Siete minutos, Ismael Camacho Arango [read with me TXT] 📗

/> “The doctor is free,” Miguel said. “He treats poor people for nothing.”
Homer thought about his dilemma, while taking his own pulse and thinking of his money.
“I can cure myself,” he said.
He had to conquer the world, like his mother had said before leaving her money to the charities.
“Let’s go to the doctor,” Miguel said.
“You worry too much,”
After shutting the shop, Miguel led him through the streets full of shoppers looking for a bargain, when his customers wanted to buy his merchandise at good prices.
They went past a small park, where the pigeons chased each other around the fountain and the unemployed plotted the best way to have some money.
“Mr. Homer,” someone said. “We want your boats.”
Homer hurried along the street before they robbed the few coins he had in his pocket as the crowds swallowed him in their hurry to find a bargain in the shops. Then they turned a corner, leaving the market behind their backs, the rest of the city welcoming them under the sun.
“I’m healthy,” Homer said.
“You look skinny.”
Homer shrugged. “I’m usually thin.”
“You have to eat.”
As they entered a room inside a grey building, they saw other people waiting in the chairs. Homer couldn’t understand all the fuss about his appearance, when a tin of beans cost a few pesos. If he looked after his business, his pesos would multiply in a short time.
“The doctor can see you now,” the girl said.
She led him into a room, where a man sitting behind a desk shook his hands.
“I feel weak,” Homer said.
“When was your last meal?” the doctor asked.
“I don’t remember.”
The doctor took Homer’s temperature and his reflexes, as money was the most important thing in his life, blinding him to everything else in the world.
“You have to eat,” the doctor interrupted his reverie.
Homer shrugged. “Food cost money.”
“You have lots of things in your shop.”
“He’s stubborn,” Miguel said.
Homer crashed with a wardrobe and the books fell on his face, as he tried to leave the room. The doctor and Miguel sat him back in the chair.
“You suffer from anorexia,” the doctor said.
“What is that?”
“You want to starve yourself to death,” the doctor said. “They’ll feed you intravenously in the hospital.”
“I don’t want that.”
The doctor wrote down a diet plan for Homer to follow: he had to eat lots of vegetables, milk and meat, everything available in his shop. Then he gave him vitamin tablets to take with his meals every day.
“You have to eat slowly at first,” he said.
“I’ll cook for him,” Miguel said.
Homer had to eat the food from his shop in order to get stronger, while the doctor held a syringe in his hands.
“This injection will give you strength,” he said.
“No,” Homer said.
Homer felt pain in his arm and the shadows blended with the darkness of the end of time...


No tax
Homer ran with Kam through the jungle of his dreams, before holding her clothes in an empty field. He awoke the next morning to find his room looking different as his boxes felt soft: Miguel must have bought a bed with the money he kept in the cash machine. Feeling angry for his employee’s actions, Homer wanted to sack him without an explanation, as the man had used his money to buy something behind his back. Just then Miguel appeared at the door.
“Is this a bed?” Homer asked.
“I found it in the trash,” Miguel said.
“You’re lying.”
“Ask Maria.”
Homer surveyed his surroundings from his new position. He would have to sell lots of merchandise in order to get his money back, but then his stomach made a few noises.
“It’s the injection the doctor gave you,” Miguel said.
“What injection?”
“It gives you strength.”
Miguel prepared scrambled eggs followed by a large glass of juice, everything found in the shop and a waste of money. Homer ate slowly, savouring every morsel of food he put in his mouth, hoping the man would never do that again.
“Do you want some more eggs?” Miguel asked.
“They cost forty cents,” Homer said.
The thought of recovering the money he had lost during the last few days, kept him sane. As the other employee of El Baratillo, he would ask for a substantial increase in his own wages in order to east better. Homer found his bag before getting ready to go.
“I’m off to the port,” he told Miguel.
“You should rest, Mr. Homer.”
“There is nothing wrong with me,” Homer said.
“The doctor...”
“He made a mistake.”
Homer put a few more things in his bag, feeling better after his breakfast because he had to conquer the world.
“Two and two are seven,” he said to himself.
Then he checked his merchandise, before leaving the shop when Miguel sold to a few customers looking for a bargain. On moving along the streets, he saw father Ricardo trying to convert everyone to the kingdom of heaven while a few old ladies went into the church. God had to thank him for helping the economy amidst the recession.
Homer’s journey to the other side of the city took him through the crowded streets where people looked for a bargain in the shops until he found his trucks by the bus station.
“Mr. Homer,” the drivers said. “You look slim.”
“I’ll tell you for a few hundred pesos.”
“Are you ill?”
“No.”
Miguel must have told everyone about his trip to the doctor, but he was not ill. Homer climbed in the back of his truck getting ready for his journey to the port. Then the driver appeared by his side with a little man on tow.
“Mr. Homer,” he asked. “Would you mind if a dog travelled in the back?”
“He will have to pay,” Homer said.
“It’s fine,” the driver said. “But you must feed him.”
He gave Homer a warm packet, smelling of chicken and other things.
“He eats at this time of the day,” the dog’s owner said.
Homer nodded. “I will feed him later.”
“Thank you, Mr. Homer.”
The truck moved amidst the traffic, as Homer’s stomach gurgled and the animal
looked at him with dark eyes. It had to be those vitamins the doctor had given him to make him hungry. On opening the parcel, Homer saw some beef in a brown sauce, a waste of money if he gave it to the dog. On throwing some of the meat in the air, the dog caught it with a thud.
“It’s mine,” Homer said.
The animal sat in one of the crates of coca, while Homer finished with his lunch. Then he masturbated with his greasy hands, the sperm running through the boxes and ending by his feet. It’s cheaper than doing it with a prostitute, he thought. Why didn’t he marry himself? He would increase his money while paying less tax to the country. Homer’s Industries answered in an unexpected way after a long declaration of love to himself, but the prospect of being hungry made him answer yes. After a long hour of speculation, the city slums filed past the truck and the dog whimpered.
“Shut up,” Homer said. “He’ll buy you more food.”
Homer saw the streets full of people, selling fish and coconuts for the hot weather, as the driver stopped at a small garage full of vehicles.
“Mr. Homer,” the other drivers said. “You look sick.”
“I have anorexia,” Homer said.
“What is that?” they asked.
“I want to starve myself to death.”
“It’s a strange illness.”
They counted the number of boxes they had to take back to the city, while Homer reflected on his life. Did he want to spend the rest of his days with himself? The answer had to be yes. Before he went back to his shop by the market, he made sure the boxes had not been tampered by the customs.
“Are you all right Mr. Homer?” the driver asked.
“I never felt better,” Homer said.
“We’ll be leaving in seven minutes.”
Marriage
Homer couldn’t