Sin pin « autor material

Sin pin

Mayo 30, 2009 · 1 comentario

Osvaldo cobra blanco en banco. Todos los primeros tiene problemas. La tarjeta se rompe dos por tres, la clave se clava, el sistema hace clavados o el metal aspira al plástico. Cambio de clave y quince días de espera porque “el pin es generado por nuestro sistema e impreso en este formulario especialmente diseñado para que usted sea la única persona que lo conozca.” Absofuckinglutely.

Tres por cuatro, pues, O. retira de ventanilla; todo, de una, “para no tener problemas”. Cuando la tarjeta camina se apura; en dos o tres saques no sea cosa que. “Tampoco es para tanto”.

“Los problemas siempre visitan el fin de semana”, declaró compungido. De modo que no hay modo de cantarle a nadie. Gardel atiende en el 0810-blablabla de lunes a viernes de 9 a 17; para ser socio del home banking sin papeles te piden papeles y en el número gratuito de la empresa emisora atiende un robot que con preguntas sencillas conduce por laberinto complejo “hasta que no sabés si llamaste o llamaron, si te derivaron a una veterinaria o si alguien te puso el teléfono en la mano para distraerte y robarte la casa.”

“Probá comprar, no sacar”, Lucio lúcido elaboró. Fue. “Fui”. “O casi”. “El mono me la quiso hacer.” Cuando la deslizó por la ranura sonó una alarma y el visor avizor avisó: “Comercio inválido”. “Oiga, diga, nunca antes había aparecido esto. Seguro es falsa, la retengo, lo denuncio.” Lo salvó un vecino que lo declaró incapaz de hacer fraude o cualquier otra cosa.

El lunes Osvaldo penetró en cubículo encargado, suplicante, como Tántalo en el Tártaro. “Arregláme esto, por favor”.

“Ajá. Marcá acá. Pasá a la caja, papá. Anda mal, ¿na?”

“En veinte días clave nueva vida nueva. Chabón, coso, quía.”

Punto.

“Te tienen de punto”, le dijo Blanco, del banco.

Categorías: Excurso

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estrella // Junio 2, 2009 a 5:47 pm | Responder

Desde el SIN PIN al punto del final me hiciste reír. Son los inconvenientes tecnológicos que ponen de mal humor hasta al más manso porque no hay a quien protestar. (Protestaría, si supiera dónde y cómo, dice uno de los personajes de un libro de Houellebecq… creo).
Saludos!

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Cloaca Maxima

Every night when I walked back to Half Moon Street, I ran the gauntlet of the innumerable prostitutes that lined Piccadily and the Green Park. They would brush you with "Come heah, Sweetie!" or a simple "Hullo!" in their low quiet London voices that, with their pale dimly-looming forms, made them seem a part of the night like moths. There was one of them who gave me the impression of being more or less well bred, for she talked the schoolboy language like G. and would say to me, "Can't I tempt you?", as if she were offering me a cake or a drink. One night when I had lost my way in the queer little tangle of streets behind the Christian Science church, a tough, short and stocky blond wench, almost like some hussy of Rowlandson's, of whom I had asked the way and was going in my direction, steered me good-naturedly to my sordid hotel. She tried to take advantage of the occasion to do a bit of business, but I replied, in an attempt to discourage her, that I had just been to see a friend. "In other words, you've had it", she said. "Charming!".

One night, wandering back at loose ends, I picked up a really good looking girl who accosted me in French. She was the only such woman that I had yet seen in London who was not frankly down-at-heels and disreputable. A vigorous well-filled-out brunette with a bright smile of strong white teeth, she was wearing a brown suit, a béret and relatively little make-up. She came from Montmartre, she told me, and had beeen in London since 1939. Her aim was to go back to Paris and open a lingerie shop. During the day, she worked wrapping up parcels at the French Red Cross; and for the purposes of her traffic at night she did not use the harlots' hotels, but had a well-kept room in a house that was inhabited entirely by French girls. It was impressive, as a feat of French character, to see how these girls stuck together and how astutely they had organized their affairs. Everything here was on a higher level of decency than among the native prostitutes of London. I was talking about this, when I got back to Rome, with Alberto Moravia, the novelist, who had lived for a time in England, and he said truly that the point was that in France prostitution was a recognized profession which did not involve the loss of self-respect, whereas, in England, a woman who took to the streets was consigned to the dregs of society and could no longer keep up any standards. She was now simply a tart or a whore, which is quite different from being une petite femme, what Odette, my French friend, always called herself. The English girls, as a rule, looked blowzy and behaved vulgarly, and they mostly gave the impression of being diseased. But Odette was in good shape and handsome, and conducted her commerce with men with the same sort of efficiency and dignity with which she would have run her shop. She was scrupulously hygienic, and had availed herself of every resource to eliminate both squalor and risk.

It was all like a little chunk of Paris embedded in darkest densest London. Though Odette had been in England six years, she had learned only a few words of English and talked French in a polite and conventional way that would have done perfect credit to the proprietress of a pension de famille. She had on tap all the correct formulations, and when she used, as she did not do often, a word of argot that she saw I did not understand, as when she tactfully remarked, in connection with the outburst of de Gaulle against Britain over its attitude toward French interests in Syria, that she "didn't know what de Gaulle had taken into his ciboule, she would immediately explain what this meant. She described to me with clarity but discretion the characteristics of the various nationalities as she had encountered them in the course of her business. The English were very cold: unbuttoned, buttoned up, and then goodby! the Canadians were "ordinaires". Some of the Poles were nice. But "il n'y a que les Français, les Belges et les Américains pour faire l'amour".

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Sin pin

Mayo 30, 2009 · 1 comentario

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