There was a very loud knock on the door. Judging by the light coming through the drapes, it was past midday. I was sweating in bed with quite a hangover. It was a Saturday. I was trying to place myself somewhere the night before, but the knock on the door kept on interrupting me. I gave up after the fifth knock, got up, found a pair of jeans on the floor and answered the door.

-Where is she?

It was a 210-pund latino with a huge tattoo on his arm. Mid-20’s and balding. And he was angry. I couldn’t come up with anything to say.


This time Manny – his name was Manny – threw me on the floor without much effort and decided to look for himself. I was living on a small one-bedroom in Little China just off Aurora then, so it took him about 30 seconds to come back.

– Whe’ she go, you fucker?

Manny had a thick accent, Dominican or perhaps Puertorican. He was wearing a stained tank top that’d been there for a week or so, judging by the smell.
I had been in this type of sceneary once or twice before, but for the first time I had no idea what Manny was talking about.

– I have no idea what you’re talking about. — I said. I don’t know if it was the firghtened look on my face, but Manny believed me somehow. He sat at the stool right next to him and started scratching his chin.

– Tha’ bitch, man. She keeps runnin’ away with eve’ybody like she’s a fuckin’ movie star or somethin’. I’m sorry man. — Manny helped me off the floor. For the first time, I felt like my life wasn’t in danger. — I don’kno’ why, but I though she was here.

I had had someone there a couple of nights earlier. Mary. Or Magguie. That’s it, Magguie. But she wasnt Manny’s type at all. It couldn’t have been her.

I went to the fridge and fixed us a couple of beers. Manny drank that one straight down; I got him another one and sat across the bar. We started talking. Manny was a baseball prospect. He tore his shoulder right before signing a 5-year deal with the new franchise in Montreal. We talked baseball for hours. Manny knew his baseball. His father had spent all their money on game-seven tickets on that ’72 series where the Cards came back from 2 to beat the Dodgers. And man, he remembered every shining detail about that day. His mother was not happy about the money spending.

Then we finally got to the girl. Her name was Helga. Her mother was Korean; her father was American. That made for a fine combination, or so Manny thought. I got horny just listening to that Dominican bastard. He must have been a fine fuck, the things he did to Helga. We all exagerate of course, but Manny looked the part. He looked like he could tear the legs off any girl, so I had no choice but to believe him.

The game was over the radio. Ramirez hit a 2-run homer to left, and Chicago had the lead back. Gardenberg was sending De Paula to close the deal.

– That De Paula is an ass. He’ll blow the game.
– Wha’ you talkin’bout? Tha’ curve is nasty.
-I’m telling you Manny, he sucks. And Gardenberg has this huge boner for him. He just keeps throwing him out there.
– 20 bucks say’ he close’ it.
– You’re on, Manny.

I took my bill out and slammed it on the bar, right next to Manny’s. De Paula was Chicago’s newest prospect, straight from the DR. He walked Robertson in 5 and Elstad took him for a ride to straight center. Ball game. The easiest 20 dollars I ever made.
Manny chugged his beer. We had ran out. It was now dark outside.

Someone was at the door. I got up and opened it.
5’7”, 150, high heels, short skirt, deep brown eyes. You could smell the sex coming out of every pore of her body. It was Helga. We crossed eyes for what felt like an eternity before she saw Manny on the stool behind me.
She didn’t say a word. Manny quickly found his feet.
-Well, it was a plessu’e, man. I should come by mo’ of’en.
– Anytime, Manny.
I was too drunk for a beer run. I jerked off to Manny and Helga and went to bed.

There was a very loud knock on the door. Judging by the light coming through the drapes, it was past midday. I got up, found a pair of jeans on the floor and answered the door.
It was Helga. She didn’t say a word.

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Una respuesta a Manny

  1. a dijo:

    ¿cuando volverás a escribir? …


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