By IRENE PUJADAS
Translated by JULIA SANCHES
Spurred by the idea that you are interdependent and would do well to lean on others (on the opinions, advice, and experiences of others), you’re roped into taking part in a general meeting to decide your future.
Some of your friends bring folders filled with graphs and statistics. One in particular comes bearing the works of authors, philosophers, historians, and psychoanalysts. Relevant passages are marked with Post-it notes.
Your family and friends only want what’s best for you, or rather, they want you to do something.
“Your fear is foundational. You need to cut ties with your mother.” This is A’s advice. You thank them for their contribution, which you jot down in a white notebook bought expressly for this day.
Today is a milestone.
Together, you’d rented a space in an industrial warehouse and arranged several chairs in a semicircle. You sit smack in the middle.
You have many, many friends and believe all their opinions are worthy.
Because the room is big, one friend brought a megaphone with her. Between pieces of advice, you manage and coordinate the crowd. Though this wasn’t your idea. You don’t remember whose it was. Someone made the suggestion and then everyone signed up.
B thinks you shouldn’t sit in the middle of the semicircle, noting that this is, in fact, the main source of your problems. Your life will be fuller if you’re off to the side.
Instead of taking seats, the attendees form a line just a few meters away from you. They approach you one by one. Some have written their advice on sheets of paper. Some on their cell phones. Others speak from memory.
Today is a milestone, but you’d never make anyone wake up early on a Saturday morning.
Your mother waves at you from the warehouse entrance. She is overseeing the venue’s capacity.
Everyone has the best advice, but it turns out that some people’s best advice does not agree with that of others.
“You’re terrified of failure,” C tells you. “Nearly everything you do can be undone.” C falls silent for a moment, then looks you in the eyes. “No children, though. Now is not the time for babies.” You are floored by their confidence.
Following B’s advice, you sit in one of the chairs off to the side. The line gently lists to the right.
The people at the end of the line grow uneasy. By megaphone, you reassure them that the order in which you take their advice will not impact your receptivity. You thank them for coming all this way on multiple buses, especially on a day when it is twenty degrees below zero.
Which makes you think you should’ve brought space heaters.
“You need to do what you truly want. What is it you want?” D asks. A subcommittee is formed to inquire into the matter. D leads it. The group sits at one end of the semicircle and unholsters pens and notebooks.
A group of acquaintances makes an appearance, and though your relationship is only casual, they claim to have friends in similar situations. They know what they’re talking about. You welcome them and say: Catering should be here soon.
Maybe you should have held this meeting in May instead of February. But everyone was so eager to help.
E made you a “choose your own adventure” booklet and then took the liberty of choosing one for you. It’s highlighted in green, because, E says, the color red can affect morale.
Still, it’s not like you were thinking of having children.
“You need to take responsibility for your life,” F states. She finds it embarrassing to waste a Saturday morning on this nonsense. She then adds: “Do us all a favor and put an end to this circus—or, at the very least, sit in the middle.”
You stay where you are. It seems irresponsible to move every time someone tells you to. You thank F for coming, and she storms out.
“You need to air all that shit inside you,” G says, then offers you a whiff from a bouquet of peonies.
You sit back in the middle. B stomps off.
Your mother waves at you from the other side of the room, then gives you a thumbs-up.
“You can’t please everyone,” H says in a deep, velvety voice that oozes patience.
You hear heated murmurs coming from the subcommittee. One of the members peers over at you and shakes their head. They give a rapt smile, wide as a loaf of bread: the smile of a missionary.
You position yourself somewhere between the right side and the middle. In any case, F and B have left and can no longer see what you are doing.
A member of the subcommittee asks if you want children. Kids aren’t great talkers, you reply. Apparently, your answer is unconvincing. Three of your friends suggest creating a separate subcommittee to weigh the pros and cons.
“Letting it all out is a myth,” I announces, leaning in very close. “You open the box, and it never ends. It’s enough to drive a person mad. Pour in some cement and move on.” This strikes you as sensible advice.
At least as sensible as all the other advice.
By megaphone, you announce that you’re very grateful to everyone and that the catering company has arrived. There are spreads of chorizo and longaniza, Camembert, Manchego, nuts and dried fruit, roast chicken croquettes, cheese-and-tomato skewers with oregano. You stare uneasily at the food. Still, no one leaves the line.
“You need to become financially independent,” J says, assuring you that money makes a person levitate, raising them to a superior realm. They wink.
K approaches you with a plant. “You need to feel thankful for everything on this planet,” they say, “for the air you breathe and the rocks that support you.”
The line is still going strong despite the smell of roast chicken, which encircles and permeates everything. There is no doubt in your mind that your friends, relatives, and acquaintances are excited to share their perspectives on the matter.
The matter being you, who should be doing something already.
By megaphone, you ask someone to please bring you some chorizo slices. L fetches you a plate, then notes that all you need is a good lay.
A member of the kids subcommittee asks about your childhood. Well, to be honest, you don’t remember much. They walk away looking worried and then convey their concern to the others. Sidelong glances. A heated discussion.
“You need to only read women,” M tells you.
“You need to read Shakespeare,” N declares. “It’s all there.”
