I’m forty-four years old and I don’t have a dime.
If someone were to pickpocket me in a secluded alley, it would be a waste of time. Probably, they would take pity on me and give me some money instead. I’ll try never to end up on deserted alleys, so as not to take advantage of people.
Nevertheless, I do appreciate not having to share my poverty with anyone. I don’t even have a dog to lick my face and wake me up in the morning, which is good because I don’t want to be awake in the mornings.
Although I’m supposed to be the one selling right now, I sit quietly on the couch while the chubby guy wanders around the apartment, checking every bit of plaster and every screw on the outlets.
I have no intention of bothering him. If he wants to buy, he’ll buy anyway.
I just hope the guy doesn’t lean too far over the balcony railing, otherwise, it’s goodbye deal! I’ve always thought that cursed railing is too low. It’s dangerous. If you’re not careful all the time, you simply take flight, and there are eleven floors down. That’s an advantage because you have plenty of time to see your whole life pass before your eyes.
He has to make me an offer. He must!
If the man makes me an offer, I’ll kiss him on the forehead and accept it on the spot. He’s the fourth client in the fourth week, and every offer is getting smaller. Maybe they’ve made a deal among themselves or maybe I’m just too suspicious.
“I offer you fifty thousand dollars,” says the chubby guy. “If we shake hands now, you’ll get the money in no more than an hour.”
The guy is fat, and I start to realize that I hate fat people. Until now, I had nothing against them, but now… it’s over.
There’s nothing to like about fat people. They eat more, poop more, consume more oxygen, and, importantly, they cause elevators to malfunction. It’s clear: all fat people must die!
This bloated guy, either he’s in cahoots with the other buyers, or he’s sensed that I’m desperate. Maybe both. Whatever the case, I don’t like what he’s trying to shove down my throat. I’m not stupid, darn it! Two years ago, I paid exactly eighty thousand for this apartment.
You’ve messed with the wrong person, fatty! I’ll get you, just you wait! You’ll die in agony! You have no idea who I am. If you knew, you’d run screaming.
I cough to clear my throat.
“Um… you haven’t visited the balcony yet. Too bad. My apartment has an exceptional view, especially in the mornings.”
“I’ve visited it, sir.”
“Hmm… probably just quickly, then. Take another look. I’m serious.”
“I’m telling you, I’ve visited it. It’s an ordinary balcony.”
“I insist.”
The fattest of the fat shrugs, exits the bedroom, and walks back into the living room. I hear his footsteps receding and the balcony door creaking. I stretch out on the couch, grinning, close my eyes, and prick up my ears. This is it! I await the prolonged scream and the unmistakable thud.
How will tomorrow’s headlines look?
“HORRIFIC ACCIDENT!
Last night, an unfortunate person fell from the 11th floor.
In the fall, he grabbed onto an antenna from the 8th floor.
The screams of the fat guy (yes, dear readers, he was a filthy fatso) alarmed the entire neighborhood.
When the firefighters arrived, the antenna broke and the man fell again.
At the 5th floor, he hit a railing, lost four front teeth, then landed right on a sharp stake.
Doctors are reserved.”
The hippo returns panting.
“Are you satisfied? I visited it again. It’s a view like any other.”
Damn it, what bad luck!
“So,” he continues, “do we shake hands? Fifty thousand?”
I’ve never been good at haggling. Negotiation is just a word from the dictionary for me. I didn’t even negotiate with the Gas and Electricity guys, and here I am without gas and electricity. And it’s December.
I didn’t negotiate with the building manager either, and now the water’s not flowing. This time, maybe it would be good to try negotiating.
I look at the fat man, and he seems more alive than ever. I feel myself starting to get annoyed.
“Do we negotiate?”
* * *
I exit the bank and pat my pocket once again, although I know exactly what’s going on: I have a thousand dollars in my pocket and sixty thousand in the account.
I’m one hell of a negotiator! I managed to buy an apartment for eighty thousand dollars and sell it for sixty-one thousand. I’m proud!
The storefront where I see myself tells me it’s time for some changes, so I resignedly enter the first barber shop. Beard off. Hair off. It takes at most fifteen minutes, doesn’t hurt, and it’s much cheaper than cosmetic surgery.
That’s settled. I have no more hair. I’m a different man, but I realize that nothing else has changed around me. It’s still freezing outside. Damn it! I hate the cold!
