NEXT TIME THERE WON’T BE A NEXT TIME

Fail, try again, fail again.

On his deathbed my father told me: “Next time there won’t be a next time.” And he said it with the wisdom of a man who lost the woman of his life because he betrayed her with a woman he didn’t love—my mother—had children he didn’t want to raise or love with her. He wanted to have fun at the town casino and drink hot red wine, because sometimes you simply can’t know what will happen later.

And I was starting to understand.

Or at least I thought I was.

But opening your eyes when your best friend’s fist hits your face for sleeping with his wife, absorbing the blow, then looking at his children while thinking of my own children watching Gloria, my wife, crying because of me, the truth couldn’t be hidden. I was falling on the floor of my best friend’s living room, bleeding, and still searching for a stupid excuse to avoid regretting what I had done.

And my best friend wanted to keep giving me reasons not to make the same mistake again.

But I was already on the wrong path.

Changing jobs every year because I hated living miserably as a miserable man with routines and schedules I never kept or cared about.

Six months as a laborer at Arcor, two months at Santa Rita hardware store, three months at Tejica, idleness during summer, vacations with borrowed money. And the roulette wheel was spinning with my luck. What bad luck!

Turning a deaf ear, I hoped Gloria would forgive me.

My oldest son decided to leave home when he saw his future reflected in my face. He chose to live like a beggar with his pregnant girlfriend in a precarious house in Barrio 88 Viviendas; I hoped he wouldn’t repeat the same fate that brought him into the world. And my youngest son told me I was a dirty dog. And the dog barked at me too, the dog didn’t trust me either.

“Next time will be better.”

A phrase of hope that tore me to pieces. And at night, with thin, old blankets, I had to sleep alone on the couch because my family was angry with me. They no longer wanted to see me, but I had nowhere to escape or hide.

I condemned them with my presence.

That’s why I went in search of that last chance. A leap into the void.

I bought, with my wife’s credit card, screws, metal sheets, computers, tablets, and used phones on sale at Arroyo’s store.

The salesman didn’t ask questions, and it was good he didn’t.

But I knew perfectly well.

I had seen it on television, journalists talking about an “End of an era.” Wars, natural disasters, UFO invasion. And my mind stayed there. And every object and tool from the box I carried from Arroyo’s store was to build a UFO.

My wife shouted at me.

My youngest son thought it was a game.

“Next time we’ll be on Jupiter,” I told the boy.

I wasn’t an engineer, not even smart enough for numbers. My hands weren’t made for crafts. I asked the boy for help…and my son ran to his room, disappointed.

My wife kept shouting.

And I answered from the backyard with the pieces: “I’m trying!”

The UFO, one meter long and two wide, an oblong metal globe to escape when nothing was left standing on the planet. It was a fantastic idea!

Saving my family was a great idea.

But the nails bent against the metal.

The metal gave way because it was cheap.

My wife, no longer shouting, called her sister while telling my son to pack the bags.

My youngest son packed the bags. My wife didn’t say goodbye.

I had forgotten the wheels, the cables, couldn’t imagine how to build propulsion.

I felt an intense pain in my chest.

The same pain that killed my father, the pain that made my mother unhappy, that made my wife and children unhappy.

And I pressed pause on my miseries…

I returned the things to Arroyo’s store.

We argued about the refund.

I went back home to take a shower, listening to Radio Valle Viejo, and slept in my bed without my wife.

I still had years ahead to keep failing…

And what do you think?