Gusts of cold air, coats, and rapt smiles continue to wait in line. Your father starts handing out cups of broth.
Outside the warehouse, a group of your friends has formed a cluster: they smoke and debate. They unfasten their coats.
Chilled, they glance at each other.
You think of one of the forbidden options in E’s “choose your own adventure.” Maybe the answer lies there. Maybe the answer lies in any of the attendees or in the grime under your nails.
By megaphone, you give a heartfelt thanks to your friends, acquaintances, and relatives for their dedication. The ones who work weekends had asked for the day off. The ones who work weekdays had sacrificed a quiet morning.
Note to self, for later: Call B and F to apologize.
“Don’t listen to what anyone tells you,” says O, pleased with their contribution. You thank them.
“Listen to what everyone tells you,” P says. “You won’t get anywhere on your own. People aren’t islands,” they explain, then pull out a portable whiteboard and draw several isolated circles, which stand for helpless individuals. They’d wanted to illustrate their advice with a diagram.
You have many friends and believe all their opinions are worthy. You have many friends with excellent advice to give, but it turns out that some pieces of advice do not line up with others.
Your mother approaches you and whispers in your ear that the warehouse issue has been sorted. You tell her there’s no need. But maybe there is.
The thing about children is that you don’t know how to talk to them as equals. What are you supposed to say when they hold your gaze like that?
Some of the friends who’d been debating outside get back in line. They say they can offer you a fresh, nuanced perspective. By megaphone, you thank everyone so much for their dedication but note that the warehouse needs to be vacated by two.
The subcommittee charged with deciding what you truly want is on a break. They snack on ham while talking animatedly. You hope they have reached some conclusions.
“You need to believe in yourself more,” Q says, gesturing with their fist. You thank them for their comment. Sensible.
On the megaphone, a relative says: We ought to have a workable solution by the time we leave.
“You need to practice humility,” R explains. “You think you’re always right.” R is right: humility may get you closer to what you want. You thank them.
You spot your father in the distance, by the table of canapés. He has stained his shirt with tomato.
Everything is perfectly clear to S: “You need to eat four meals a day.” They lecture you on the benefits of a healthy diet. Do you eat well? A nutritional subcommittee is formed and tasked with balancing your body to benefit your mind.
“You need to masturbate three times a day,” says T. “It lowers stress levels.”
The cluster of smokers sits at one end of the semicircle. Even if they can’t bring a nuanced perspective to their advice, at least they will stay to the end. A defiant attitude.
You ask T how things are with her and her awful terminal illness, but she just pats your shoulders good-naturedly and says now is not the time.
U arrives in a tracksuit. “You need to exercise. Exercise is everything.” You’re interested in their viewpoint and suggest they join the subcommittee on nutrition.
The conversations held in clusters and subcommittees echo around the warehouse, which is high-ceilinged and old. A security officer interrogates you with their eyes. The building is unsafe. You were told that it could collapse any day but that you probably wouldn’t be so unlucky. On the megaphone, you ask everyone to lower their voices.
The thing is, you already masturbate a lot. You’ve rubbed up against walls, corners, sinks, cushions, and counters, at home and in public buildings.
“What you need to do,” V says, and suddenly all your senses home in on their words, “is find a job with longer hours.” This advice strikes you as more than reasonable. You are lucky to have friends as insightful as V.
“You need a hobby,” says W. “Something untouched by market dynamics, free from the capitalist economy.” You wonder what your passions are. The truth is you’re starving. W suggests creating a subcommittee to explore possible uses of your free time.
On the megaphone, you ask everyone to please take a roast chicken croquette with them on the way out. The subcommittee on nutrition sends over a cheese-and-tomato skewer along with a glass of cool water with a squeeze of lemon.
“Your problem,” X says, “is that you’re too transparent. You can’t expose yourself like this.” X has known you since you were four. You look at her with extreme apprehension.
Note to self about all your friends’ children: Remember their names.
“You need to be you,” Y says. “Who exactly are you?” You reply very kindly that you’ll get back to them by email. Y suggests creating another subcommittee. Finally, they join the others.
One of the warehouse beams seems to buckle and then drop a few centimeters. A dry thud. Shouts from the attendees. Two minutes later, everyone behaves as if nothing had happened.
The smokers’ cluster and the subcommittee that will decide what you want have banded together and opened another bottle of red wine. They’re chatting in low voices now, animatedly, nodding along to each other’s remarks.
Despite their differences, you think, your friends may have befriended your other friends.
“You need to listen to yourself,” says Z. “Close your eyes and imagine we aren’t here. What would you want if you were all alone?” You close your eyes and imagine the background noise is a river, but then you hear a crack and your father’s gentle voice in your ear: Looks like it’s coming down. Besides, they said they’re closing soon.
Irene Pujadas has written literary criticism for media outlets such as Ara Llegim, La Llança, and La Lectora. She is the co-founder and co-editor of the literary magazine Branca. In 2020, her short story collection Damages won the Documenta Prize; the title story was published in The New Yorker’s flash fiction series. Pujadas currently works at Angle Publishing.
Julia Sanches translates literature from Catalan, Portuguese, and Spanish into English.
