MERCEDES BENZ AFTERNOONS (US VERSION)

A respected member of the production-line of the Literary Creations Chicken Sausages (please do not use plastic bags, wrap your food using old newspapers, old runs from 99 to 2001, the years without news worthy of being saved), writes from the 17th floor of the Chicken Sausage Building in Union Square, San Francisco, Ca. He writes for you now that you've come home not feeling like much, now that you’re hot. He writes for you this very moment. You get up from the sofa and move to the kitchen where you put some water to boil. You check with reluctance for phone messages, whatsapp messages, twitter messages. You get up and open the refrigerator door. You eat a slice of ham, no bread. Back to the living room, you sit on the couch and keep reading these lines. You don’t expect them to inspire you. You are giving them the two-page test. Two and a half max. There is distrust in the tone used. You doubt whether to turn on the iPod or read silently. You turn the on iPod because the city doesn’t speak softly so no music is like a pre-made kind of silence. You question possibilities. You go for Ryuichi Sakamoto’s BTTB. You sit back and keep reading. You have to re-read the same paragraph three times. You understand but can’t see the point. You read on and discover how the main character is a woman who lives alone and is going through a rough patch after a complicated separation. You become suspicious. You don’t like the fact that she has no name. She shares features with you. She is also in a hot flat. There is no cat in the flat. In both stories, yours and hers, there is the same background music and the same doorbell ringing exactly at the same time. You have to put the book down so you can go and open the door. You leave the book open, face down on the couch, page 35. You get up to open the door. You don’t check through the peephole. You open the door and show slight confusion because you don’t know me yet. You look me up and down. You fear that I’m here to sell you something. You know I am the one writing these lines. You don’t ask me anything. You let me through because it’s inevitable. You walk behind me. I know the flat to perfection because it's me who has described it. I go to the kitchen (you follow two steps behind) and open the fridge. I eat a slice of ham. I ask you to accompany me to the window. You come without a word. You walk straight, using very short steps. You stand beside me. We almost touch shoulder with shoulder. Leaning out the window I point towards a man sitting on a bench in the square. I tell you this man's name is Antonio and is about to call you. You ask me why is he calling. You cell phone rings.