“Listen, everyone’s got their own pain and frustrations. Everyone’s got their issues to deal with. I’m not here to judge you.”
“But you did judge me. That day we were hanging out at the gringo bar. I said some shit to you and you practically threatened to kill me. You were ready to throw down.”
“I don’t remember.”
“I called you the greatest Bukowski imitator in the world.”
“Well, there’s the reason it got out of hand.”
“I’ve known you for 20 years, Diego. I’ve never treated you badly. I’ve always respected you. I’ve supported you. I’ve woken up in the morning and drunk beer with you - for real.”
“Now hold on, Flavio. The thing is, that’s the kind of joking around that I take seriously. It’s not about disrespecting me. It’s about pissing on Bukowski, who was a brilliant poet and an above-average short story writer. Somebody who sacrificed a lot and who was steadfast in his love of literature.”
“All right. Take it easy, Diego. Just relax. I’ll cover the tab tonight.”
We laughed - we drank one, two, three, four, five rounds and then silence descended like the malignant haze of 4 pm upon Avenida Ribeiro.
“I’m sorry, but what exactly did I say?”
“You said that I was a middle-class white boy from a fancy neighborhood who’s got a nice little government job courtesy of my dad and that I buy drugs and booze for homeless people and artists to ease my guilty conscience and to not think about my own mediocrity.”
“Damn. That really is bad. I’m sorry about that, Flavio.”
There was another massive silence, until he ordered one more Antarctica from the stunning waitress Yara and said:
“Do you think it’s too late, Diego?”
“Too late for what?”
“To stop being a rich playboy and become a good imitator?”
“Who would you imitate?”
“Dostoyevsky.”
“Relax, Flavio. Go on working three hours a day at that cushy government job and keep paying for our beers. Dostoyevsky is inimitable.”
“Makes sense.”
“You ever think about imitating Chimbinha, from the band Calypso?”
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