The Spanish Spotlight (LSD, #4)

2. Smells Like Teen Spirit

Smells Like Teen Spirit

From here to the country and golf club «Los Arqueros» is a fifteen- to twenty-minute drive. Chelsea is uploading some of the photos I took with her imPhone, which gives me time to think.

If I want this mission to become a success, I need us to have some conversation. She has to become my friend. Friends talk to each other and do fascinating things. Friends are, or at least try to be, friendly with each other. But Chelsea is all but friendly. She's over-bored. She's self-assured. How can I change another person? Which words should I use?

I visualise a perfect world of people talking with each other, a cocktail party at the American embassy. All the important people try to get drunk on free champagne as quickly as possible, before anybody finds out how bored they all are. Then #3, The Diplomat, comes in. He's popular. He's confident. As a professional dialoguer, he knows what to do and how to do it. He's my role model. I learn from him. First, he welcomes the latest Nobel Prize winner, and they discuss the relativity theory. He shakes hands with Mr P.H. Johnsson, and they debate the recent problems in international politics. He meets the President of the USA, and they chat about how the New York Yankees are doing this season. And finally, he says hi to Chelsea, and they babble: "Duh. Like... Whatever."

I do my best to stay friendly, which is not easy when somebody bitches you off all the time. Even now, while we're driving through the breathtaking beauty of Andalucía, it's hard to make her like anything else but her own Facebook page. When I point at an old ruin, a family of deer, or a picturesque stone bridge over a narrow pass, making a casual remark like: "Have you seen that?", or "Isn't this beautiful?", she doesn't even take her eyes off her phone while she answers: "Duh."

I feel stupid and contagious. How can you be friendly with someone who refuses to be friendly with you? You can't change other people. All you can do is change yourself. Slowly, fear becomes my principal emotion. This mission might be too complicated for me. I'm worse at what I thought I would do best. After all, I'm only #5, The Runner, the pizza delivery boy of the LSD, who runs errands to provide others with everything they need to complete their missions. Even now, when I have a proper mission, driving a car that would make James Bond jealous, I don't feel a real spy. Someone put me behind the wheel of the Titanic, with the iceberg sitting next to me. What does it take to be a real spy? Do you have to drink martinis and play poker all night long?

"Did you ever kill a man?"

Chelsea's phone has disappeared, and her curiosity has taken its place.

"What? Kill a man? No, not really. But I've killed chickens, rabbits, a few goats, and even a pig once. My parents are butchers. Before I became a spy, I used to help them in the shop."

"If you're a real spy, you have to kill people. That's your job. You—"

"Who told you that? Do you really believe that people who order others to kill people have a better view of the world? Do they possess some mythical, mystical, mysterious, magical wisdom that allows them to go against the nature of life, the essence of every religion, and the fundamental meaning of humanity? Are you really that naive?"

"DON'T INTERRUPT ME!"

Chelsea doesn't even listen to what I say. She wants others to listen.

"I'm sorry. I—"

"It's rude to interrupt other people when they are talking to you."

"I won't do it agai—"

"Now you do it again! Don't you know nothing?"

I wait politely until she's finished. The iceberg and the Titanic are on a collision course. But at least, we're talking. All I have to do is change the topic.