Julian-Pygmalion?

Not at all. I'm afraid our Julian has too much of a temper to be a living Galatea. 

Chapter 2

I'm on the edge of glory
And I'm hanging on a moment of truth
Out on the edge of glory

His smartphone sang the hit as loud as it could. Groggily, Julian slid his hand under the pillow and switched the alarm off. He sat on the bed and quickly buried himself under the covers again. 6:55 a.m. was an ungodly hour for anyone in his right mind.

He briefly remembered his appointment with Oliver at 9 a.m. and shrugged. 'Figures, he's gonna get you a good job,' he thought. 'Probably wants another early fuck before he takes his super-jet back to Brussels. Not gonna happen.'

'At least, I got my mobile back,' he thought before he fell asleep once more.

Eleven o'clock was a more appropriate hour to wake up and Julian yawned as he searched for his phone under the pillow. He saw two SMS from Oliver with 45 minutes time-distance between them.

“Where are you?”

“I just finished my appointment at XX. A real pity.”

* * *

Instant-YOU. Connect with the world

TEXT: Stood up a wanker. Pretty faces always attract them.

MOOD: Evilly happy.

* * *

'Fuck. Nothing matching anymore.' Julian realised when he took a look at his dark-Gothic-manga wardrobe and tried to find a combination between it and his new haircut and colour. 'Only the fucking uniform matches. Wanker!' he dedicated the last word to Oliver.

'No way I'm wearing a wig. That looks so trashy.'

He took a look at the elegant clothes Oliver had given him and buffed. 'I can't show my face anywhere with these things.'

If anyone sees me...'

'If anyone makes a photo...'

'I'm ruined forever.'

He took his uniform's plain black trousers and put them on, ignoring the the two crocodile polo shirts still in a bag, and finally favouring an old squared shirt he had inherited from his brother and a beige sweater.

As usual, there was nobody but the switched on TV and the morning talk shows. He rummaged the kitchen looking for something to eat, but there was nothing but sour milk or dry bread. Loudly cursing his mother's incompetence and his brother's laziness to go to the supermarket, Julian made himself a tea and a toast, hoping the toaster would save his breakfast.

“You look normal again,” his older brother “insulted” him when he entered in the living room. “The Arab wants to introduce you to mummy?” he mocked Julian. “Should I buy the hanging rope for his parents?”

“Fuck you,” answered Julian and turned his back to his brother, hating his sneers.

“Ouch. Baby-Julian is not in a good mood. Being fucked the wrong way... Oh, wait. You usually fuck the wrong way.”

“At least, I fuck,” Julian answered but kept to himself the “unlike you,” as his brother's good mood could switch into a violent one without any further notice and dire consequences could fall upon his head. “I broke up with Ahmed,” he confessed.

“That's not the story slutty-Jenny tells on Facebook,” his brother sneered again. “Why the make over then?”

“Looking for a better candidate. I'm sick of bums,” Julian answered back, shielding himself behind the little pride he had left.

His brother grabbed him by the chin and examined his face, clothes and hair and snorted as Julian batted his hand away. “You may stand a chance to get a rich faggot now. That's the best you can aspire. Maybe at the club you work at.”

Julian rose from his chair and violently pushed his much larger brother. The boy looked at him, astonished for a second, and a flash of anger passed through his eyes. “See what you get for mixing with Muzzies?” he sneered instead of the punch the little creep deserved.

“It's none of your business.”

“You always looked queer and no woman will ever let you touch her. At least, try to fuck with one of your own race,” his brother spat. “Coming to think, better not. A multicultural, free thinker, traitor to is own race lefty like what you'd likely fuck is more disgusting than a desert-monkey.”

Furious beyond words, but knowing that soon his brother would leave the semantics to start a fight where he would get all the bruises, Julian munched his toast and rage in silence.

After carelessly dropping his cup to the adjoining sink, he opened the door and heard his brother calling his name. He turned around and had to shut his eyes close because of the painful light-flash.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” Julian roared, as his brother chortled, watching the image in his phone's screen.

