The freelancer, with a glass of ice water in one hand and a Davidoff purito in the other, rests in a dark corner of the sofa between the weekly planner and the computer, two attractive but sinister objects that await him as if he had something to tell them. But he tells them nothing at all and, in fact, he won't dare to look at them during the day, because now he knows he will have to cancel dozens of absurd appointments and meetings, appointments that he will have to reorganize over the next few weeks by cramming the calendar even more. The freelancer shouldn't smoke, as he knows this will prolong his broken voice and mucus, but it infuriates him to be unavailable (a word he thought incorrect just before typing it on the computer) and when he gets angry he wants time to pass quickly and bad thoughts to vanish; he expels liquid from his nose, coughs, cursing the viral crisis flying around the world and, amidst insults to everyone, smokes a couple more.
To not feel so alone, he writes to his group of friends (freelancers) confessing that he has fallen ill. He sees himself writing phrases like "everyone is the same," "at least, I can stop for a bit," or "in the end, if this is the worst thing that happens to me, it's not that bad" and, apart from the physical defect, he is now indignant at his lack of narrative imagination. In terms of work, there's no need to exaggerate either: the freelancer is part of the first world of the Western labor scale and, although crippled, he will be able to continue recording his daily radio commentary, writing the three digital press articles he owes each week, and reading the thousands of pages that his Catalan book podcast forces him to devour (among which are the unbearable bores of our creators, who confuse writing novels with going to therapy). Really, the freelancer cannot complain; the pharmaceutical industry keeps him in good shape, he can work and, what more could he want, at an adagio pace.
In fact, excusing himself with the bodily weakness caused by syrups and pills —which are added to the usual antidepressants and other mental sedatives—, the freelancer has enjoyed the privilege of being able to treat himself to an inter-week nap (he had sworn a thousand times that he would never use this adjective in an article...), verifying for the umpteenth time that unnatural breaks during the day are the best —and perhaps the only— remarkable invention that Spanish culture has given us. However, the freelancer experiences regular crises of hypochondria; barely a week ago, and due to the effect of a poorly placed supermarket bag in his hand, a finger went numb for days; the existence of this half-dead protuberance in his body preluded all kinds of motor problems that, without any foundation, the freelancer associated with an outbreak of multiple sclerosis that would end up taking him straight to the grave.
The illness does not bother him due to discomforts such as night sweats or the accumulation of wet Kleenex in the living room; on the contrary, he experiences problems of vanity and pure whim, because for fear of spreading his viruses he acts responsibly and does not leave the house. Contrary to his rib, the freelancer deeply hates being cooped up at home, perpetrating this tiresome "communal life" (ugh) and spending a single day without smelling the armchairs of the Ateneu library. For now, he has been able to save his mediocre texts on politics, because when it comes to informing himself about this cowardly land of ours, news reports suffice. But, as Friday approaches, he fears he will have to write his famous Punyalada without any reference to the city that justifies it. The freelancer is a Barcelonian without a city, who looks at the street from the window, blinded by the depressing Christmas lights.
What could the freelancer talk or write about when the city denies him, he who already had a hundred possible articles prepared, from the horrifying celebration of Macba's thirty years to a typically grumpy philippic about the fact that, according to recent surveys, not even Fabra's ghost speaks Catalan in Barcelona anymore? Who knows if perhaps he will be able to write about his impotence as a sick person without the usual mawkishness that these topics arouse in the tribe (that's why, at the beginning of the piece, he will use a gesture repellent enough to copy a fragment from one of the fathers of new journalism) and perhaps the reader, after a few sentences, will understand that it's only about how much he misses going out. This is what the freelancer thinks as he smokes another small cigar to further damage his lungs, looking at the muse who is about to speak to him; smiling, she prepares to do so, but he has long since left because he already knows what he has to write.