Post by Hugo Vargas on Jul 18, 2012 22:11:30 GMT -5
The soulful Español of a Spanish crooner came forth from a radio alarm and broke through the deep sleep of Hugo Vargas, age 21, someone who was not all together particularly unusual, living in an all-together not particularly unusual apartment. It was on the fifth floor of a Madrid apartment building, Room 58A, and it was covered ceiling-to-floor with various posters of bands Hugo didn't like. The apartment wasn't his - it was his bandmate Carlos' place. Still, once he'd graduated from university he'd felt like sticking in his parents' house was just too weird, so he had been bumming it at Carlos' until he could find himself a job.
Which was the first thing he thought of the minute he awoke, pushing aside whatever thoughts of what he had been dreaming but moments before out of his head. He instinctively reached for his phone to check for any missed calls or messages, and only found a text message from Carlos saying that they were out of eggs and he ought to go pick them up.
'Why can't you get your own damn eggs?' He thought to himself, groaning. He didn't even like eggs. Still, it wasn't like he ever did anything around here but strum on the guitar and jam out, and it wasn't like he hadn't already applied to every shop, office, and restaurant he had seen in the city of Madrid, so what was he going to do but check his Facebook and listen to some tunes? His phone revealed that it was half past noon, and so he slipped off the mattress in the middle of the floor and prepared for the day.
He took the time to reflect on that nearly-forgotten dream as he slipped into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. It had been about that girl he liked - Lucia - and she seemed really into him in it. Nothing came about in the dream, though, because Carlos had bust in and told him that the toilet was clogged again and that he needed to call a plumber and stick around in case anything else happened, so he couldn't get to see Lucia.
Even in his dreams nothing worked out. He rinsed his mouth and spat out the toothpaste, and then squirted some shaving cream on his face and began to shave off his morning stubble.
Hugo Vargas wasn't a size to be remarked at - his 5'10" was average - and in terms of weight he was nothing to be admired or mocked either. He wasn't exactly thin but he wasn't exactly heavy either, certainly not overweight but neither thin enough to be a 'skinny boy' nor athletic enough to come across as 'manly.' His hair was cut short and wasn't particularly thick or thin. He had very little stage presence at all. That's why he was the guitarist, and not the lead guitarist.
Carlos was the leader of the band. He put the razor down and left the bathroom.
The only good thing he had going for him were his eyes. The ladies always said he had pretty eyes. A light brown which looked gold in the light. He enjoyed his eyes a good deal - just one thing that made him better than other people, something to actually be proud of, because there wasn't much else.
Looking at his laundry, he saw that he only had one clean shirt - a boring white t-shirt with the address of a seafood restaurant where he used to work for all of two months on it. He didn't have a single clean pair of jeans, so he threw on the cleanest pair he had, and threw his old gray hoodie on over the seafood shirt. He picked up his wallet and keys and shoved them and his cell phone into his pockets.
Locking the door behind him, Hugo headed down the stairs to the lobby of the apartment building and out into the Madrid afternoon. It was way too hot to be wearing a hoodie, and Hugo should've known, but he didn't exactly want to be walking around with the seafood shirt on out into the open. He may have been nothing special, but he did have his pride. He briefly considered going back up and taking it off, and that's when he realized he had forgotten his mp3 player in his room.
Hugo shrugged. He'd just go get the eggs and come home. It'd take all of fifteen minutes. So he set off down the road, hands in his pockets, nobody special, going on a completely average errand, on a completely average day.
Which was the first thing he thought of the minute he awoke, pushing aside whatever thoughts of what he had been dreaming but moments before out of his head. He instinctively reached for his phone to check for any missed calls or messages, and only found a text message from Carlos saying that they were out of eggs and he ought to go pick them up.
'Why can't you get your own damn eggs?' He thought to himself, groaning. He didn't even like eggs. Still, it wasn't like he ever did anything around here but strum on the guitar and jam out, and it wasn't like he hadn't already applied to every shop, office, and restaurant he had seen in the city of Madrid, so what was he going to do but check his Facebook and listen to some tunes? His phone revealed that it was half past noon, and so he slipped off the mattress in the middle of the floor and prepared for the day.
He took the time to reflect on that nearly-forgotten dream as he slipped into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. It had been about that girl he liked - Lucia - and she seemed really into him in it. Nothing came about in the dream, though, because Carlos had bust in and told him that the toilet was clogged again and that he needed to call a plumber and stick around in case anything else happened, so he couldn't get to see Lucia.
Even in his dreams nothing worked out. He rinsed his mouth and spat out the toothpaste, and then squirted some shaving cream on his face and began to shave off his morning stubble.
Hugo Vargas wasn't a size to be remarked at - his 5'10" was average - and in terms of weight he was nothing to be admired or mocked either. He wasn't exactly thin but he wasn't exactly heavy either, certainly not overweight but neither thin enough to be a 'skinny boy' nor athletic enough to come across as 'manly.' His hair was cut short and wasn't particularly thick or thin. He had very little stage presence at all. That's why he was the guitarist, and not the lead guitarist.
Carlos was the leader of the band. He put the razor down and left the bathroom.
The only good thing he had going for him were his eyes. The ladies always said he had pretty eyes. A light brown which looked gold in the light. He enjoyed his eyes a good deal - just one thing that made him better than other people, something to actually be proud of, because there wasn't much else.
Looking at his laundry, he saw that he only had one clean shirt - a boring white t-shirt with the address of a seafood restaurant where he used to work for all of two months on it. He didn't have a single clean pair of jeans, so he threw on the cleanest pair he had, and threw his old gray hoodie on over the seafood shirt. He picked up his wallet and keys and shoved them and his cell phone into his pockets.
Locking the door behind him, Hugo headed down the stairs to the lobby of the apartment building and out into the Madrid afternoon. It was way too hot to be wearing a hoodie, and Hugo should've known, but he didn't exactly want to be walking around with the seafood shirt on out into the open. He may have been nothing special, but he did have his pride. He briefly considered going back up and taking it off, and that's when he realized he had forgotten his mp3 player in his room.
Hugo shrugged. He'd just go get the eggs and come home. It'd take all of fifteen minutes. So he set off down the road, hands in his pockets, nobody special, going on a completely average errand, on a completely average day.