Get yourself a copy of The Price of Return

When Pep Gun receives a visit from a lookalike robot who quickly copies his mannerisms and claims to be instructed to take his place as the lodger of his flat, Pep understands the best he can do under the circumstances is run away as fast and far as he can. With the help of a colleague from work he manages to escape to the countryside, away from the city and the internet of things which is able to track his every move. Pep becomes the unlikely hero of his own story, an anxious adventure which lands him under a tree with a bag of food and utensils. With the promise of regular refill Pep begins laying out a place for himself, a total nobody but free from the super brain that’s following most of us and deciding for us what our lives should be like. Pep knows, as soon as he becomes somebody, showing even the slightest trace of a somebody, police will quickly be all over him and anything could happen after what has already happened. Or so thought Pep. Police were not impressed and charged him with trace and retrieve costs, but that happens only later on. First, Pep has to learn to love his dirt floor den under cover of plant life and to do so he will have to control his fear of nature. Luckily, there seems to be very little wildlife around, insects also notably failing, giving the city dweller he is much needed respite.

Pep is a healer of sorts in his spare time. He sucks off negative energy from depressed and otherwise unhappy people, to give them a short look into a happier version of themselves, which they then must see to extend up till the next session. More than anything, Pep sees the robot’s appearance as interference with his well-established private practice. Some people perhaps didn’t like him keeping individuals away from pills. It’s easy to get paranoid when you are trying to be totally alone because it’s really the only safe thing you can do. Nobody to talk to and no alcohol either, unless you had brought a bottle, so you had better find something to keep the mind busy.

Pep needs focus to keep himself sane and he chooses to write the story of his escape, the one he is at that very moment experiencing, hoping success may render him immune from the law. Nobody wants to see a beloved author get into trouble, do they? Even so, there doesn’t seem to be any other way out of his predicament. So, Pep starts writing. He is turning his adventure into a story for popular consumption.

 

In spite of all the hardships, The Price Of Return is a funny story, full of crazy situations as they happen when you’re out of place in a place where there is no place to go. For instance, people do the weirdest things when they think nobody sees them and for some the great outdoors are the best place to freak out, so there are lots of cyclists and other intruders of his initial hideout habitat he was told would be remote. Pep witnesses plain repulsive stuff and everyday madness and even steaming sex - so as not to forget the good sex thriller fans - and he is close to interfering a couple of times, but it would be the immediate end of his escape. And he’s not ready for that, yet.

 

Want to read the full story? For only € 4.49 ($ 4.99) you can order The Price of Return as e-book from Kobo, Scribd, Barnes & Noble or Apple. Pdfs for phone reading or printables can be ordered straight from the author. Send an email to: coospalmboom@gmail.com, stating the preferred format, phone, A5 or B5.

 

10.6 seconds, an instant T-shirt moment

 

I was there, on the 22nd of June 1986. Well, I was not present in the magnificently looking Azteca Stadium in Mexico DF, of course, I was at home in front of a giant black-and-white tv set, what we considered giant in those days. Colour tv’s were still expensive back then, whereas a second hand black-and-white one could be had for the equivalent of fifty euros. Besides, watching television was a much more relaxing activity without screaming colours giving you a taste of reality. So I was sat in the sofa on a balmy summer’s evening, noon in Mexico, ready to watch Argentina consume their revenge on England, the country that four years previously had fought what looked like a colonial war to retain its possession of a group of tiny islands off the Argentinian coast after the Argentinian army had occupied them in a move of gratuitous aggression. The nationalist frenzy England were being served as a reaction by Margaret Thatcher, managed to severely dent my enthusiasm for that weird and wonderful island which had given the world great pop music, bizarre food and a style of football which on the continent was considered ridiculous, out of fashion and counter-productive. Little wonder, that most of us rooted for Argentina to give perfidious Albion a good beating, and our hopes were resting on the shoulders of that diminutive star of nineteen eighties’ football, Diego Maradona.

