XI. Dave Learns a Secret
In the last episode, Dave Devoran met his new boss and was fired. What follows is Episode XI.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
God Hungarians drive me crazy. I come over here to teach them about capitalism. I give them the opportunity to emulate a real American businessman in action. I even show them how to wear pin‑stripes, instead of the multi‑colored Euro‑suits that these misguided souls seem to think are so fashionable. And do I get a thank you? Do I get a pay raise or a promotion? Do I get people coming to me saying: "Dave, you are truly a free‑market ambassador. Teach me how to do what you do, so I can afford to buy lots of Levis?" No, I don't get any of that. I get fired.
At least my backwards, brainless former‑communist former boss thinks he's fired me, but I haven't played my trump card yet. I'm going to call Dad. He's got blackmail on the owner of HungaroAmerTechImpexConsult Kft., and he's going to make sure they give me my job back. After 20 minutes of dialing on this stupid, Hungarian phone line—these people can't get anything right—I finally hear an American ring on the other end.
"Dad? It's me, Dave."
"Who?"
"Dave. Your son, Dave."
"Oh hi Dave. How's things in Bucharest?"
"I'm actually in Budapest Dad, but that's not important. Listen, they're not holding up their end of the bargain at HungaroAmerTechImpexConsult. They don't want to let me have a job. Don't you know some uh, secrets about the guy who owns the company—Mr. Whatsisname in Cleveland.?"
There is a long pause on the other end. "Dad are you there?" I call out.
"Yes son I'm here," he says finally. Sometimes a few of Dad's synapses seem to misfire and he can fade out that way. "I know who your talking about," he continues. "David Katona in Cleveland."
"Yeah Dad, that's the guy. Can't you get him to give me my job back?"
"Hmm, well, I suppose I could give him a call. ... Wouldn't you rather just speak with your mother?"
"This is kind of urgent Dad. They haven't even given me my paycheck for my first month's work. Just tell Mom I love her and call this Katona guy, could you?"
"Um ... OK son. If that's what you want."
Dad's really a swell guy. He taught me everything I know about being a cut‑throat negotiator. When I set up a Kool‑Aid stand at the age of eight, he lent me money to buy the Kool‑Aid and charged me 20 percent interest. I only made six pennies profit for two days of hard‑core selling, but I learned a lot about business thanks to good old Dad. The only trouble is, he does get a little foggy‑headed sometimes. I spend an anxious half hour wondering if he's forgotten my phone number, or that he has to call me, or that he has a son. Finally the phone rings.
"Hello. Is Dave there?"
"Yes. It's me Dad. What did Katona say?"
"Well uh ..."
"Dad, you're fading. Concentrate—please. You can do it. One word at a time. Just tell me what Katona said about my job."
"Don't be so sarcastic son. I'm going to tell you. It's just a little difficult that's all. You see, um, he said he didn't want me to be pressuring him anymore so I should just tell the world his secret and leave him alone."
"Oh that's great. Typical Hungarian. You can't even count on 'em to handle blackmail situations with any kind of business sense. I guess that means I'm out of a job?"
"I suppose so son. But listen, maybe I should tell what David Katona's big secret is."
"When he said tell the world, Dad, I don't think he was talking about me."
"Now, you might as well know. I mean after all, you're the one who lost a job. But uh ... maybe you should get your mother to tell you."
"No really, Dad. It's not important ..."
"Alright. I'll tell you myself. You see, David Katona and his wife left Hungary in 1956. They worked their way across Europe and eventually made it to the States about 10 years later. But when they got here, they barely had enough money to take care of themselves and their new baby. I met David Katona at the time, and told him I'd give him a job if he worked for less than minimum wage—what with him being a refugee and all. He told me he couldn't live on such a small salary and that a chemical engineer should earn more anyway. That would have been the end of my dealings with him if your soft‑hearted mother—you know how she is—hadn't been visiting my office and seen Mrs. Katona and her baby. At the time, your mom and I were without children, and we weren't sure if we'd ever have any. She held Mrs. Katona's baby in her arms and told me that we had to do something to help the little darling, so I did. I offered the Katona's $10,000 cash for the baby—that was a lot of money back in the 60s—and promised it a good home. They were so desperate and worried about the child's welfare that they took the deal. So that's how you were, well, born—at least as far as we were concerned. But I want you to know son: Even though sometimes I felt like a sucker, over the years I've decided that I've probably been involved in worse deals than the one I did with the Katonas—I think."
"Whu ...? So uh ... You ... uh ...?"
"Son. You're fading. Concentrate."
"You bought me? I'm really the son of a couple of paprika‑eating financially disadvantaged Hungarian refugees?"
"Well, actually, the Katonas weren't financially strapped for too long. In fact they offered to buy you back later, at 10 times the price. I was ready to take the profit, but your mother had grown attatched to you and said that a 12‑year‑old would have a hard time understanding that sort of business, so we had to squelch the deal."
"But Dad! This ... this means that I'm Hungarian!"
"Why yes son, I suppose it does."