriends for the paper girls. Each were much smaller and rougher in shape than their counterparts, but the vague outline of a human was all it took for them to receive the spark of life and kneel before their dearests. Once her frenzy was finished and each doll had been matched with her partner, she gave me the scissors and asked me if I had any idea what to create next.
For the life of me I couldn't tell what to shape, at that point everyone was paired up and new dolls would have just been redundant and unneeded. For the briefest moment I thought about creating maybe a doctor, a soldier, a hero. No, they would have stuck out like sore thumbs, I settled on making animals. There was this triangle-shaped scrap that was just perfect to be cut into a bird, it even flew. Two long thin scraps became a giraffe and a snake. Then I was stuck with a bunch of rectangular pieces. We already had a well-polished dog so here comes the creativity of a 9-year-old. A hippo, a lion, a handful of beetles, a manta, a shark, and a turtle and an anteater and a rhino and an armadillo and a… a tiny square that had lived to see me getting short on ideas. No other animal came to mind, an object maybe, but it was too small a piece to make a vehicle or a building out of it. Likewise, crafting an accessory would have meant I cut the paper even smaller making it just harder to handle it. I could feel Isabél watching me in frustration, moreover, I could feel her hands reaching out to take the paper and scissors from mine.
I had to rush myself into cutting the very first mental image that flashed in my mind into the miniscule scrap. My fingers rushed to create a product way rougher than I initially hoped, but it didn't matter. What mattered is that the frenetic sound of non-blade on paper was enough to get her hands off me. After a few long-lasting seconds, I finally presented it to her. The last, hardly squeezed-out, way too sharp along the edges, maybe the tiniest bit creased product of my imagination.
«It's a superhero!»
«Didn't we finish up with the boyfriends already. Will he be alone?»
«H- the hero doesn't need anyone! The hero's just here to save the day!»
«What powers does the hero have?»
«I’m, I’m still working on it. I’ll figure it out, sooner or later.»
She stayed quiet. To this day I don't really know why. Maybe she felt like she had touched somewhere that was meant to be off-limits. Or maybe she just paid no mind and sprang back into wanting to create more critters.
«What's the point of a superhero without a villain?»
«That's a logic I can't defeat! It'll be done in a minute» It was so good to distract myself, so distracted I forgot one essential detail. «Oh, we're out of paper, again.»
«No biggie. The news paper idea wasn't all bad. Besides, it'll be a massive source of villain material for sure.»
«Wait. Maybe I have an idea.»
«A "will for sure work" idea?»
«The last one was, so it's a safe bet.»
Without waiting for her approval I went back to the cutting board. By this I mean I started the cutting the cardboard. At least that box was seeing some real use.
This had to be the villain, its contours had to be studied to give life to my hero's archnemesis, its face had to be smeared with wickedness and turn my stomach rancid by just watching it. Translating it in kiddie's terms, I was making the ugliest motherfucker I could imagine. After a solid four minutes of cutting out the most pointless of details, I had it in my hands, my villain, my enemy, what I loathed, wha-
«That's just a mask. Where's his body?»
«Wha- What do you mean? It's… hidden behind the massive chin, of course you can't see it.»
«Looks like a beard to me»
«Not. A. Beard.»
«Whatever. Is it alive already?»
«Why you ask? Of course it's movi- I take that back. Well, it just means cardboard takes longer to get dipped in life-juice.»
«Yeah, sure.»
I laid both the mask and the scissors on the ground. Maybe it just needed some space to stretch whatever legs I neglected to shape.
«Who cares anyway, I'm sure that you'll have lots of fun with the dollies now that they're alive.»
«About that. I should tell you that-»
I cut her off.
«There's no reason to worry at all.»
«I'm not worried. »
«You can keep the scissors. I'm not asking for anything in return. See, it's a present, you can keep them.»
«Are you ok? You sound nervous.»
«Nervous? It's nothing, it's just how I sound when I'm feeling generous.»