I don’t know which way to go, so I buy a pack of cigarettes, open it, and quickly smoke two. Mmm… not bad! Although I haven’t smoked in almost a week, I avoid lighting the third one.
The last time I indulged in a cigar. I collected all the cigarette butts in the house, tore a piece of newspaper, and rolled myself a huge, filthy cigar, just like when I was fourteen. Some things never change.
Lord, I’m finally free! I love you! I can go anywhere. I have my passport with me. I have money to spare. I have plenty of time! I’m ready. But where should I go?
For weeks on end, I’ve been telling myself that I’ll go anywhere, as far away from this city as possible, but only now do I realize that “anywhere” isn’t a choice.
Now the big day has come, and here I am, still spinning around in circles.
So… where should I go?
I found it: I have to go to the bar across the street. Yes, that’s salvation. If I want to come up with any valuable ideas, a bar is the most suitable place.
Plus, I’m thirsty.
In the last month, I’ve been wondering who I should kill for a glass of vodka. Well, I’ve just killed my apartment, so I deserve my reward.
To the bar!
* * *
Hmm… Nice tavern!
It’s not bad here, it’s warm, the bartender smiles friendly, and the two girls at the table on the right are quietly minding their own business.
I’m on my second drink and eavesdropping. I understand that one of them went hot air ballooning in the Czech Republic. She’s still enthusiastic about it.
I have good peripheral vision, so I “photograph” them from head to toe and quickly realize that they’re exceptional girls.
For me, any woman who slaps makeup on her face is… exceptional. If she dyes her hair purple or pink, if she cakes on tons of flour, if she puts on garish lipstick, if she applies false eyelashes and has long painted nails, then it’s clear: I’m dealing with an exceptional woman. Exceptional compared to normal women.
The two girls also have nose rings, so they’re even more exceptional.
All my life I’ve run away like hell from exceptional women, so I’ll just mind my own business and find something harmless to look at.
For example, the poster behind the bartender. It’s cute. It’s a large, beautiful poster of a wonderful beach, white and clean. Blue waves all around the island and a few coconut trees in the middle of it. Or maybe they’re palm trees. No, they’re definitely coconut trees. Or… maybe palm trees. Actually, what’s the difference between a coconut tree and a palm tree?
But what does it matter? It must be so warm and nice on a beach like that. It’s Paradise!
With my eyes on the island – Paradise, I order the third glass of vodka, and suddenly my stomach punches me hard. I’m afraid it’s time to eat, so I ask the bartender to put some tomato juice in the fourth glass and point with a finger to the poster:
“Blessed are the people who live there. I envy them. A beach like that is… stronger than a hot air balloon ride.”
The bartender, in his twenties, smiles, shrugs, and goes about his business. The exceptional girls on my right ordered coffees. The smell of fresh coffee conquers the entire room. I like it.
It’s very warm and nice in this bar. Almost as warm and nice as on the island in the poster. I’m getting sleepy. I want to laze around like those people, in loungers, on the island with fine sand.
Maybe I should order a coffee while waiting for a travel idea. Today, I’m leaving, whatever happens! I’m not delaying a second longer.
I wonder what it’s like in Dubai now? I wonder, like, imagine, to be warm all the time, to bask in the sun all day. Isn’t it true that the winters here kill any desire to live?
I really don’t know much about Dubai,” he calmly replies, “but I was in Thailand a year ago, and I assure you it was a very… hot experience.”
He smiles with all his teeth and winks at me.
“Are you gay?” I ask him directly.
“No,” he looks surprised. “Not at all.”
“You made eyes at me.”
“Oh,” he laughs, “was that it? I made eyes because I had the chance to meet a lot of cute girls on the beach in Phuket. That’s why.”
I realize I’m getting drunk because I’m now sitting next to this stranger and blabbering nonsense. When I start babbling, that’s the first warning sign: babbling.
The second sign is that my knees get weak. Finally, the grand finale, dizziness and, of course, headaches. All in one package.
I must give up today in the end. I’m a serious man and I have work to do: I have to leave.
On the other hand, I admit it’s nice to be drunk. There are advantages. You can strike up conversations more easily.
In general, I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone. If I were sober, I wouldn’t even think about engaging with a faggot who denies he’s a faggot.
The bartender explains again how much he liked the cute girls in Thailand, but I’ve already crossed him off the list. Insisting that he likes girls, he only convinces me even more that he’s gay.
“What about Dubai, what about Thailand,” he wipes a glass carefully. “Probably the climate is the same. Still, in Thailand, there are no restrictions on alcohol consumption. Alcohol is banned in most Arab countries.”
