II. Dave the Dude Tackles Office Idiocy
This series began last week, when Dave Devoran, also known as Dave the Dude, free‑market ambassador, got his first job in Budapest. What follows is Episode II.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
Coming back from recess in the third grade, my pants — a stupid pair of tan corduroys my mother bought — get caught on the edge of someone’s seat and rip half‑way down the leg. All my classmates laugh with hysterical abandon at my misfortune and Robby Dennis screams out: “Lookit, Dopie Devoran’s got dirty underwear!” I lift the cover of my third‑grade‑issue flip‑up desk, take out a sawed‑off shotgun and splatter Dennis’s brains all over the cardboard skeleton hung on the wall for Halloween. Dead silence. Mrs. Pendant — the teacher whose miniskirts barely covered her torso — tries to speak but no words come. Finally, still staring at my ripped trousers, she says “David, you’re very mature for your age. I must see you in the boy’s, er, men’s room at once.”
Some of this really happened. The rest I made up. This memory, and its embellishments, pop into my head while I daydream in an empty office at HungaroAmerTechImpexConsult Kft. I have lots of time to think about my life here. I’m told I’ll meet my boss, a man with a strange name, in about a month. Until then I must rely on my agile mind to keep myself occupied.
The only other distractions I have here are an egghead and a conehead. Mr. Szeged (or Szegedur—pronounced “egghead whore”) is an ugly, pockmarked guy in a shiny suit with a few gray hairs combed up from the back of his head and plastered forward to make us think he isn't bald. He comes into my office on my second day of staring at the dirty wood paneling and 1949 tool‑and‑die calendar that make up the decor in this cozy den of inactivity. Says he just wants to borrow a box of paper clips. Five minutes later, a woman with a brutal beehive hairdo, obviously designed by communists as a way of protecting citizens from nuclear attack, storms in and says: “Office control. Show me your surprise!”
I instinctively reach for my fly, but then begin to wonder why this reject from a bad '50s Sci‑Fi movie deserves such good treatment. I've got questions, but her answers are confusing. I finally figure out that she has an accent as thick as her hair and she'll leave me alone if I let her see some “supplies.” She digs around the ugly furniture, checks the serial number on the calendar, opens my desk drawer and screams in a voice that peels the paneling: “Paper clips! Vere is your box of paper clips!”
“Is that a finger or a stick of kolbasz you're pointing at me?” I want to ask her, but instead I turn on the charm. “That jerk down the hall took 'em lady. Go bother the Egghead.”
“Zis is not my problem! You must fill out this form explaining the use of the paper clips and return it to me.”
Yeah right. Six pages of bureaucracy in a language that isn’t even English. Dave the Dude doesn’t put up with this kind of crap. I’m here to promote the free market. I would have voted for Reagan if I was old enough. I decide to have a chat with Egghead. Turns out he's not as easy to crack as his name suggests. I track him down in some hole down the hall, but he jumps up and blocks the door to his office. Time for treachery.
“My God, you've got a dead rabbit on the floor!” I spit out.
In the half second when his head is turned, I duck under his armpit and dive toward his desk, but he slams the drawer shut before I can pull it half‑way out. Pretty quick for a chubby old guy. I flash a coy grin, make like I was just leaping in for a quick visit and say, “Helloooo, Egghead. Listen. I was just wondering if I could borrow back those uh, paper ...
“Never!” he screams, shaking. Giant red blotches form on his face. Sweat from the top of his head follows the precious strands of combed‑over hair and drip down to his brow. “I mean, I do not know what you are talking about. Heh, heh. There are no paper clips here.”
“Hey. OK,” I shrug—cool as winter walk along the Danube. “I must be mistaken. I'll just be heading back to my office.”
Egghead is all smiles and nods, standing guard over his desk as I back out of his office. This is where I pull off my coup. I snatch the little plastic trash can in the corner of his office and bolt down the hall. He charges after me screaming “Wait! That is my office supply!”
He's fast, but before he can close in, the beehive storms around the corner. I breeze past her as she screams “Where is the form?” Then I hear behind my back: “Egghead Whore! Office control!”
There is a high‑pitched shriek and the sound of someone collapsing.
Next week: Domestic strife in a foreign land. >>>