Awakenings in Brazil: Paymoneywubby's Transformation

It began with a simple, personal dilemma.

I am Paymoneywubby. I am a poorly paid bank teller who hates his job and is gay.

Scrooge was my hero.

Yes, he inspired me with his determination to be an unrepentant miser in the face of human loneliness, but those words spoken by Scrooge’s nephew at the end of A Christmas Carol were what rang true.

I hated being me.

I lived my life in fear, not of the future, but of the past. I had a horrible childhood. My mother died, and I was raised by an aunt who was at the same time loving and hateful. She taught me that there are two kinds of people: the winners and the losers. The winners get the best jobs, the most money, the finest clothes and women. The losers get what the winners don’t want. Lazy, cheap, useless, smelly, weak.

She never told me that I was any of those things. She just made it clear that she didn’t want me around her because of those sins. I was smart and quick and witty, so she tolerated me in public. But as soon as I shut the door behind me, she let it be known that I wasn’t good enough to be in the winner’s party.

I was the only one who knew she was the loser.

So I tried to be like her. I went to university and earned a degree. I got a good job. I got a nice apartment. I bought clothes that made others think that I was a winner. I got a decent car. I dated women—if you could call them that—that made me feel like I was winning. I hated myself for doing it. I hated her for making me do it. And then one day, I realized that I was living her life. That I was her.

I had no friends. I felt alone, even when I was with someone. I had no real hobbies. I didn’t know how to have fun. I had no goals or purpose in life. I started drinking heavily, and it was only a matter of time before I was fired from my job. One night, I drank so much that I fell off the balcony of my apartment. I seriously injured my leg and arm. I can’t move without pain now.

That’s when I realized that this was it. This was all I was going to have. This was all I was going to be. I was going to be miserable and lonely forever.

I cried. Not just a few tears, either. I crumpled into a sobbing heap on the floor.

And that’s when I heard it.

It was like a whisper, but it filled the room. It was like a song, but it was also a prayer. I couldn’t make out the words, but they seemed to address me personally.

I wiped my eyes and looked around the room. There was no one else here.

But the whisper continued, and I started to listen more closely. It was like a conversation happening inside my own head.

I don’t remember how long I stayed on the floor, but eventually I got up and took a shower. I stayed in the shower for a long time. I knew that I needed to find out who was talking to me, so I got dressed and went out.

I went to a bar. I had some drinks, and I made a few jokes. But I really didn’t belong there. After a few hours, I left.

I had to pee, so I went into a convenience store. A man walked in while I was peeing. He bought a drink and started drinking it on the other side of the store.

I finished peeing and washed my hands. I was drying my hands with a paper towel when the man said, “Hey, I saw you in the bar.”

I turned and looked at him. “Oh,” I said. “I wasn’t really feeling that place.”

“You should really be careful about where you go,” he said. “There are lots of places in town where you might get attacked.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I heard some guys talkin’ about it last time I was there. You know, I’m kinda hungry. Wanna go get something to eat?”

“Sure,” he said. “We can go to my place.”

I followed him out to his car. He drove us to his house, which was only a few blocks away. We went inside. He went into the kitchen and put down some food.

“Have a seat,” he said. “I’ll be right back. I gotta use the bathroom.”

I sat down and waited for him. He came back in with a gun in his hand.

“Who are you?” he asked. “What were you doing in that bar?”

“I’m Paymoneywubby,” I said. “I work at the bank.”

“You’re the son of a bitch who’s been robbing the bank!”

“No,” I said. “I’m not a good bank teller.”

“Then you’re the one who’s been telling people not to rob the bank!”

“No,” I said. “I’m not a good bank teller.”

“You’re a faggot!” he said. “All you queers are thieves and liars.”

“No,” I said. “I’m not a good bank teller.”

For some reason, the man’s hatred of gay people made me relax. I remembered what he had said.

“Are you gay?” I asked.