I look at the empty glass and realize that the gay guy is right. The idea of being chased through the streets of Dubai by an angry mob of Arabs doesn’t appeal to me.
On the other hand, Dubai is much closer than Thailand. It’s just a stone’s throw away. I think. I’m not sure. I’ll check the map.
So, if I stop drinking, I could still go to Dubai. I’ll save time and money. I wonder what Arab chicks look like?
“Give me another one,” I say thoughtfully.
Glass number five lands neatly in front of me, and the guy continues:
“Yes, if I were to choose again today, I would still choose Thailand.”
Wow! What’s this? Is it a sign from God? The poster with that beautiful beach in the Pacific, the bartender’s swagger, everything… What’s happening here? Is this the hand of God?
I look him straight in the eyes and ask calmly:
“And how did you get there? Not that I’m particularly interested, but just as an idea.”
“I got there like everyone else. By plane. The flight lasted about seventeen hours, then we made a quick stop in Shanghai, just enough to refuel, then flew again to Chiang Mai, their main airport. Ah, Thailand! What a country, what places! I stayed there for only about ten days. Unfortunately. But I would repeat the experience anytime.”
“So why don’t you repeat it?”
“I don’t have a sponsor anymore,” he laughs. “I didn’t pay for that trip. You didn’t think I paid for it, did you? Just the round-trip ticket alone is about three thousand dollars.”
“That’s right,” I say slowly. “What a fool I am! Just the ticket is three thousand bucks. Any sucker knows that. What a thing, man! ‘I like you. Come on, pour me another glass.”
The bartender hesitates. It seems like he’s trying to act crazy now! Right now? Just when I’ve warmed up? If he insists, I’m really not going to like it.
“I can’t serve you anymore,” he decides, shrugging. “I’m sorry!”
Damn you! You seemed like a smarter guy, but you’re just rude, and you’ve just lost your tip with that two-bit attitude.
“I’ve had a lot to drink, right?” I ask, weighing each word carefully. “Can’t you see I’m sober? Look at me: I can speak normally if I pronounce each word slowly and carefully. I’ve had a few drinks too, there…”
“You haven’t had too much to drink, but you’ve had enough. I’m sorry, it’s company policy.”
I piss on your company policy and on you and your mother and… does he have a cat?
Anyway. You’re not sorry, you weirdo! It’s obvious you’re not. I bet you’re laughing at me inside.
Do you know who I am? You have no idea who you’re messing with. I’m dangerous. Today, because of me, a guy almost flew off the eleventh floor. How about I stand up, grab a chair, and smash that damn showcase and all the shelves with bottles? I bet the alcohol would spread all the way out to the door.
“Come on, be a good guy. One more drink and I’ll leave. For the sake of our friendship. What’s your name?”
The guy carefully polishes the mirror, without haste, as if that were his only purpose in life.
Are you playing deaf, huh? Is that it? You’re playing deaf with me?
Woe unto you! I think you skipped your chemistry classes. You have no idea how flammable alcohol is. After I smash all the whiskey bottles in this damn store, I’ll light a cigarette right under that sign that says smoking is prohibited.
And then, I’ll throw the match at your feet.
Exactly. I can already imagine tomorrow’s headlines.
“SHOCKING!
A gay bartender and two girls with nose rings burned alive yesterday morning in a local bar.
It seems the perpetrator managed to escape to Dubai. Or Thailand. Or Dubai.
The police are powerless in this case.
We’ll have more details in tomorrow’s edition!”
Yes, that’s exactly what’s going to happen if I don’t get my drink.
The bartender looks at me with a displeased face and – thank the Lord! – pours me another small vodka.
Blessed peacemakers! Peace is restored in the bar. The girls are saved. The bartender’s ass is saved!
“I knew you were a good guy,” I say. “Look, I’m peaceful. I’ll drink and leave. You can’t force love. Yes! I’ll pay and that’s it. I’m leaving! I’m leaving right now…”
At least I’ll try.
“You shouldn’t have drunk so much,” the guy tells me as he helps me get up from the floor.
I look at him surprised. The tile is cold and it’s not healthy to stay in this position for too long.
“Do you know of a currency exchange nearby?”
The man takes the hundred-dollar bill from my hand, exchanges it, and gives me the change. I hope he respected the exchange rate.
He leads me outside, slowly, step by step.
“Shall I hail a taxi for you?”
