MY SHOOTING STAR

Chapter Eleven

A/N: Please be warned that this is quite a long chapter. So, grab some popcorn and dig in!

Best regards,
Your Author

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Having my energy levels depleted from working alongside the janitor with the mangled up mustache, I had no words for.

Although we reduced the time by dividing the workflow between us--with me in charge of one side of the gymnasium while he managed the other--it still didn't prepare me for the amount of work he had me do. I surely doubted that drinking five red bulls would have helped either.

Mr. Supervisor had me undergo labourous tasks that wore me down to the bone. Like redoing several sections around the gymnasium because he felt like they could be just as immaculate as he would have had them when he maintained the establishment by himself.

He also had me travel to the locker room and back to change that disgusting murky water from the yellow mop bucket at least three or four times. It was about time. That stuff looked like it came from a horror film!

Either his extensive supervising was just an excuse to get back at me for acting ill mannered towards him, which would have taken more than drying me up like a prune to admit it. Or that he failed to see how redundant it was for the laminated floors to get any cleaner than it was.

How long did he expect me to do this without access to the manual sweeper? A machine that produced ten times more damage than a dumb mop from the 1950's would. Estaba loco!

If counting down my hours until freedom is the only way to keep my sanity, then so be it. At least that's better than gloating how much longer I had to spend with this guy.

You've had worse nightmares, I thought as I pushed the key into the keyhole and unlocked my front door.

With my skateboard in hand, I stepped inside and saw boxes full of festive mexican party decorations. Prefolded paper pom poms and fiesta paper fans were spread all over the place.

Nana stood wobbly on an unstable metal stool with one foot on her tippy toes to gain height, the other in the air for balance. She hammered down colorful pennant decoration flags as they dangled imperfectly alongside the archway of the kitchen and support beams on the ceiling.

When she heard me approaching, she turned her head slightly and then greeted me. "Oh, hi, Mijo!"

After looking around, I pulled out a pink paper pom pom from one of the infinite boxes stacked on top of one another. I examined it absentmindedly after ridding it from my hands. "What is all this?"

She paused what she did to answer. "Well, the soccer game starts this weekend. And I thought it would be great to celebrate by watching it together!"

Television wasn't a commodity in most impoverished homes, so we never had the pleasure of owning one. Instead, my drawings, playing arcade games at PIERRE's café, and listening to music with my ancient radio occupied the majority of my time. Nana had her own hobbies, such as cooking and knitting. Those who had access to televisions, however, spared the neighbors a glimpse of them during sports games and elections.

On one occasion, a few months ago, I got to watch my favorite soccer player, Marcelo Salas, get interviewed over the highlights of his 1998 game, Chile against England.

The event outshined the horrid experience of six or seven of us cramped together in front of a vintage wood grain Panasonic television, and collecting whiffs of a foul stench of body odor and sour milk along the way. The interview was so note-worthy that it got everyone talking for a long time. But at the end of the day, we traveled back to our homes still without a television.