Five Urban Stories

by Thomas Dalcolle

  “Fuck!” I slammed a fist on the table, risking damage to the whirling hard drive of my poor laptop, still struggling through the test procedure.

  After the initial bout of rage, a stinging suspect went building up in my mind.

  Beep.

  A signal from the computer interrupted my thoughts.

  The test procedure was complete.

  I checked the report file, and I had the confirmation I expected. The results looked perfect, all well inside the allowed range of values.

  My conjecture seemed right. The solutions overlapped near the boundaries of the contiguous production regimes! I jumped up and run outside in the garden, gesturing with clenched fists to the sky. “Yahoo! I did it!”

  I’d found the solution!

  The warm wave of satisfaction flooded every corner of my body, but…I felt that this time, something had dampened my excitement.

  “Overlapping solutions…in the family?” I mumbled and then shouted, “In my family?”

  The reality was taunting me.

  Now, I wanted to make a personal test about another, personal conjecture.

  It was six in the evening, and I was still in time to try a small experiment. I called Aldo.

  “Hello, Dad?”

  “Hello. I’m sorry, but I changed my mind. I’ve finished my work, and I’ll be back home this evening. I’ll take the last bus at seven. Sorry to disrupt your plans.”

  “Oh, I understand! Okay, don’t worry. We’ll organize something for another time.” He sounded disappointed, but not too much. Perhaps they had a backup solution.

  “Okay, later.”

  It was a lie. I didn’t mean to move, there wasn’t any need to hurry back. I waited for a few minutes; if I were lucky, something would happen.

  After five minutes, still nothing. My phone remained silent. Yet, this wasn’t meaningful. I had to make impossible for them any backup solution.

  I wanted to know, and I made another, devious move. I was sorry to concern my son, but it would be for the best.

  “Hello, Aldo, Aldo?” I said, putting pain and suffering into my voice.

  “Yes, what’s the matter now, Dad?!”

  “I’m feeling sick, stomach sick. Are you already at home? You should come and pick me up. Please, forget your plans for tonight. I’m sorry, but I need your help.”

  “Sure! But, how are you?”

  “Don’t worry. I must have eaten something bad. Just come and take me home. Stay with me, I’ll get better.”

  “I will be there in fifteen minutes!”

  “Ok, thank you, and no need to run! Drive carefully.”

  After this second, more dramatic call, I remained in wait again.

  Under some conditions, I had created and applied what in logic is called a necessary criterion. Now I just had to wait for the result.

  This meant that if Sonia had a relationship with my son Aldo, and if Sonia was unaware that Aldo was my son—which was realistic—and if Aldo was unaware that Sonia was my relationship—which was almost sure—then Sonia would soon call me back and confirm our date.

  As with every necessity criterion, the implication acted in one way only. If Sonia had called, given the sequence of events, it would have been a strong clue of her relationship with Aldo, although not a definite proof.

  Otherwise, if Sonia hadn’t called, I couldn’t draw any conclusion. I’d have to make further investigations.

  The conditions to satisfy were many, but, yes, my intuition told me I had a good chance to prove that, at least, my doubt made sense.

  The funny thing was that I couldn’t decide if solving that kind of doubt would make me feel better or worse than remaining with it.

  While I contemplated that dilemma, my phone rang.

  “Hello, Sonia?”

  “Hello! I solved my problem, and we can meet. I will be there by half-past eleven. Wait for me, and prepare a hot bath, please. I will be tired.”

  At least I still had the second choice! The best part of it was that, for the first time in my life, I felt proud of being a third wheel.

  “I’m sorry, Sonia, but I have a terrible stomachache. We can’t meet tonight, I apologize for the mishap, really!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry for that! No need to apologize. Are you sure you don’t want me come and help you?”

  “No, thank you. Don’t feel concerned for me. Somebody is already coming to help me.”

  “What? Somebody...who?”

  She’d had the first doubt?

  Aldo must have told her he had to reach his father, who was feeling sick. But I didn’t want to help her in that direction.

  “My daughter is coming. Now, I have to go. I’ll call you back when I’m better.”

  I would question Aldo well but seamlessly, and I would clear away any residual doubt.

  But, meanwhile, I asked myself why, with all my pretenses of speculative thinking, I couldn’t realize how ridiculous I was clambering after girls too young for me.

  Whatever information I could gather from Aldo, my final solution was already there: to keep my mouth shut and rush away at full speed from a domain where I couldn’t linger anymore.

  6. Something Better

  In this locked briefcase, I keep the toys of my friend Joy, a lousy fool!

  When I had enough of her continuous gambits and betrayals, I took them with me when I left her. With Joy, we seldom used them, only as a whim. She said I had something better. Sycophant!

  I sent a very offensive message to her cellphone. There wasn’t any vulgar intent; I only told her what I thought she was.

  It happened after our last harsh quarrel that she cleverly provoked to keep me at a distance, while she had to take care of someone else.

  Some months later, wishing to send her my Christmas greeting anyway, I discovered that her cellphone number didn’t exist, anymore.

  The truth had been too bitter for her to risk hearing it again, and Joy had changed her number.

  I never heard from her or saw her again. Who knows where she ended up? It’s an ironic oddity that, in the last few years, I surprised myself by thinking more often of her, the worst of my partners—ever.

  It happens any time I use her toys with some other lousy fool like her, since I haven’t anything better to offer anymore.

  I turned out to be a worse fool than her, while those toys became useful. If a person looked around carefully enough, anyone could leave them with something worthwhile.

  I opened the briefcase, and, lo and behold, Joy’s toys were there—the lousy fool!

  One, of an inconsiderate dimension, was capable of causing agony and injury if used with excessive freedom on a playmate not widely built to accommodate such a cucumber-like organ. But that wasn’t any problem with Joy.

  The other one was tiny, I’d say, but stiffer and, as Joy suggested, perfect for wrong-way enjoyments. Not even this was a problem for her, at least not as much as for me, because I discovered that she wanted to use it on me.

  I’m sure, though, she never had a problem in finding something better.

  ---------- The End ----------

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The author is the being instance of an AI code,

  cruising the net in quest of human being,

  being not a rascal or a scoundrel,

  Thomas Dalcolle being one of his names.