travelers

What happens if...

For today’s story, I’ve taken three phrases to see how Google would finish them. They are set off in bold type.

What happens if…you overstay in Spain.

The guy who took my passport is still out there. Forget about Roberto. He’s not just an unreliable roommate, now it seemed he’s dangerous as well, as if that made any sense. Roberto, the buffoon who told the stupidest jokes I’ve ever heard in any language, and a guy who never does his dishes. Turns out he was the one who got me evicted. But right now, I need to track down the other one.

I went over to the Raval, not to the part that looks dangerous and isn’t. I was going to the one that was way much more dangerous than it looked, the one the taxis would not go into. That’s where my passport was. 

Even though it was two a.m., the outside lights were still on at the Kentucky. I hated this bar, but I knew Xavi was working, and Xavi knew people, like, he knew everybody. I pushed open the door, and it slammed behind me. On the TV, above the liquor, was Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula. Lucy, all in red, was writhing around on the bed, flashing her fangs.

Xavi clocked my entrance and walked across his wooden runway, ignoring some drunk tourist girls who wanted more schnapps. He gave me a kiss on each cheek, and I caught a whiff of his cologne. Guy had taste.

           “You seen Rafa?”

           “¿Cuál?” he demanded. Valid point. There were always at least five Rafas in any given bar at any given moment. 

           “El Loco.”

He shook his head. If loco meant crazy, that would be an understatement for the guy I was referring to. It was his nickname and sounded more affable than the reality, which would be more like reckless asshole. 

           “I was with him when my passport disappeared.”

           “He took it?”

           “Dunno. Think so. By the way, Roberto wants the flat for himself. He didn’t wait even twenty-four hours.”

Xavi swore under his breath. 

           “You can stay with us. Carina is in Formentera till September.”

           “Thanks, man.”

           “Nada, mujer. Besides, you the best cook in Barcelona.”

           “Ah, I see.” I laughed.

At that moment, Rafa came into the bar, and I saw him before he saw me. I wanted to take a bottle and crack it over his head, but I also wanted to stay in Xavi’s apartment, so no TV clichés. I actually had nothing to threaten Rafa with, but I had no time to think of anything before I saw Xavi come around the bar with a rictus of fury on his face, then Rafa’s panic as he tried to leave. Xavi had him by the collar and he was dragging him towards the backroom, the entrance  to which had no door so even over the music I could hear banging and crashing, things breaking. 

Rafa was not the work-out type, so he was getting pulverized. A moment later, Xavi emerged. Not a scratch on him. He used his hand to comb back his hair, reached for a bottle and poured himself a shot. Then he got the drunk girls their drinks, and served a couple of pints, at which point he looked over at me and winked.

No Rafa came out of the backroom. I hoped he wasn’t in need of a doctor or coroner. Xavi came back over to where I was sipping my beer. He had brought two glasses and the bourbon. Without a word, he poured us the shots.

          “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

          “He took off. He’ll stay out of here for at least a month.”

We clinked glasses.

          “Son of a bitch sold your passport.”

What a thunderclap … these words were to me. My face froze in anxiety.

          “Tranquila,” said Xavi. “You go to the police and tell them it was stolen. They file a report and you take that to the consulate. You get the new one on the spot. Easy peasy.”

          “No, you don’t understand. I can’t go to the police, and if it winds up in a police station, I’m screwed. My visa ran out a month ago. If I go there, I’ll be doing jail time.”

Xavi was thinking hard.

         “Okay, so you take the train to Perpignan and do the I-lost-my-passport show there. Pobrecita, as soon as you got to town, you got robbed. Right in the train station. Où la.”

I smile. He smiles.

          “I love it when … a plan comes together.”

          “Sit down, hermana. Have some tortilla de patatas. On the house.”

Dr. Van Helsing is pressing a host into Lucy’s forehead. 

          “Shit, that looks painful,” I say.

          “Not as painful as what I’m going to do to Roberto. Do me a favor, bring me some cheese. Saint-Nectaire?”

          “Absolutely, and a couple of bottles of Chenin Blanc. Unless all this benevolence comes with strings.”

          “Strings? Madre mía, does there always have to be a twist? Can’t a guy help a friend?”

I’m feeling happy all of a sudden.