 

The first half, in my memory, was nothing special, England well-organised at the back and Argentina seeming to lack the inventiveness to get behind. Then came the second half. Five minutes in, Maradona was approaching the English penalty box. He played the ball to I heard was Valdano, who scooped it up for Maradona to jump for the header, a great jump but never high enough for the overplayed pass. The English goalie, not expecting to be troubled by the 5-foot 5-inch finest footballer of his generation by a long shot, readied himself to calmly collect the leather sphere with a lazy show jump. But then the short guy raised his arm like a ballet dancer, straight and purposefully, and let the ball ricochet off his hand into the net. It was a handsome move and it was the clearest example of handball ever, yet the linesman stayed mute and the referee conceded the goal. Argentina were one-nil up. England were fuming.

 

It was a brazen act of gamesmanship and should have been punished with a yellow card, yet the fact that Argentina were winning was just what many had been hoping for. Let those English go to hell, if they couldn’t be defeated in a fair way, then an unfair one would do just fine. This was knock-out football and we wanted to see England sent home. It is also true that having a corrupt worldview was considered cool that year.

 

Just a couple of minutes later, Maradona received a short flick in his own half, elegantly avoided an opponent’s challenge with a double back flip which left the other look the wrong way and then set off on a rush which would leave football fans mesmerised. Cleverly looking for space to avoid further challenges from those big, strong, well-trained English players, Maradona ran towards the English goal, having to change direction a few times to keep them away. The ball, whether it was on his golden left foot or just a few feet away, always seemed to do as he wanted it to behave. This was classic Maradona, no other football player had such complete understanding with the ball, such technical and mental command, as if both were cut from the same cloth. Platini and Van Basten come to mind as challengers. The inseparable duo nearing the penalty box, I unconsciously sat up straight. This had to be a goal, it just had to. Anything less would be utter disappointment. Fate, the stars, the gods of sport, whoever were in control of destiny at that very moment, simply had to guide the player and his ball past the final obstacles to a point were a shot at goal couldn’t go wrong. People around the world wanted it that way, and in their common desire a worldwide instant admission was expressed that a wonder was happening before our eyes, the start of a cult. The moment seemed to come four yards into the box, with the keeper rushing out and a clear gap left to the far corner. Yet, Maradona chose to play it safe and round the goalie as well. My heart stopped beating for a split second, as the daunting figure of one of those big English defenders loomed large just to the right of Maradona. He wasn’t going to tackle him of the ball, was he? With so much weight attached to the moment, these crucial two seconds seemed to drag out into what felt like a minute. Argentina clearly needed a second goal, as they were not the better side and there was the ongoing danger of Blighty scoring themselves (as they would a good ten minutes before the end). Also, the fate of a nation was hanging in the balance. Were they going to get the satisfaction of having sent a promising English squad home, and receive at least a minor settlement for their failed efforts to kick the Brits off those rocks, a stupid move in itself by a bloody regime that felt unwanted, or were they heading for double defeat?

 

Ever so slowly in that timeframe I was in, Maradona went past the keeper, now only having to find the right balance to shoot the ball into an empty goal. Already, the charging defender had initiated his final desperate lunge, going to the ground and stretching his leg towards where he targeted the ball to be. Maradona really needed to act quickly now, or the ball might be picked off his feet. There was a clear possibility of a penalty here, but after such a magnificent rush that would have been an anti-climax, even if no one expected the golden boy to miss from the spot. No, he had to score now. Football demanded it, his country demanded it, history demanded it. The clichés were dripping from my black-and-white screen.

 

And so it was. While never totally clear whether it was Maradona himself or rather the defender’s toe that sent the ball goal bound, it definitely went in and the world erupted in joy and celebration. The globe’s finest football player had scored the greatest goal. It was the total instant T-shirt moment. Never again would we see such a rush, until some twenty years later another magical player copied his compatriot’s effort with a remarkably similar run, albeit against an opponent of lesser calibre. But that was still very far in the future on that sunny, miraculous day in the summer of 1986. And now he is dead, too old to die young and to young to die old. Gracias, Diego, por su arte.