«Jota! You should-»
«Well, look who's all nervous now. I'm just trying to give you a present and you start complaining over everything.»
I do recall what her response was. My mind refuses to translate it. Maybe it was so vivid a message its meaning would undoubtedly be lost in translation. It went something like:
"¡Jota! ¡Las putas cuquitas se están huyendo con nuestras cosas, tomate cuenta de lo que te acaedece por detrás! ¡Idiota!"
She shouted as she sprung back on her feet and out of the alley. Maybe that was my cue to follow her.
Once on my feet I started scanning the surroundings for any sign of Isabél. I found her trailing the barely distinguishable shapes off all our paper creations riding my chivichana at high speed. Just when you think the day was getting comfier.
Soon enough, they were out of sight. We almost lost all hope of finding our belongings before sunset, assuming we could manage to. One thing was immediately sure, the more time we spent looking around, the later we'd arrive home, angering our parents. Seeing no point in wasting so much time just to receive a scolding in the best of scenarios, I nearly gave up. But before I could voice my reasoning to Isa, she came out with an intuition:
«I played with on of these cut-outs before, they do what they can to avoid detection from adults.»
«Right, I forgot.»
«Yup, so crowded roads are out of the equation.»
«Not very helpful.»
«Plus, they have tiny and fragile paper legs. They can't do without the chivichana and sure as heck they can't push it uphill.»
«So this leaves us with…»
«The branching road on the left.»
My legs were sore, our legs were; the search had been fruitless. The road revealed itself to be of a tiring steepnes, one that once you take up speed forces you to keep going. The two of us were able to to catch our breath only once our feet felt the road turning into a plateu. For certain, the cut-outs wouldn't be able to steer on such a track, making us confident enough to not check out any protruding alley. We came to an unspoken agreement to stop and reconsider our options.
There was no doubt we were on the right track, but at the same time, there was no proof. We had run by an assumption that had been mostly ignored by arguments and counterarguments whatsoever. The only thing we could take as factual was that the chase was taking more time than we hoped for.
«Jota, maybe we should return home. We can still look for them tomorrow.»
«But tomorrow they could be anywhere!»
«And? You weren't eaven fond of those dolls. Maybe they're better off somewhere else.»
«It's. It's not about them.»
«The chivichana of course.» I get it that to an observer it might sound like she was berating me, but she wasn't. No malice nor indignation, just a coldly stated fact.
«My stuff, my mistake, I can own that. But the scissors… they're not mine and…»
«It wasn't your mistake to make.»
We exchanged an understanding smile.
«Getting back on the search. Where does this road end? It's chivichana still had plenty speed at this point.» None of us knew of the word momentum and its meaning.
«Well it eventually leads to… oh.»
«Where?»
«Good news is it'd be a perfect hiding spot for those dolls.»
«The bad news?»
Loma del Burro, a patch of green in the middle of Havana. After the long trek that had left us stuggling for air, we were again far from losing hope. In the shadow a tall palm tree projected onto the road laid my chivichana. The dolls seemed to have left it behind to venture into the "woods" opening before us.
At the very least, the cover of the trees would shield us from the scorching sun.
We traveled what felt like a whole mile, our legs still tired while the uneven ground was probably playing a major role. The grove was too thick for us to split without fear of getting hurt, as unpractical as it was, we had to stick together. This figure of speech might have been more literal than we would have liked given the sweat we had amassed while sprinting.
Whatever. It was neither the time nor the place to mind minor annoyances. The grass was tall, hiding whatever lay beneath to near perfection. For all we knew we had already stepped over a few of the dolls without realizing it in the slightest. At the very least we were certain they wouldn't leave the patch, too good of a hiding place to trash away. Maybe they found entertainment in sending us on a wild chase, maybe they were stalking us from the treetops. Again, none of these considerations mattered, we were too close to the scissors to give up. Whatever waiting game they wanted to play, we were ready for it.
«There! It's the one with the flower dress!»
