the facade
02-18-2011, 09:53 AM
An Incident Outside a Hostel
They stepped out to smoke a cigarette outside the hostel. It was dark, the wind tore hard at their hair and it felt cool after the stuffy artificial heat of the hostel.
"Mate, we must go this one spot, ey, they got these wicked flamethrowers inside".
"That doesn't sound too safe".
"Berlin isn't safe!"
"Sounds ****ing awesome if you ask me", someone else said.
They were a group of five, all of whom had met only three hours earlier over a beer; or beers. One was Swedish, the other American, and three were Australian.
A voice outside the group staggered through a sentence in English. The owner of the voice stood behind one of the Aussies. He clapped his forehead theatrically and the bleached dreadlocks swung over the bare sides of his head that had been shaved in typically German style.
"****! Gregorz, How do you say 'can you give me' in English?", he demanded from his companion in Polish. As he stretched out his arm with the request, his belly unwound under a stained shirt.
"Can you give…", the friend said, his face dimmed by the visor of his cap.
The other one turned back to the group, "Can you give cigarette?".
The American drew two cigarettes from his pack, walked over to the strangers and handed them the cigarettes.
"Here you go", he said in Polish, the words struggling to take form on the edge of his tongue.
"Ah, you are Polish", the one with the dreadlocks said. As he stepped into the yellowy light of the lamp post, smiling, one could notice a set of decaying teeth. He wore a black shirt and a matching leather vest on top. His pants were torn in places but his boots were in surprisingly good shape. A backpack sunk into his back like a snail's shell.
"Yes, my parents are Polish but we live in America".
"And your parents taught you Polish?".
"Yes. Where are you from?"
"Wrozlaw. But I haven't been to Poland in five years. I've been to London, Budapest, Prague, Copenhagen – that's where I picked her up", he pointed at the big German shepherd that paced around nervously. He looked at her and said, "My love - she gets excited when I drink".
The rest of the group approached the dog and played with her. She calmed down. Gregorz spoke to the others, piecing together the broken English with the glue of hand gestures.
"What's your name?", the American asked.
"Alexander, yourself?".
"Peter".
"Peter? You mean –Piotr".
"Yes, my mother still calls me Piotr".
"Peter, I didn't know you spoke Polish", one of the Aussies said.
"Yeah".
"Berlin is amazing, right?", Alexander interrupted, "the alcohol is cheap. We drink, have a good time, sometimes we find the pleasures of women. You see Gregorz over there? He's drunk himself blind". The end of his lip skewed into a smile Peter couldn't quite interpret.
Peter looked over at Gregorz and noticed a big, sickly blue, bruise under his right eye. The eye seemed lazy. He turned back to Alexander who did not try to disguise his swaying and, leaning forward, much of the distance between them now closed, locked his eyes into his. He stunk terribly.
Betraying him, Peter felt his body taking a step aside.
"You don't miss Poland? Zobrovka is a hell of a vodka", Peter said. Alexander gave out a big bellow of a laugh that came from deep within the pit of his stomach and carried with it years of bodily abuse which attacked his lungs violently.
"Yes it's fantastic vodka! But it's sneaky – you take one sip, you're feeling good, another, and another , still tastes good, and suddenly BAM!", he slapped his face hard, "you're on the floor".
Peter laughed.
Alexander raised a bottle of beer to his mouth and drank.
"But I definitely don't miss Poland. Things are terrible there. You are lucky that your parents left".
"I hear there was bad flooding".
"Sure. The president died in that plane crash, but it wasn't better when we had one either. No work. No nothing. Only Zobrovka".
"So what do you do?".
"What can you do? You leave", he brought out his hand which had a cup in it, shook it which made a faint clanking sound. "You beg. We - me and Gregorz – are just heading over to the square to ask for some money. But Germans are good, they spare some money".
Alexander could work, Peter thought to himself, if he wanted to. Sure, he had some rotten teeth but he seemed strong enough. Then he caught himself thinking these thoughts and felt embarrassed.
"We live in the squats in Kreuzberg".
"The what?"
"Squats. There are groups of people living in these houses for free. If they like you, they can vote you in. Berlin is the greatest city in the world. ****ing Punk-Rock!".
"Yeah it's pretty great".
They exhaled the smoke, both grinning.
"So what do you do back home?", Alexander asked.
