The Closet

One learns great stories by heart without really remembering who told them. They’re so memorable that even if pieces, voices, and details are lost along the way, one knows they’ll appear intact in the end. It’s an exercise like any other, like digging in your belly button until you fish out a speck.

Whether the final version is true or not, let’s leave that to the biographers…

Cristina was overwhelmed by Marlon’s jealousy, her husband. Sick jealousy that had cost them both snot, tears, and broken dishes in pieces.

The man was unbearable among other things because he worked all day, while his wife remained alone and neglected all day. Normal. He had no reason to be jealous of her, except that Cristina was very hot and all the guys in the neighborhood undressed her with their eyes. But no, what a serious girl.

Marlon was narcissistic, misogynistic, and swam—drowned—in his own vanity. He wouldn’t accept her having friends, much less attractive ones. And she, noble and self-sacrificing, agreed. Cristina worried so much about appearing faithful that she almost bordered on being foolish—she wouldn’t go out so Marlon wouldn’t think badly, and she even proposed, to cool the relationship, to double down on pampering and consent.

But even so, Marlon didn’t trust. No. One day he left as always to work with the idea of escaping early to see what Cristina was up to while he wasn’t there. It turned out that she, that same day and in her eagerness to cure “Marliton’s” schizoid jealousy, wanted to score points with him by organizing all the clothes in his closet. By the way, a stupendous decision.

In the putting in and taking out, the hanging and unhanging, the opening and closing, Marlon’s closet gradually came apart until it collapsed like a house of cards before Cristina’s eyes. Holy shit. Crying time…

But it’s early and Marlon doesn’t return until 6pm, so the woman decided to call Don Edwin, the kindest neighbor and incidentally the least flirtatious, to ask for help. He was also the ugliest neighbor, just in case.

Hands to work. Don Edwin as best he could adjusted here, hammered there, fitted here, tightened there, and voilà—the closet stood up. But as bad luck was leaving, it was entering. Outside, a Transmilenio crossing the street at full speed made the walls vibrate and the floor of the small apartment sway. Boom—the closet fell.

Cristina and Don Edwin looked at each other as if wanting to laugh. Again the neighbor, as best he could, returned to the room to adjust here, hammer there, fit here, tighten there, and voilà—once again the closet stood. Don Edwin says goodbye to Cristina, and this time the floor throbbed like a hippo’s belly. Another Transmilenio crossed and set the place trembling. Boom: the closet to the floor again.

This time, at the door, both whitened their eyes. Resigned, Don Edwin returned and as best he could tried again to stand up the blessed piece of furniture while Cristina, also resigned to the failed attempt to organize Marlon’s clothes, tried to stuff them in the drawers now without any care.

Don Edwin was ugly but no fool. He was determined to verify where the problem was and saw no better solution than patiently locking himself in the closet waiting for another bus to pass, to see why a simple vibration made the damn closet fall.

The entrance door is heard. “Who were you talking to, damn it! Where’s your lover—don’t hide him!”

Marlon had arrived and seemed like a loose bull through the house. He was drooling and everything. He found nothing, but gradually exhausted the most famous hiding places for lovers: under the bed, behind the curtains, in the bathroom ceilings… Nothing.

And yes, one was missing—the most obvious place, his two-meter modular wardrobe. He opened the closet, the blessed closet:

“You, son of a bitch? You’re the one eating my wife? And you, Cristina, with this hideous old man? I knew it! Damn you both! Tell me the truth! Confess now! Explain this to me or I’ll burn you right here!”

Don Edwin, still among Marlon’s dresses and pants, neither very crouched nor very upright, with his nerves shattered and already all sweaty, had little time to understand what was happening and much less to know what to say. Cornered, he played his only and last card: telling Marlon the truth…

“Neighbor, you’re not going to believe me. I’m in here waiting for the Transmilenio.”