Of course, Isa approached first; I feared the doll could get scared by the shout, yet she remained still, but trembling. It was like she was waiting for us. I quickly joined Isa and once we were both in front of her, she showed us a minuscule path she and her kin had had most likely digged inbetween the strands of grass. We followed her suit.
The doll took us to what for her proportions, was a valley in the middle of a wild forest. The clearing was shrouded by thick bushes which offered a semi-solid roof to those taking refuge beneath. Those being, the paper dolls. They set in a circle as they were kindling an imaginary fire that would have otherwise burned them. They didn't seem to mind our arrival, nor our height wrecking their green roof and sending dozens of spiraling leaflets upon them. Rather, they calmly turned towards us as soon as we sat down. This allowed us to register that almost every one of them was hugging the tore-apart remnants of their respective "boyfriends", I stress almost each one. We also had the chance to take notice of the absence of most animals, the dog, the turtle, the rhino, the hippo, again, almost everyone. The only one left was the snake, previously hidden by that campfire circle as it cradled around the pretend flame.
«Wh- what happened?»
The dolls responded to Isa's question by giving her an apprehensive look, somehow stained by fear and tiredness. She might not have picked up, but I did.
«Big-Beard-Meanie. It was him.»
«Are you sure?»
I felt the concern in her voice.
I nodded. I had sculped the very image of wickedness in that cardboard, who else could it have been?
«Where is he? Where is everyone else? Where are the scissors?» I asked.
They answered by directing us towards yet another thin and twisted path.
The journey into the heart of the grove was the more exhausting the more we dived in. Yet, once we reached our destination, it all felt like it had lasted less than a second. A banyan tree grew tall and spread its roots wide through a muddy depression broken up by the occasional moss growth. The many branches of the many trunks intertwined in a plot that let through but a couple strands of the setting sun's red and somber light.
At the bottom of it all, on the base of the tree's central trunk, lay a rock with the missing paper creatures pressed beneath it. At the top of that very trunk, approaching us as it walked a thick branch on borrowed paper legs was that grinning carboard mask, jolting itself on the scissors it held with yet again, slithering, dirty and rough-edged paper limbs.
«Do we have a plan?» I hushed.
«I got this.»
As I turned to face my cousin, a colorful slingshot tightly grasped in her hand entered my sight. I rolled my eyes over.
«Of course you had one all along. Do you have ammo?»
«Do I ever not have ammo?»
«You- All your pockets are just pebbles, right?»
«Ayup.»
«Maybe you could have catched the dolls from the getgo if they weren't.»
«Maybe you could have spared us all this trouble if you paid the tiniest mind.»
I stuck my togue out to her and she did too.
Right now I can't exactly describe how an annoyed side-eye from a two-dimensional doll looks or feels like, but it's exactly what all of our companions had given us in unison at that very moment.
We got back on track. We'd both rush in the moment Big-Beard-Meanie would turn around. There was no way on earth he couldn't hear us so Isa had to be ready to aim while I lifted the rock and freed everyone. Simple enough.
Big-beard-Meanie was edging the branch's tip, he'd soon have to turn around.
3.
2.
1.
QUICK!
I didn't keep track of Isa's movement; I was too concentrated on my goal. Once I sprinted to my destination I had to give the task at hand my entire focus. The rock had a rough texture and a pear-like shape, no possible angles to properly leverage it from. My arms' strength would've had to do the job. The ground I was standing on was less than ideal, a bed of mud encircled the prisoners, a mud my feet couldn't help but sink in. In the background I could already hear the sound of pebbles speeding in the air and ricocheting on bark.
My temples were swollen with blood, my fingers were becoming white, but I had to keep concentrating. If I got distracted the surface of the rock would end up slipping on my sweaty hands, nullifying my endeavors.
Luckly. The tiniest bit of detail I had forgotten to account for just happened to come in handy.
The prisoners were paper. As soon as I managed to lift the rock by a meager millimeter, they had no trouble escaping the hold one by one.