"Oh, I'm a student".
"That's good. Studying is good. You don't get stuck begging. Usually".
Again, he raised the cup and stirred the few coins into movement. They reluctantly abided, roaming around the cup, smashing against the confines, smashing against each other. They gave out yelps of pain.
"Alright Peter, we're gonna get heading to the club".
"Ah, you are leaving Piotr?".
"Yes, we are going out".
"With these guys?".
"Yeah".
"Have you know them long?".
"No, I just met them at the hostel a few hours ago".
"I see".
"It was really nice meeting you".
"Likewise. Always good meeting a good Pole".
They shook hands firmly.
"Send my regards to your parents. Tell them they raised you well. You are not ashamed of being Polish".
"Thank you. I will definitely do that".
They had a long look at each other. Alexander was still rocking slightly.
"Well, good-bye then".
They began walking towards the club.
"I hear there are so many fine chicks there, ey? I met this Aussie chick at the hostel – Stef – chatted her up a bit. Says she's gonna be there".
"Is this the club with the flamethrower?".
"Yeah!"
"Let's get some more beers".
"Has anyone got a lighter?".
"Piotr!".
Peter turned around.
"Be sure to tell your parents that they raised you well!", Alexander shouted behind them.
Peter smiled, waved, and said: "Will do!".
"You are not ashamed of your landsmen!".
"I love Poles", he shouted back.
"They raised you well!".
Peter turned back, picked up his pace and returned to the group.
"I gotta get some rolling paper for my tobacco".
"Why don't you just ****ing smoke already rolled cigarettes?".
"Yeah, seriously. I see people with their rolling tobacco, standing on the dance floor and struggling to make a ****ing cigarette. And they carry on dancing and just ****ing look ridiculous".
"Listen Peter, I got this friend back in Stockholm who looks like…"
Peter was fully conscious as he fell to the ground. He had felt impact on the back of his head, followed by a thud. It was as if his body had just lost all its sap and simply collapsed. As his head smashed against the ground, he saw the street light reflecting off of the green shattered pieces of glass that danced on the pavement and then came to a rest. A thick red pool, almost black even, started forming around him and he couldn't help to think how beautifully his blood mixed with the green glass. Then it went dark.
They stepped out to smoke a cigarette outside the hostel. It was dark, the wind tore hard at their hair and it felt cool after the stuffy artificial heat of the hostel.
"Mate, we must go this one spot, ey, they got these wicked flamethrowers inside".
"That doesn't sound too safe".
"Berlin isn't safe!"
"Sounds ****ing awesome if you ask me", someone else said.
They were a group of five, all of whom had met only three hours earlier over a beer; or beers. One was Swedish, the other American, and three were Australian.
A voice outside the group staggered through a sentence in English. The owner of the voice stood behind one of the Aussies. He clapped his forehead theatrically and the bleached dreadlocks swung over the bare sides of his head that had been shaved in typically German style.
"****! Gregorz, How do you say 'can you give me' in English?", he demanded from his companion in Polish. As he stretched out his arm with the request, his belly unwound under a stained shirt.
"Can you give…", the friend said, his face dimmed by the visor of his cap.
The other one turned back to the group, "Can you give cigarette?".
The American drew two cigarettes from his pack, walked over to the strangers and handed them the cigarettes.
"Here you go", he said in Polish, the words struggling to take form on the edge of his tongue.
"Ah, you are Polish", the one with the dreadlocks said. As he stepped into the yellowy light of the lamp post, smiling, one could notice a set of decaying teeth. He wore a black shirt and a matching leather vest on top. His pants were torn in places but his boots were in surprisingly good shape. A backpack sunk into his back like a snail's shell.
"Yes, my parents are Polish but we live in America".
"And your parents taught you Polish?".
"Yes. Where are you from?"
"Wrozlaw. But I haven't been to Poland in five years. I've been to London, Budapest, Prague, Copenhagen – that's where I picked her up", he pointed at the big German shepherd that paced around nervously. He looked at her and said, "My love - she gets excited when I drink".
The rest of the group approached the dog and played with her. She calmed down. Gregorz spoke to the others, piecing together the broken English with the glue of hand gestures.
"What's your name?", the American asked.
"Alexander, yourself?".
"Peter".
"Peter? You mean –Piotr".
"Yes, my mother still calls me Piotr".