“Jenny wanted to see it. Good little bitch. One fuck for this one,” he mumbled pleased with himself as he pressed the “enter” icon.

“Asshole!” yelled Julian before he slammed the door behind him.

* * *

Looking for something to do, Julian walked towards the park, empty of children, occupied only with some old men playing cards or chess at the stone tables. He found an empty spot and sat to check what his friends were speaking about.

“Pretty Mama's boy? @juliansan92”

“Just need a tie @juliansan92”

“Cooler with white-hair. Lost bling bling @juliansan92”

“Terrific Senior Moment thanks to @juliansan92”

He loudly gulped as he looked for his brother's Facebook account and almost fell from the backrest of the bench where he was sitting when he saw his new look picture posted. 'Fucker.'

He fixed his crystal blue eyes upon the long line of grey, withered and wiry trees and thought in nothing. Bored, he peeled off the falling apart painting of the green wooden bench, leaving his mind blank.

A mildly strong blow to the back of his head made him quickly turn around, ready to settle the score with whoever had dared to do it.

“Ah, it's you Julian. Didn't recognize you,” one of his former classmates apologized. “Looking for a new job?” he asked, pointing at his hair.

“Something like this,” mumbled Julian.

“You were at the top of the class. Should get something. Didn't you have a job already?” the boy said. “I still got nothing.”

“That sucks,” Julian said. “I still have a job but I would like to get something better.”

“Didn't you go to the university?”

“Needed the money,” shrugged Julian and the feared awkward silence engulfed both boys.

“The boys and I are going to the “applestore”. Wanna come?”

“Won't let you in,” Julian said, looking at the oversized jogging, fake golden necklace and short cropped dark hair hidden under a baseball cap. “That place is for hipsters. Not for us,” Julian frowned with disgust.

“Mini 32 GB is reduced to 399,” the boy said.

“So?”

“Don't you want one?”

“That's half my salary.”

“Up to 401 is a lesser offence. Just a fine, if they catch you at all.”

“No, thanks. I'm 20 already. Don't want troubles with the police. Wanna get a good job. A police record won't do.”

“OK, you were never part of the 401 Gang anyway,” the boy shrugged and walked away.

He was not twenty metres away when Julian shouted “wait for me!”

* * *

'This will never work,' Julian thought gloomily as he watched his former classmates enter in the trendy store. 'Not in a million years.' He stood some metres before, keeping his distance and watched how their dark olive skins and Decathlon clothes immediately opened the oceans of young hipsters gathered around the acrylic tables, recoiling in shock or even disgust that “such people” would be breathing the same air as them.

Hesitant, frozen at the entrance security gate, Julian watched how quickly three or four sturdy security men materialized out of nowhere and without uttering a sound, forcibly escorted his classmates out, ignoring the cascade of curses falling on their heads.

“You can come in now, sir,” a young employee merrily announced Julian that the cosmic balance had been restored once again. “Sorry for the disturbance,” she added and dashed away.

Shocked, Julian wondered what had happened. Never in his life he had been welcomed to a place like this. Banned at the entrance never, but closely watched with clear distrust, yes.

'Must be the fucking hair. Fucking Oliver.'

Tentatively, he advanced and aimed to the first gadget he saw. Holding it in his hands, his fingers fondling the screen, he noticed nobody paid him attention and the gate giants looked bored as they stood guard. An attractive boy, dressed with the company's uniform offered to unlock the device so he “could get a feeling” as he spoke wonders of it, batting an eye seductively.

'Is he flirting with me? No way. Perhaps the fucker was right. It's all about looks.' “I'm not sure,” Julian said outloud. “It's super but the price...”

“If you give me your phone number, I can let you know about the special offers,” the blond said and smiled warmly.

'Why not?' “My name is Julian,” he answered and watched how the agile fingers typed his number in the young man's private smartphone.

“Carlos. Nice to meet you.”

