Town Herald Humour

The Problemtellers

   There are, lurking around us, a kind of being (probably humans, although there's no way to be sure) that will take advantage of any moment of weakness (or maybe not weakness, just existence) on our part to attack us. They pullulate everywhere, but their favourite places of existence are usually doctors' waiting rooms, buildings' halls, and elevators and pubs. (Although they don't live inside these last ones, but they get in when they see a possible victim.) They are creatures of a really curious nature, with characteristic s unique in the in the socioanimal medium in which we develop our lives; creatures with a mind with a conformation so particular that make them behave in a totally impossible to believe way. They are the “problemteller s” (also known as  “born under six bad signs” or “the-old-lady- on-the-third-floor-who-always-has-a-story”).
   These beings, who are usually ladies that are over forty, talk in quiet but plaintive tones; and that tend to use words like “dear,” “treasure,” and “fatidic” (with all their derivations), although this is not exclusive, because anybody can be part of this species; anybody who will take any chance they have to corner their prey and start telling them about an enormous number of problems they have, in every color and taste, as diverse as selected bonbons and almost as boring as Mr. Stupid-is-as-stupid-does Forrest Gump himself (who, by the way, probably was part of this human group). And they won't do this with relatives, friends, acquaintances, parents, tutors or guardians; no, they will tell their problems, even the smallest (that, of course, even if it is a door that doesn't close right, will be of a colossal magnitude) to any poor bastard who says “hi,” “bye,” or “I have to get down on the next station” to them.
   Then, in presence of this individual, we can appreciate scenes which have already turned into classics: a woman in the elevator bumps into the man from 12 G, who makes the mistake of asking her which floor she goes to and wins the relation of the pain in the back that the poor woman is suffering, of how her purse was stolen with all her identification s (three years before, but hey, good stories never die) and how all her plants are dying, because of the “fichus louse” species that the man has never heard of, but that is one of the biggest plagues in human history (probably the eighth). 
   Or, also, we can see how Manuel's father surprises the man that is sharing the seat on the subway with him, telling him how his son never plays in the football team, that if things continue this way he'll never be a pro, that if being four years old he's a substitute, Manuel will never play in world cup 2022. And all this without introducing himself or asking name, age, address or predisposition to listen to boring stories and pathetic problems of people that (if everything goes well and prayers are listened to) never will be seen again.
   The most dangerous subspecies is, without a doubt, the one that inhabits in the waiting room of the doctor's office (curiously, never one of this entity has been seen inside the office), waiting for any poor unaware soul that may sit right next to them to tell them, “I came to the doctor because I have a total lack of will to do anything and at this age, well, you know, you have to be careful, or you may... Well, we aren't what we used to be, years don't come alone, you can't be too careful, when you are thirty-five years old the body doesn't work like it used to” and all this accompanied by very explicit gestures that explains with all detail the problems in the bowel that have led the problemteller to consult the physician and all the consequences (real and exaggerated) that they bring. (With luxury of details and showing of scars too, of course.)
   And the worst part is that the normal human being won't be able to escape in any way the web of conflicts of these spawns of Satan, because, evaluating his/her possibilities, he/she'll see that insinuations never have any effect. (At least, not wanted ones, because they usually are triggers of memories that lead to more problematic stories.) Comments in the style of “Oh, well, what can be done? That's life” or “It says Buenos Aires there? Damn, I had to get off in London” only make the problemteller think that the victim is paying attention, and direct rudeness (in the line of “Shut up now, I can't take this anymore!” or “You see this? It's called a gun”) accomplish the function of making the hunter leave the prey but at the same time perpetuate the species, because now the lady from 4 H yelled at them and that is a story that deserves to be told.
   But, not everything is sadness and desperation, because, after all, someday they have to run out of problems to tell, right? No? Oh, God...

Note from the author: I know this really isn't a great article. Even more, even if it tries to be funny and amusing, I know it couldn't make anybody smile, but... well, you see... I'm having some problems. Let me tell you...

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