Just a few hours later, he was standing inside a public phone booth, his electric guitar slung over his back, the cold receiver pressed against his ear, and an expression of pure weariness on his face.
His mother's voice sounded strong and clear on the other end of the line, as if she were standing inside the booth with him. The cold of the receiver seeped into his skin, made unbearable by the chill of the words he was hearing.
The phone booth smelled of cigarette smoke and felt like a cage, trapping him in a conversation that repeated itself over and over again.
—Son, I already told you, I can't keep paying your rent anymore. You have to do something with your life. Your paintings and your songs are fine, but they won't feed you. Get a real job.
His mother's words, though spoken with affection, echoed with the hardness of reality. He, on the other hand, felt the full weight of responsibility, the fear of disappointing her, of disappointing himself.
—Mom, I'm working on it, I'm making progress, I swear. It's just that… art takes time to be recognized, he replied, while doodling shapes along the edge of a newspaper.
In truth, he wasn't making any progress at all, but he knew that explaining too much or arguing with her would be useless.
The doodle he had drawn, an abstract figure, turned into a maze of lines, a clear reflection of the confusion he felt inside. How much longer could he keep lying to himself, postponing the moment of facing reality?
—Time?! You've already wasted too much of it. Son, it's been years. I don't want to have a good-for-nothing son. Listen to me, I'm telling you for the last time, I'm not going to support you for the rest of your life. If you want to survive, get a job. Don't do it for me, do it for yourself, okay?
His mother's voice, though severe, carried genuine concern. He knew she only wanted what was best for him, but he felt his dreams slipping away, that there was no time left, that his passion was fading.
He sighed, giving in.
—Alright, Mom. I'll do what I can.
Resignation weighed down his words, frustration consuming him. He felt trapped between his dreams and the need to survive, between passion and responsibility.
—I hope so, because there's no more money for rent.
Take care, sweetheart.
She hung up, leaving him holding the receiver.
He felt a pressure in his chest.
The silence that followed the call was a reminder that he was alone and running out of support.
An older woman approached the phone booth. He thought about hurrying away, already shifting the guitar onto his back, but when she got close enough, she looked him up and down as if inspecting him, then decided to walk away, as though offended by the sight of him. He just shrugged and looked down at the newspaper, at the day's headlines. The world kept turning, indifferent to his struggle.
Looking at the newspaper he had been doodling on during the call with his mother, he reached the classified ads and noticed a job listing, a position at a box factory, located in an area he knew well, a place he used to visit often and that wasn't far away. He sketched bat wings over the factory's logo, an isometric box, and made the decision to go to the address listed.
The doodle remained there as a small act of rebellion against monotony, a touch of fantasy in a world as gray as the colorless pages of the newspaper.
The box factory represented routine, the life he didn't want to live. But necessity pushed him forward, the urgency to find a solution, to not disappoint his mother.
He hurried on, feeling the weight of the decision, and headed there, hoping to find a job, hoping to find a way out.