"Peter, I didn't know you spoke Polish", one of the Aussies said.
"Yeah".
"Berlin is amazing, right?", Alexander interrupted, "the alcohol is cheap. We drink, have a good time, sometimes we find the pleasures of women. You see Gregorz over there? He's drunk himself blind". The end of his lip skewed into a smile Peter couldn't quite interpret.
Peter looked over at Gregorz and noticed a big, sickly blue, bruise under his right eye. The eye seemed lazy. He turned back to Alexander who did not try to disguise his swaying and, leaning forward, much of the distance between them now closed, locked his eyes into his. He stunk terribly.
Betraying him, Peter felt his body taking a step aside.
"You don't miss Poland? Zobrovka is a hell of a vodka", Peter said. Alexander gave out a big bellow of a laugh that came from deep within the pit of his stomach and carried with it years of bodily abuse which attacked his lungs violently.
"Yes it's fantastic vodka! But it's sneaky – you take one sip, you're feeling good, another, and another , still tastes good, and suddenly BAM!", he slapped his face hard, "you're on the floor".
Peter laughed.
Alexander raised a bottle of beer to his mouth and drank.
"But I definitely don't miss Poland. Things are terrible there. You are lucky that your parents left".
"I hear there was bad flooding".
"Sure. The president died in that plane crash, but it wasn't better when we had one either. No work. No nothing. Only Zobrovka".
"So what do you do?".
"What can you do? You leave", he brought out his hand which had a cup in it, shook it which made a faint clanking sound. "You beg. We - me and Gregorz – are just heading over to the square to ask for some money. But Germans are good, they spare some money".
Alexander could work, Peter thought to himself, if he wanted to. Sure, he had some rotten teeth but he seemed strong enough. Then he caught himself thinking these thoughts and felt embarrassed.
"We live in the squats in Kreuzberg".
"The what?"
"Squats. There are groups of people living in these houses for free. If they like you, they can vote you in. Berlin is the greatest city in the world. ****ing Punk-Rock!".
"Yeah it's pretty great".
They exhaled the smoke, both grinning.
"So what do you do back home?", Alexander asked.
"Oh, I'm a student".
"That's good. Studying is good. You don't get stuck begging. Usually".
Again, he raised the cup and stirred the few coins into movement. They reluctantly abided, roaming around the cup, smashing against the confines, smashing against each other. They gave out yelps of pain.
"Alright Peter, we're gonna get heading to the club".
"Ah, you are leaving Piotr?".
"Yes, we are going out".
"With these guys?".
"Yeah".
"Have you know them long?".
"No, I just met them at the hostel a few hours ago".
"I see".
"It was really nice meeting you".
"Likewise. Always good meeting a good Pole".
They shook hands firmly.
"Send my regards to your parents. Tell them they raised you well. You are not ashamed of being Polish".
"Thank you. I will definitely do that".
They had a long look at each other. Alexander was still rocking slightly.
"Well, good-bye then".
They began walking towards the club.
"I hear there are so many fine chicks there, ey? I met this Aussie chick at the hostel – Stef – chatted her up a bit. Says she's gonna be there".
"Is this the club with the flamethrower?".
"Yeah!"
"Let's get some more beers".
"Has anyone got a lighter?".
"Piotr!".
Peter turned around.
"Be sure to tell your parents that they raised you well!", Alexander shouted behind them.
Peter smiled, waved, and said: "Will do!".
"You are not ashamed of your landsmen!".
"I love Poles", he shouted back.
"They raised you well!".
Peter turned back, picked up his pace and returned to the group.
"I gotta get some rolling paper for my tobacco".
"Why don't you just ****ing smoke already rolled cigarettes?".
"Yeah, seriously. I see people with their rolling tobacco, standing on the dance floor and struggling to make a ****ing cigarette. And they carry on dancing and just ****ing look ridiculous".
"Listen Peter, I got this friend back in Stockholm who looks like…"
Peter was fully conscious as he fell to the ground. He had felt impact on the back of his head, followed by a thud. It was as if his body had just lost all its sap and simply collapsed. As his head smashed against the ground, he saw the street light reflecting off of the green shattered pieces of glass that danced on the pavement and then came to a rest. A thick red pool, almost black even, started forming around him and he couldn't help to think how beautifully his blood mixed with the green glass. Then it went dark.