The boyfriends that were left, the missing animals, all were free. But I couldn't help but notice one absentee.
«Jota!»
I turned.
I saw the cardboard mask, some spots on his face having been punched through.
Only a couple inches separating our gazes. If he had a breath of sorts, I was feeling it in all of its umid, bitter, rotten heat.
The image of Isa's slingshot being yeeted in the bushes surrounding us played for a fraction of second in my peripheral vision.
The paper tendril stretched for lengths way superior to what I could anticipate and wrapped my torso to then lift me up with vigor. I was sitting on the top of that branch, alone, with him.
The two of us sat there for a moment. His hollow eyes somehow oozing with a mixture of enjoyment and contempt, his tendrils let off of me but started making circles around me, like serpents ready to strike prey.
«YOU SHOULDN'T BE HERE.»
He can talk?
«THESE TIJERAS AREN'T MEANT FOR CHILDREN LIKE YOU. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING. ¡VETE!»
«No.»
The answer came with a large delay, as if he was puzzled by the mere idea that I dared to say no.
«WHAT!?»
«Those scissors are Isa's and no one can take them away from her.»
«OH, YOU STARTED CARING ALL OF A SUDDEN?»
«What?»
I tried to search for Isa with my eyes but failed to.
Where is she!? Is she gone? Has he taken her? Maybe she's still around and all this foliage is blocki-
«COME ON.»
«YOU DON'T REALLY CARE ABOUT HER. YOU WERE JUST USING HER TO GET RID OF US.»
As much as I wanted to, I couldn't respond, not confidently.
«YOU DON'T CARE FOR MUCH REALLY. BUT HOW CAN I BLAME YOU? YOU'RE A CHILD WHO HAS JUST LEFT THE KIDDIE'S POOL FOR THE GROWN-UPS'.»
I clenched my fists.
«YOUR JUST TOO YOUNG TO UNDERSTAND THE WAY THINGS A-»
A meager and crumbley white silhouette quietly cut through the air and landed a punch on the mask's left cheek. His now deformed shape staggered and hit against the tree's trunk. For a moment, both of us looked around ourselves to grasp what had just happened. I did so in amazement, he did it in anger.
All our confusion vanished when I felt the slightest pressure on my elbow and lifted it to gaze upon what had rested on it.
It was my superhero.
The two drops of mud on their face could read the bewilderment painted on mine. With a simple gesture they pointed at my pants' right pocket. Ss I nodded to signal my understanding, they jumped back into action to make work of Big-Beard-Meanie.
They dived down and went immediately back up like a kite and dived down again to arrange a meeting between Meanie’s nose and their spinning legs. Do they rest to plan the next move?
No they don't! They spring back, push the villain downwards with the sheer strength of their legs and spin themselves into a thin paper tube to dodge the tendrils. It looks like one of the stolen limbs has a fair chance of landing a hit but they unravel and ride it like a wave, a wave's whose top they can grab and drag as they run for its whole length. Do they want to slap Big-Beard-Meanie with his own hand? Eaven better, they reach the tendril's root and rip it altogether.
Their nemesis fears for his tentacles and hugs the tree's bark to prevent further access to his weak spot. The hero showcases an attempt at cracking their knuckles and takes a few steps back to then sprint towards their enemy. All remaining appendages fail to intercept them as their accumulated momentum carries them on top of the fearing mask. It feels good to now know what momentum is.
The candid shape folds themselves into the thin eye slit I had meticolousley crafted. Big-Beard-Meanie raises himself groaning to scroll the hero off, but it's in vain. He is left standing on only one arm while the hero is spit out of his mouth with two torn paper limbs trailing behind them.
Finally, they make their safe landing back on my raised left elbow. We exchanged thumbs-up as an apetizer to proper celebration.
I felt the somehow familiar sensation of plastic scissors cutting paper and all it stood on.
The scissors had plunged into the branch exposing the tender pulp.
