Semana Santa

Well, it’s Semana Santa, whatever the hell that is, and the world’s afire with especially pious energy here in Barcelona. Well, maybe not the whole world, but definitely one segment of it is.

I am referring, of course, to the viej@s choch@s.

I noticed it when I went to the droguería (for some reason, in this country they call a “drug store” a place only sells mops and bath gel). The cashier, Rosa — a warm, petite woman who is always smiling, always ready with a friendly word of conversation — was surprisingly irritable.

One big clue: the place, like every other store that was open in my neighborhood today, was filled to the brim with viejas. Old ladies waiting in line, other old ladies refusing to wait their turn, pushing their coins in Rosa’s face and demanding she check them out now, old ladies grabbing the last boxes of soap off the shelves, old ladies dando coñazo to the store clerks about why don’t have this or that product, and complaining about the ones they do have.

The old ladies had picked the place clean; the shelves were nearly bare. It looked like the End of the World was near.

One old lady chided Rosa the cashier about the fact that, because of the holiday, the droguería closed early today, at 2 pm. Rosa’s answer was, “Well, just one Saturday of the year we close at 2 instead of 9. It’s logical, isn’t it? Don’t you think it’s logical? ” with that last “logical” dripping with venomous sarcasm. Then Rosa made a remark about perhaps committing suicide once the store closed.

Wow. I never in my life imagined that Rosa would be capable of uttering something so dark to her customers. These old ladies must have pushed her to the brink. Rosa had transformed into someone else, as humans are known to do when subjected to extremely inhumane conditions. Under such circumstances, even the best among us will crack. It was like ‘Nam in that droguería, man, and Rosa was in The Shit.

Unsettled from the droguería, I went to the bank. All the banks are closed today, but I went to use the automatic teller. I had to urgently deposit some cash before the banks opened again, whenever that is… in June, perhaps? July? Whenever these Godawful holidays end, which I’ll know because we’ll be able to buy food again.

Not all the cash machines accept straight bills, so I had to pick the right one to do it. There were two vestibules available: one with two cash machines, and one with just one machine. I picked the single-machine vestibule and locked the door, leaving the other vestibule with the two machines free for others to use. I try to be thoughtful that way.

But once I inserted the money, the cash machine hummed loudly for several minutes — always a bad sign — before finally rejecting the bills. A screen came up saying that operation wasn’t available — esto es España , you know-- so I had to pack everything up and go to the second vestibule, the one with the two machines. I picked the correct machine out of the two and started over.

While beginning my transaction, I heard the door rattling. A woman was trying to open it. I pointed out the other vestibule to her, which she hadn’t seen, and she smiled and waved in appreciation.

A minute later, I heard the door rattle again. I was concentrating on counting the bills to make sure they were correct and didn’t turn around right away. The door rattled again, extremely violently, and the glass walls shook. I heard the noise of something hard hitting the glass. “What the fuck?” I thought and turned around, thinking I was about to be held up by a band of Albano-Kosovar war criminals.

It was an old couple, a man and a woman, each with a cane. The old man was violently tugging at the door, his face twisted in fury, and the woman was hitting the door with her cane. “Abra! (Open!)” she yelled. “ABRA!!”

Holy shit, I thought. Crazy viejos with weapons. Like hell I’m gonna open that door now.

I made a motion for them to hold their horses, trying to indicate that I was finishing up something important that couldn’t be interrupted. “ABRA!!!!” The old woman screamed. “There are TWO cash machines in there. You HAVE to open the door! ABRA, cabrona!”

That “cabrona” did it. I turned around and said through the glass door, “I’m sorry, I don’t open the door to violent, insulting people who are out of their minds. When my money’s safe in the bank, then I might open the door… But probably not. I don’t think it would be a good idea even then.” They both began screaming and cracking their canes against the door. “ABRA! ABRA!! Hija de puta! There are two machines, you HAVE to let us in!”

“I don’t have to let anyone in. Especially if they’re a pair of foul-mouthed lunatics with sticks.” I was starting to feel drained and depressed. I so hate dealing with people who remind me of my parents.

“Cabrona! Go back to your neighborhood!” shouted the old lady.

“I am in my neighborhood.” I turned back to the machine.

“Well you wouldn’t know it, from the way you act!”

“And from the language coming from your mouth, lady, it ain’t too flattering a reflection on the neighborhood either. Is that how the neighborhood talks?”

“Go to hell! Cabrona!”

“Happy Easter. Jesus loves you both, I’m sure. I’ve got to hand it to him.”

The lady in the other vestibule watched the whole incident, her mouth open in shock. When she finished, she opened the door and the old couple walked in, now cursing at me through the glass separator and banging away at it with their canes. “Good day,” the lady said in a trembling voice to the couple of old lunatics in an effort to demonstrate that she was a friend, please don’t attack, and got the hell out of there.

“Happy Easter.” I repeated over the din of their insults as the machine spat out my wad of bills. “Well, maybe there is a God after all; since you’re a couple, He spared two other people a lifetime of misery.” The screen lit up red with the same “Operation Not Available” sign as the other machine had done. But to me, those words read, “Nyah, nyah-nyah-NYAH-nyah!”

It’s pretty funny that the time of the year when people seem to be at their worst is called Semana Santa. If this is Semana Santa, I’d hate to see Semana Idiota, or Semana Gillipollas.