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Friday afternoon. The buildings make for a nice postcard for a modern city, but on the inside they’re full of (office) ants. Maybe the same could be said of all us. Somewhere between these glass cages there’s a small Tapas bar and—like half the other ants—I get to sign off work at 2PM. Next week, they’ll be the ones here, enjoying a beer-heavy lunch.

Next week it’s the clásico, meaning lots of patrons wherever there’s a TV and alcohol. Pair that with the end of the semester and you can easily predict a packed joint. I hate that loudness. I’d much rather have the guys at the end of the bar. Yes they are loud, but eavesdropping them is actually interesting.

They discuss this phrase in English, elevator pitch. It’s obvious they’re drunk enough to hold such a silly conversation and sober enough to find it merely amusing. «Let’s ask old man López. One six says it doesn’t work like that.». López, I wonder, as in the giant engineering firm? It’s an open secret in this bar that their HQ is across the street, floors 14 through 20.

They must be business-type ants; engineer-types tend to scribble a lot when dealing with physics, even if they’re at the bar. Especially if they’re at the bar. Their conclusion is that yes, throwing a baseball upwards while the elevator also goes upwards must add their «speeds» together (another sign that they decided early on they didn’t like math).

The brunette’s kisses and subsequent hangover made me forget all about that, until today, two weeks later. Everybody at the crater is wondering what’s this? Where did it come from?. Maybe I should tell them, it’s an elevator and someone tried to pitch it (upwards) to prove a point.


I should ask my barber where he gets his hair cut, then go there and slowly make my way up the chain ⇐ Part of Brevity Quest 2020 (295 words)⇒ Ni picha, ni cacha, ni deja batear