“Umm… yes, please. You’re a smart guy. I hope you kept your own tip.“
* * *
A minute later, I collapse like a rag doll on the back seat of the taxi. Inside, there’s a strong scent of air freshener. I think it’s something with a fir essence. December, you know.
“What’s that?” I quickly say. “A hotel? Wait for me here. Right here! I’ll try to get a room in this hotel, but don’t leave yet. Here, take some money.”
The hotel feels very familiar, I know it well. I’ve passed by it thousands of times in my life, but I never thought I’d see what it looks like inside.
Actually, I don’t even get the chance to see what it looks like inside. The guys at the reception claim I’m too drunk. What?
I curse as I step outside, landing on my stomach (December, you know!), but I get up the next second. The fall and the cold air wake me up.
I get back into the car and critically eye the meter flashing mockingly. The fare keeps rising, my patience dwindling.
“What pigs! Fuck! Take me to another hotel. The nearest one.”
I grumble subtly, and now the car no longer smells like fir needles. I stretch out on the back seat. The car drives smoothly, and I kind of like being rocked, but I don’t have time to doze off before we stop at another hotel.
Another hotel, same story.
“You diploma-wielding idiots!” I mutter as I sprawl out on the seat again.
I give up looking at the meter. The driver is silent but cracks his window open a bit. The draft is cold. Is he dim or what?
At the third hotel, the receptionist and the entrance guard almost get into a fight with me. I avoid a beating but leave them with two fewer buttons. I glare at the meter with the eyes of a criminal and sink into silence.
“So, where to now?” the cabbie asks with a serene face.
Yeah, right, ass hole! You look serene, sure! You probably think you’ll just drive me from one hotel to another all day and make your earnings off me. Well, it’s not going to happen!
Now I can easily imagine what hell looks like. Hell is a place where a damned cabbie with a serene face drives you around parking lots and hotels, and at the end of the day tells you how much it costs.
They’re in cahoots, I bet. You’re all in it together, you bastards! In this town, hotel receptionists and cab drivers are in cahoots, and at the end of the day, they count their earnings twice.
“I don’t know where else to go,” I say. “Let me think for a bit.”
“Okay, buddy. It’s your money.”
“Do you understand any of this hotel nonsense? I keep trying to give them my money, and they act like lunatics. When I think that I’ve lived my whole life in this town, it makes me go crazy! Two-bit hotels…”
“Well, if you’re from here, why don’t we go to your place?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I sold my apartment today for sixty-one… uhh… whatever.”
“Ah, I see,” he says. He looks thoughtful, sighs, and says consolingly, “I think I know a smaller hotel, with more… relaxed pretensions. Want me to take you there?”
How could I refuse? The man is my savior! Long live the cabbies!
The car starts, I sink into the soft seat, and I probably fall asleep. I dream I’m in Dubai or Thailand on a sunny beach. I’m sitting on a sun lounger, sipping from a glass with a straw, and reading a newspaper. On the front page, in bold letters:
“HORRIBLE!
The sadistic cabbie strikes again!
The beast robbed his customer, who had just sold his apartment, then sold him to organ traffickers who extracted both kidneys!
Continued on page 2.”
“Oh my God, Jesus! Heeelp!”
I sit up screaming, banging my head on the taxi’s ceiling, and almost fall back asleep. The driver slams on the brakes. The car squeaks from all its joints. This time, my head sinks into the front seat.
The cabbie turns to me with wide eyes.
“Are you insane?” he shouts, spitting as he talks. “Why are you screaming out of nowhere like that? You want to kiss a tree? Damn it! This is what I get for picking up all you wretches.”
I massage my temples and forehead, shake my head, and realize that even the last molecule of alcohol has vanished from my brain.
“I dreamed, man, stop yelling like that, my head hurts. Uhh… turn the car around. Let’s look for other hotels.”
“No way, I’m not turning the car around. I’m not turning anything! Pay up now and get the hell out of here!”
I take out the money and pay him. I notice he calms down a bit, and I feel like I got off easy. And suddenly, the best idea I’ve ever had in my life hits me.
“I… I found one,” I stutter.
“What?”
“I know exactly where we’re going. Turn the car around, please.”
“Where are we going?”
“Don’t you get it? Take me to the airport. I’m going to Dubai!”
“To Dubai?”
“Or to Thailand… I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.”
The driver crosses himself, but I feel like I’ve won. The engine starts, and my journey to Dubai begins.
Or Thailand… damn it!
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