D.Fábula Patrick Miller

Text by Teresa de Miguel Escribano


Photographs by Francisco Gómez

That afternoon, he probably stepped so hard on the accelerator of that minibus in the final stretch of the route that he made the passengers fly off their seats higher than usual. The shabby bus was missing two seats and the back door.

It is highly probable that he didn’t even use the hand break when he parked the minibus late at night in the boisterous neighborhood of Tepito; he didn’t even say hi to his bros at the corner bar; he went straight home, pushing pedestrians and burning red lights on his way.


Maybe, once he closed the door of his minute apartment behind him, on Mecánicos street, he breathed quietly and smiled slightly, giving way rapidly to a surgeon’s concentrated look.

He had left the recently washed pants stretched out on the bed and cleaned his gaudy tennis shoes with the precision of a shoeshine boy the night before. He only needed gel to keep his hair out of his face and deodorant to reduce the sweat of what would be a long Friday night.


As he entered the Garibaldi metro station he could hear the turmoil of a hundred mariachi bands in the background, tuning their large guitars and violins to enchant tourists and the broken hearted, but he wasn’t very much into Mexican folklore.

Maybe nobody saw him on his way from the Cuauhtémoc metro station to Mérida street, through the dark streets of the Roma neighborhood. Nobody saw how he tripped on the sidewalk pushed up by the thick roots of a Jacaranda.

But everything changed at the entrance of the club. He walked in steadily, without paying for the cover charge or being on the list; he hugged the bouncer at the entrance with a hug and two pats on the back, and after crossing a long hallway, that immense dance vessel appeared in front of him. Quickly, a group of regulars spotted him and took him to the biggest of the circles formed for the best dancers to show off their moves to the public.


When he got there, there was a guy in the center of the circle with a gas mask on, long dreadlocks and high platform boots, doing mechanical moves to the sound of electronic music, but as soon as their eyes met, he stopped dancing and left to make way for the maestro.

The laser lights and disco balls illuminated him as he jumped, made a split and spun in the air, among cries of joy and people spilling cheap beer and mezcal as they clapped. Whenever a drunkard tried to enter the dance circle, he was expelled like a rat because nobody was as good as he was. Him, who was no longer called Juan Pérez there. There he was known as Patrick, Patrick Miller.


Related articles: