Mijo and Mamá
- Jul 28, 2023
- 4 min read
by Nico M.
Mamá had texted Mijo around 2am.
He doesn’t read the message until he’s taking his phone out for the bouncer, a walrus of a man in figure, temperament, and mustache. Not Mijo’s type.
No me ignores, Mijo, she’d texted.
It’s only 5pm her time in Lincoln Heights.
And Mijo isn’t ignoring her, he’s setting a boundary. He’ll talk to her when he’s ready, okay? ¿No puede entender eso?
Mamá never set no damn boundary with her own mother. Does Mijo want to worry his poor mamita to death just so he can prove some stupid point? Ay, that boy.
Mijo chuffs and, as instructed by Herr Walross, accepts the two little white stickers with pink skulls on them, covers the lenses of his phone. Fotografieren ist verboten.
Mijo starts slipping the phone back into his black pleather pants.
Nein, Arme aus, says the bouncer.
Mijo gives Walrossmann an apologetic American grimace. It’s immediately understood, accepted. The instruction switches to English.
Arms out, keep phone in the hand.
The phone buzzes again. Guess who.
Mamá wants to know where on Earth Mijo is for the love of God, when he’ll be back, if he’s okay. She doesn’t even want to think about typing the things she’s imagining could’ve happened to her bebito. She’s tracked down Mijo’s roommates, his exes. Even his father! Not easy. Not fun neither. Don’t nobody know shit. And now they’re all worried too.
Mijo sees none of these texts yet. He sees only the glow of his phone as he stands like he’s splitting the difference between the two positions of the Vitruvian Man. He’s dressed a bit more modestly than Da Vinci’s illustration of ideal[1] body proportions, but Mijo’s outfit doesn’t exactly have the slack to conceal a gun or whatever the hell the bouncer is feeling around for.
This is, though, the most action Mijo’s gotten since he arrived in Berlin on Wednesday.
Not exactly the drug-fueled sex bender slash solo self-discovery foreign pilgrimage that he’d planned.
As Herr Walross works his clumsy flippers around Mijo’s thighs, Mamá continues to work herself into one of her manic text-a-thons.
I love you, Mijo, she says. Please just tell me you’re okay and I will leave you alone forever. If that’s what you want.
Mijo will put this out of mind, will get himself excited again for the unphotographable debauchery implied by the mandatory camera stickers.
Go ahead, the bouncer says.
Mijo walks down a long dark stairway with graffiti on the walls. The sounds and the smells crescendo as he descends, at last, to the sticky black floors of the nightclub.
It smells like weed and beer, but not sex. A DJ is spinning loud mediocre EDM. There’s a smoke machine. The lights are switching between strobe and a colorful laser show. Some Germans are dancing, but its unenthusiastic, unsexy, almost social distanced[2]. A straight white couple is making out on a couch.
But Mijo won’t give up. He’s going to actually have some fun tonight.
Firstandforemost: he needs a drink. So he can work up the courage to figure out who can sell him some poppers and molly.
He tries to squeeze his way up to a bartender, gets dirty looks [3]. Oops, sorrysorrysorry.
He gets in line and tells himself he won’t look at his phone. He’s going to stay present in this present moment. He’s going to experience the world around him. He’s going to block out all distractions that are keeping him from realizing the inner peace he’s seeking.
And he lasted almost all the way through the line to get in without looking at his phone, why can’t he do it down here?
But.
Although.
The line is so long and Mijo is tired and his phone is still blowing up.
Can he really be expected to eatpraylove alone in a dark loud crowded room like this?
He’s just going to look at his phone while he’s in line. Then he’s putting it away for the night.
He means it.
He reads the texts de su Mamá. Ay, Jesus Christ. Crazy woman.
Someone has put a hand on his shoulder, gently.
Hi! Do you speak English!
Mijo turns. Oh, hello handsome. Seems to be another American. Over six feet. Great cheek bones. Great hair. Great smile.
Hey, yes, hi.
Oh thank God. You here alone?
What?
I said are you here alone.
Alone?
Yeah.
Yes. Alone. Sorry, it’s so —
It’s so fucking loud in there that they can barely hear each other. Seems every sentence takes a repeat or two before they can get the gist of what the other is saying, but Mijo knows how to read body language and he, therefore, knows that he should be getting excited to finally actually have some fun[4].
But he’s spacing.
He can’t keep his attention focused on what handsy Mr. Americano is shouting to him over the music, his boozy breath in Mijo’s nose, his perfect nose brushing Mijo’s ear.
Even when the phone isn’t buzzing, Mamá keeps interrupting Mijo’s thoughts.
I’m worried about you. Why would you do this to me? To your own mother.
Jesus.
This was all supposed to be an escape. Just an escape. He was supposed to find himself, find his path, find answers to questions he didn’t know he had, and whatever other trite travel cliché.
Excuse me, says Mijo.
He puts his hand on Americano’s cheek and walks away, back up the stairs, past Herr Walross, back into the chilly German night.
Mijo peels the stickers off his phone, orders an Uber back to his AirBnB, texts Mamá.
I’m fine, Mamá. No te preocupes. I love you too.
[1] Leonardo could have drawn one part bigger, in Mijo’s opinion.
[2] Someone needs to introduce them to Latin music.
[3] People form orderly queues in Germany, ja?
[4] i.e., sex.
Nico M. writes stories in Minneapolis. Find some of them at X-R-A-Y, Pithead Chapel, Pembroke Magazine, and Apple Valley Review.