* * *

Sitting in the rickety subway, Julian didn't use his earphones. He was certain that music couldn't quiet his mind. For the first time in years, a decent, regular, good-looking guy had made a go on him. A college student too. Not some loser with a low paying job, no papers or a vampire-dinosaur still believing he would remain young if he sucked the blood of anyone below twenty.

He had been invisible to the stares of the old ladies. Jenny's new 9.95€ leather skirt was... tacky if he compared it with the one he had seen in a shopwindow at Oliver's neighbourhood.

Almost missing his stop, he jumped out of the half empty wagon just before the doors would close and stood in the middle of the vacated subway station. He slowly climbed the stairs up as the escalator was out of service or off. It was impossible to tell when it will be working again.

'I don't want to stay here.'

'I've got nothing to do here.'

'I'm gonna die in here,' he realised with a clear certainty.

* * *

Sitting under the sun, Julian contemplated the battered sign, hanging over the old building. “Manpower Solutions”. The small duffel bag under the stone bench was all what he had carried from Madrid to Lisbon. There was nothing really attaching him to his old neighbourhood or lifestyle, therefore his luggage should be small.

The “Fine-Pay-the-butcher-on-your-way-out-Don't-be-late,” he had received as farewell from his mother still rang with a deafening clarity in his ears. Didn't she understand that shouting “I'm-leaving-home!” meant “I'm out for good”?

'Fuck if I ever go back to that hole. Pay the butcher. That's what I am. The fucking asshole who pays for everything,' was the thought that had become a mantra as he boarded the packed low-cost company airplane. At that precise moment, he wished he would have gotten some rugby lessons back in school as he elbowed two middle-aged men in an effort to get some air.

The fleeting sensation of abandon and despair he had felt when he had found himself in the middle of the Lisbon airport foyer had been quickly replaced with the firm determination of finding a job and a place to stay soon.

'I look good. I can get a job,' he told himself as he stood from the bench. 'Anything to make some money and leave that rat-hole of a hostel I'm staying at.' Looking more confident than he really felt, he crossed the street and entered in the job centre.

It was empty save by a woman sitting behind a desk and a computer. “Posso ajudá-lo?”

Julian gulped as his Portuguese was very limited, but he walked bravely towards her desk and spoke in English, saying he was Spanish and looking for a job in the “hospitality industry”.

The woman looked dumbfounded at the elegant, well dressed, speaking good English youth that stood in front of her. Cutting short his tirade she reminded him that this was a recruitment office for temporary positions.

“I have one year experience as waiter and receptionist at the Club 37 in Madrid,” insisted Julian.

“Yes, I understood that,” she said. “The thing is that we have nothing available at the moment. Leave your CV and we will get back to you.”

“I work hard.”

“I have no doubts of that, but we really haven't got any offers at the moment.”

“Not even for a party?”

“Nothing at all. There's a crisis. Look how empty is this place,” she answered and Julian noticed the yellowed, about to fall, job offers glued to the windowshop.

“Nothing new in the past three months,” she sighed, moved by the look of utter devastation that flashed through the boy's eyes.

“It's worse than in Madrid,” Julian whispered.

“It is.”

“I really need a job. I don't want to go back there.”

“You should have emigrated to Germany or France,” she said sympathetically.

“I liked Portugal best,” Julian affirmed and she gaped at him. “Someone told me that here people were quiet, kind and the trees big.”

“Used to be like that,” she sighed louder than before.

“I don't think so. I like what I've seen so far, except my hostel,” he said as he sat in the old plastic chair she had indicated with a motion of her hand.

“Where was your friend from? Porto?”

“No, Sintra.”

“I'm from there too,” she said with a smile.

“Do you know if I could get a job there?” Julian asked and she didn't have the courage to tell him no.

“You could try at the Hotel Praia do Golf. It's a five stars resort and perhaps there's something for you there,” she said as she looked inside her drawer for one of her visit cards.

* * * * 

Next week how Konrad met Roger... Or was it how Roger met Konrad?