Familia

I share a room with Manuel. He is twenty years old, Catholic. He likes soccer, golf, and mathematical sciences. His favorite musicians are Mexican analogs of Barry Manilow. He is defensive about Mexican history. He doesn´t like arguing, church, The Simpsons, basketball. He sleeps fitfully, flipping about violently, and often utters a garbled admixture of German, Spanish, and English. Wet wads of toilet paper roll out of my ears in the morning - my protection against his noisy somnambulist exploits.

*SLAM*
“What the-”
“Good snaaafffrom maior airnan constamagoar…”
“Shut it!”

When I forget to apply my jailhouse earplugs, it is not uncommon for him to wake me four or more times a night. Such as this:

SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRREEE.
“Shhhhhhh….”
SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRREEE.
“SHHH!”
SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRREEE
“SHUT IT!”
SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRREEE
“Only assholes snore!”
SNOOOOOOORRRREEE
“You bastard!”

Sometimes when his fits are too much, I have no choice but to try to wake him up. I’ll drop bottles on the floor, open the window, or flip the lights on and off. Hey, it sounds mean, but he started it. When I can’t sleep, it’s war. Him or Me. But I always lose. Nothing can wake him.

Last night we watched Sin City. It was his idea.
At the film´s terminus, I asked him, “Did you like that?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It was one of the worst movies I´ve ever seen.”
“Why?”
“I just didn´t like it.”
“That makes it the worst movie you´ve ever seen?”
“One of them.”

Once we were watching TV. Elton John came on the screen, an ad for some pay-per-view special or box set or something.
“Eww,” I said.
“Elton John,” Manuel said. “Do you like him?”
“Not really. I guess I like that one song, ‘Benny and the Jets.’ Actually, I take it back – I despise him.”
“I like his song, ahh… oh, 'Can You Feel the Love Tonight.'"

I think that’s the most astounding thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.