The Philosophers III — A Pittsburghese Soap Opera
by Israel Centeno.
At that point, I knew a little about the man that Pierre le Pierre introduced me, but the worst part is that I didn’t know about The Philosophers, allegedly the most dangerous gang on earth. I was in front of Pablo, the psychiatrist, a fat, funny guy with an unpredictable mood. I couldn’t deny his charisma when he randomly talked about deconstructionism, and how this way of thought had affected literally — he emphasizes that word — his life and the lives of other crucial people. I paused for a moment and stopped listening to him. I started to think who could these essential people be. This has to make sense, I thought, the words “literally” and “crucial” were used by him, but I have to stop making assumptions about my clues and reassume the conversation.
He grabbed me by my left arm, and we started to walk. On my other side was Pierre le Pierre, with his distinctive smell of cannabis. I do not know if I referred to that smell in my last piece of narrative, but I am pointing this out because it will serve as a reminder in the maze I’m stepping in.
We walked up to Monterey, the three comrades, happy friends enjoying the early sunset that was falling as a gold harbinger.
On the left side of the street the Monterey’s pub stood up. Green and warm, like a cute Irish goose. We opened the door, and the faint yellow light wrapped us up. I felt like something spicy and sticky crawled up my nose. The pub was small and crowded, warm and scary. The waitress were in a hurry, moving through the people. A girl with short blonde hair waved at us. Another woman sat across from her. She looks like a foreigner. As if Pablo was reading my mind, he told me: “This bar is the world. Many people from here and there artists in residence, doctors in residence, nurses and transports in residence, from every corner of the world. See? She is Duna, from Armenia. No, no. From Armenia, Colombia. Ha, ha, and she is Dawn, the love of my life, she is the right ideal of what a warrior should be. Isn’t that true, my darling?” He embraced her and looked at the bottom of the saloon searching for a bigger table. “I found it!” He yells. Everybody was screaming in different languages. At that moment I heard a voice, a sweet and secure voice “It’s me, Dawn.” She was smiling at me without opening her lips, “Don’t panic, sweetheart. Things here are not the way they seem. Let yourself go and follow my voice.” I opened my eyes wide trying to not lose my mind. Drops of sweat started to run down my forehead, and I began to shiver. “Don’t let her get into your head, my friend,” added another voice emitting the unmistakable smell of cannabis. I turned to him, and he was turning his back on me. I felt dizzy, everything started to spin at that moment; I saw the barman, a tall, skinny man who looked like Abraham Lincoln. He was raising his left index finger. I could hear him in the midst of the multitude of voices. “Hey, buddy, you know, we all should have a bartender. An excellent bartender to entrust our searches to something deep in our consciousness. Are you looking for the Holy grail?”
It couldn’t be real, I thought, it must be the cannabis, the smell of Pierre le Pierre, but it doesn’t make sense, marijuana doesn’t make you hallucinate this way. The bartender called my attention again raising his left index. “Hey, listen to me, listen to me, little clown, focus on my index before you start falling.”
“It’s late,” I answered. “It is too late”. I have vertigo. I saw Dawns’s oval face everywhere, laughing, and everybody spun like in a carousel, blending together with the Irish decorations of the pub. They were laughing, and Dawn repeated: “We control everything, we are in control, yes we are.” I passed out.
(To be continued)