My hero's split halves danced their way to the ground. The fleshy pedestal they were standing on was now nothing but an unbleeding stump. My left arm fell on the ground without producing a sound, still I coul feel all the weight with which it hit the prison rock. It didn't bounce, it bent to follow its contour, like a pallid sheet.
I couldn't feel pain, nor fear. I could only hear. I could hear my villain's wicked laugh as he still grasped his weapon now that it was stuck in the bark.
All of a sudden, the laughing stopped and was replaced by the unmistakable sound of a pebble being thrown at high speed against paper and punching it through. His last remaning strand of paper had finally been tore away, leaving him limbless, scissorless, and harmless.
"¡Jota! ¡Ahora!"
It was Isabél. Had she listened to the monters's speech? Had she rushed to search for her slingshot in the bushes? Did she really have a second one all along? Seriousley, what was up with her and slingshot equipment?
I was getting off track, but it's not like I had a clear path ahead. Despite being there, sweated, unnerved, missing an arm and in front of a creature I could barely understand, I knew one thing in my heart. I knew that whatever hardship, I had the power to bring an end to it.
So I did.
I pointed my stump at the horrid creature. Steadied my nerves. And opened fire on the thing of evil. For a second, the world wasn't a place in shambles I'll have to find a resting place to crawl in. For a second I could be young forever and avoid the doubts of an adult life that were knocking on my door. For a second and a second alone, I'm the hero whose working for an ultimate good and is destined to live happily ever after. For a second an intense light flashes from my stump hitting Big-Beard-Meanie with all its warm and comforting wonder.
His last growls right before leaving this world were: «We sincerely hope you've enjoyed your time with Dr. Wondertainment's TM novelty Cut Your Own Adventure Standard Kit TM.»
The light faded away. My eyes had to readjust from the brightness of a million joyous stars to the tiepid red of setting sun.
My arm was back to normal. In front of me were the purple and yellow scissors still deep into the wood and an unscratched and uncut cardboard box.
My attention was quickly brought to Isa, who quietly prepared to help me get down from the tree.
«It's a bummer the road's all uphill. It would’ve been nice to ride the chivichana back home now that we got it back.»
We both breath the fresh air of Havana at dusk, the fragrance of roasted beef made its way from someone's balcony to our nostrils.
«I'm not minding the walk, actually.»
«Hppfff. Whatever.»
«So…»
«About everything returning back as it was?»
«Yeah.»
«I was trying to tell you before. After you're done playing with a cutout, they uncut themselves.»
«Why did we have to crank out so much instead of waiting?»
«I used the scissors just once right before being sent to find you.»
«I figured.»
«That's not the point.»
«What was it?»
«All in all it was just a doll that does doll things, it was boring.»
«So why were you excited to use them again?»
«I was hoping you could make the ordeal more exciting, and I wasn't disappointed.»
I set in silence with that for a moment. We were still walking but you get I mean.
«Mmhh. Well, there's something I feel like I should tell you.»
«You were desperate to get rid of the muñecas, weren't you?»
«H- how?»
«How? Why were you so weird about them?»
«It's weird, I don't know how to phrase it.»
«It's because they're girls’ toys.»
«No it isn't!»
«Uhm. What then?»
«I never minded "girls' toys". I used to play with my classmate's dolls among the other things. But now.»
«Now what?»
«Now they are supposed to be my whole thing. It infuriates me.»
«By this you mean?»
«I mean that I used to be a kid, period. But now I'm growing up and I feel like everyone is starting to treat me different. And, with everyone I mean everyone. My parents, my classmates, the teachers… now me hanging out with Ernesto is a big deal for no apparent reason.»
«It's like everyone is expecting something very specific. Is it?»
«And I'm just supposed to know what it is. No questions asked.»
She simply nodded.
«I get it, I'm growing up and will have to pick up on certain things. The thing is just that-»
«You don't know yet what you should pick up on.»
«And- and that scares me»
That nodding. Again.
