Barcelona Metropolis

Dad is a concern for us. We didn’t expect him to do this. He had been dropping hints now and then, in his usual subtle way, but we didn’t take him seriously. In our defence, nobody pays much attention to their father when he’s just retired, especially if he spends all day at home. Retirees can be disruptive to family harmony. The man didn’t know how to occupy his time, and now, as I was saying, we’re worried.

He used to be predictable. He would come home from work, from that damned factory, always swamped. I’m fed up with Sugranyes. One of these days, I’ll tell him who I am, yes, I will. And he’d nod off in front of the TV until dinner time. But that’s all changed now. In the first few weeks without Sugranyes, without those ten-hour shifts, Dad’s been shuffling around the house like a zombie. Sure, he’s doing things, contributing in his way, but it’s all mechanical. Now, though, he’s taken on a project that’s a bit unsettling for us.

We all hoped Dad would take up fishing, like most retirees on our street. Catching a pound trout would make anyone happy, except Dad. Besides, he should have been pleased when Granddad, Mum’s father, suddenly started seeing him in a new light. Now he treated Dad as one of the gang, part of the kill-time crew. This qualified him to offer real advice, discuss politics with authority, and, most importantly, fish for trout. But it’s clear that Dad never quite got the hang of ‘free time’; he didn’t know where to start. At home, we reckon it’s something to do with his past.

Our aunt, Dad’s sister, told us that when he was a child, he didn’t really have any hobbies or obsessions that stood out, you know, the kind of things people remember about someone. Apart from school and home, he spent his time at the village parish, sweeping up, polishing the fancy metals and buffing the rector’s shoes. Some might call it a hobby, but it was more like something he did by default. Unlike other kids, he wasn’t out in the streets playing with balls, bikes or bird traps.

We reckon all that time at the parish really shaped his character. I mean, the liturgy and all the church whispers could’ve really sparked a genuine interest in God. If you look at it that way, none of us kids, or even me, would have issues with him today because we wouldn’t exist. But then the Lord’s path got disrupted when he had to start earning a living. At just sixteen, he earned his first paycheck as a night watchman at the cork stopper factory, where his granddad had a pretty important job, and he stayed with that company right up until he retired. Fifty years at the factory, working his way up from the bottom ranks.

Mum joined the factory at eighteen. She says she fell for Dad because she met him at night, in the dimness of the locker room. After finishing her late shifts cleaning the premises, he would already be on guard duty. Each night, the team of cleaning girls would wander the streets, and that’s when Dad would lock up. One evening, Mum and another girl had to stay for a couple of extra hours. As they were leaving, they saw that quiet lad waiting outside the locker room, which was unusual. Mum, who was modern and a smoker, approached to ask him for a match. The other girl, less modern, disappeared without waiting, and upon seeing our future dear Mum approach, he retreated into his two-square-metre kingdom. Mum, however, never talks about how she fell for Dad. Neither us kids nor, it seems, their few friends know how their romance progressed to ‘I do’. Once married, they never took any trips. Besides building the house, he only put in extra hours to buy the car that has since taken him to and from work: a Wick 145.