"Miguel!"
"Yes, Mom?"
"Tell me something honestly. Do you know any other twenty-six-year-old man who lives like you?"
I blinked lazily from the couch.
"What do you mean by that? If you mean someone as handsome as me, or someone with as many girlfriends as me, then you should say it clearly."
"I'm not joking!" she snapped. "Do you know any twenty-six-year-old man who still loafs around and lives off his parents like you do?"
Ah. So it was that conversation again.
The old saying goes: At thirty, a man stands on his own. That means you don't really have to worry about independence until thirty, right? I had no idea why my parents never seemed to understand such a simple piece of wisdom.
Every time they saw me going out drinking with friends, or hitting the bars, they never felt happy that their son had a lively social life. No. They always nagged:
Why don't you work?
Why don't you earn money?
I mean… was spending my parents' money really such a crime?
Family love shouldn't be contaminated by something as vulgar as financial accounting.
Normally I would invent some random excuse—headache, stomachache, a girlfriend calling—and sneak back into my room to sleep the day away.
But today, unfortunately, things weren't going my way.
My father sat quietly at the dining table, looking unusually thoughtful. After a long pause, he said calmly:
"You're lazy. Every company you work at, you quit after three days. Or they fire you. Are you planning to depend on us forever?"
I said nothing.
"So here's the deal," he continued. "My friend Roberto is short-staffed at his company. Go work there. The job's easy. Think of it as practice—learn how to earn money like a normal adult."
Then he nodded to himself.
"That's settled."
I swear, I had never seen anyone less democratic than my father.
When governments pass laws, they at least need parliament approval and a vote. But in this house, my father simply made a decision and—boom—it became reality.
Was I really that easy to bully?
I almost argued back. But then I remembered that if I angered him, my allowance might mysteriously disappear in the future.
So I forced a miserable smile and nodded.
"Yes, Dad."
Then I shuffled back toward my room.
Behind me, my father added casually:
"I already called Roberto. You start tomorrow."
Tomorrow?!
What kind of company hires people like that? I suddenly suspected that my father's friend might be running a company on the verge of bankruptcy.
I groaned and buried my face into my pillow.
One moment I was living a carefree life, and the next moment I had a job waiting for me in the morning.
It felt like a nightmare.
***
Normally, my sunrise happened around eleven or twelve in the afternoon.
Honestly, that was when the sun looked clearest anyway. If you woke up too early, you couldn't even see anything properly.
But today, apparently, I was forced to witness the sunrise like a responsible citizen.
At six in the morning, my mother burst into my room.
"Good heavens! It's already six and you're still lying there like a dead fish? Today is your first day of work, Miguel! Get up and eat breakfast!"
I hated waking up early.
When I was a student, I loved afternoon classes. When I dated girls, I always met them at night. Morning activities had never existed in my life.
Dragging a body full of sleepiness and resentment, I staggered into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face.
After that, I slowly drank a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette.
By the time I glanced at the clock again, it was almost seven.
My mother shouted again.
"Why are you still standing there? Go change your clothes, Miguel!"
I sighed and walked into my room.
What should someone wear on the first day of work?
My usual style was simple: jeans and a T-shirt. Done.
I hated dress shirts and slacks. They felt stiff and uncomfortable. You couldn't even move properly in them.
Still… since it was my first day, maybe I should try to look a little professional.
So I picked a simple pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, then headed toward the door.
My mother stared at me in horror.
"What kind of outfit is that? Are you going to an office or to a street fight?"
I froze.
What did she expect me to wear? Shorts and no shirt?
She pointed toward my room.
"Dress pants. Dress shirt. Go change!"
I surrendered instantly.
Sometimes I suspected that my mother and I weren't actually related. Otherwise, how could she have absolutely no idea what kind of clothes I owned?
The last time I wore a dress shirt was probably four years ago—some ridiculous school uniform required for a ceremony.
And that shirt had probably already been donated to charity or something.
Seeing my confused face, my mother snapped again.
"Go buy some! Why are you still standing there?"
My mother was an excellent housewife.
Unfortunately, she almost never went shopping.
Which meant she had no idea that most clothing stores didn't open this early.
I sighed dramatically.
"Mom… no shops are open right now. Maybe I should just skip work today and start tomorrow instead?"
Her eyes immediately blazed with fury.
She planted her hands on her hips.
"Go to the market! Not everything needs to be bought from fancy shops! The market sells plenty of clothes. Hurry up before I lose my temper!"
I had never gone shopping at a market in my entire life.
And I certainly never imagined wearing clothes bought from one.
Still, I wasn't picky about fashion. As long as I wasn't naked, anything was acceptable.
So I dragged myself outside.
My motorbike refused to start.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
Today really was cursed.
In the end, I had to borrow the old motorcycle that our housemaid used for errands and drive to the nearby market.
I walked up to the first clothing stall I saw.
"Two pairs of dress pants. Two white shirts," I told the vendor.
No fitting. No inspection.
I paid immediately and waved away the change.
Real men didn't bother with small change. It ruined the image.
***
I had always believed that being quick and decisive was one of my strengths.
But sometimes, moving too quickly could cause serious disasters.
For example—well—certain bedroom situations.
But apparently buying clothes too quickly from a market could be just as dangerous.
When I tried them on, I finally understood the problem.
The pants looked like they belonged to a professional bodybuilder.
The hem stopped nearly ten centimeters above my ankles.
As for the shirt, I swear it must have belonged to someone twice my size.
The sleeves were enormous. The torso could probably fit two people.
Wearing that ridiculous "office outfit," I looked like a walking political cartoon.
"Just wear it," my mother said impatiently from behind me. "No one cares how you look. Hurry up! It's already seven-thirty!"
I closed my eyes and accepted my fate.
Honestly, I doubted I would last more than three days at that stupid office job anyway.
They would probably fire me quickly.
Thinking about that made me feel slightly better.
So, dressed in my oversized shirt and embarrassingly short trousers, I climbed onto the old motorcycle.
And thus began the most miserable first day of work in my life.