«I just. I just don't know why I should stop being a kid»
«Because you'll have to, eventually.»
We walked in silence for a bit.
«I know I can't run away from it.»
My eyes started swelling, but not quite yet.
«I just want to take all the time I need to figure things out. Is it too much to ask?»
«Who would you be asking to anyway?»
«I don't know. Probably nobody does. I just.» I remember the words struggling to come out of my mouth inbetween the sobbing. «I need time, is it too much to ask?»
The road fell into silence the sound of our steps and the chatter from people sprinkled about filling the air.
«Well.» She picked up.
«Well what?»
«I bet that whatever you grow up to be, it'll be worth the wait.»
I started crying.
We came home to a severly posponed dinner and an unavoidable scolding from both our mothers. They forbade us to play outside their watch for what would be the remainder of Isa's stay. I'm saying this in such a detached manner because at the time it didn't bother us in the slightest. I would have kept the paper dolls and she would have kept the scissors. As long as they remained in our possession, we could keep the promise to meet again in the nera future to have another playdate.
Sadly. This never came to be.
My maternal grandpa and his son, Isa's father, would soon be incarcerated, forcing her mother to provide for her alone. Eventually she moved far away from Havana to seek a high paying job that wouldn't imply kneeling at American tourist to suck any cent out of their wallets.
As for me and my family, we didn't stick around for long either. Sure, I could have searched La Güinera for another pair of scissors, but what for? They were but a fraction of the experience. Finally, my father managed to grant us American citizenships and settle us in a new apartment, this time a lick colder. Of course we all hoped every day that Isa could one day hug her father again, but even if it sounds selfish, I hoped for something else on top of that. I hoped that on a saturday evening, when I'd have no one to play with and would feel down, we would randomly run into each other in the streets of Boston and go on a magic adventure. Scissors or not.
Now I'm retiring. My hand hastily grabs my office's decor to toss it in the first cardboard box of the three I brought in. At this pace I should fulfil my resolution to be done with emptying the place by noon. I didn't ask for any help, not even Rex's and ¡Dios mio! I haven't given Rex a proper goodbye yet. Of course, he already knows I'm quitting, but it just doesn't sit right with me to have waved goodbye to most of the research team but my assistant. Whatever. From now on I'll have all the time in the world, I might as well catch up with him later and hit some cafe together.
Now's not the time for planning ahead. It's cleanup time.
Ridding the walls of all the framed pictures I had accumulated in the years was a piece of cake. Why bother taking time to take a look? I'd have to do so for every single one, that wouldn’t be time-efficient at all. Moreover, they were all just boring pictures of me shaking hands with some noteworthy big-names, each flashing me with their enormous shiny smile. In retrospect, I can't help but feel they were in a hurry, like the handshaking was but a pointless formality in the way of getting work done. Guess what? Now I'll too have many better things to do with my time.
I'm done with the pictures. I can move on to all the knick knacks inhabiting the room. None of them should be anomalous, so I shouldn't get in trouble for bringing them home.
The lamp will be useful to whoever fills my position, I'll leave it here.
The Foundation supplies its employees with plenty of mouse pads, so this office can do without mine.
On the counter by the desk it's just little trinkets. None of them is remarkably fragile, but still, I shove them in the box with all the care my amputated arm allows.
Except one. Some clay mug I had once done while attending a ceramics class. The bulbous shape is born from an unlucky attempt to model a face with a bushy beard, had to give up halfway through and settle on making it into an octopus. The detail in the clay red tentacles is lacking but still kinder on the eyes than anything else I could have sculpted. I bet, somewhere in a more important site, they got something looking exactly like this under lock. But that will never be and never was any of my concern, it was always someone else's. Someone who knows exactly what their work will amount to.
I gently drop the box on top of the soon-to-not-be-mine desk. I point my stump at the horrid creature. Steady my nerves. And open fire on the thing of red. For a second, I make-believe I accomplished something.
All in all, I never grew up. I'm just a child that got bigger.