IV. Dave the Dude Goes Drinking
In the last episode, a man was beaten and stabbed in Dave Devoran’s apartment while Dave, a free‑market ambassador, was out. What follows is Episode IV.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
It should be obvious to anyone that General Stormin’ Norman “Eat‑Sand‑and‑like‑it‑Saddam” Schwarzkopf could kick the kolbasz out of Atilla the Hun in a fair fight. I mean, if you took Schwarzkopf and, say the 82nd Airborne Division, and sent them back in a time machine to do battle with Atilla and his Mongrel Hoardes, the good ole Stars and Stripes would have spread over Europe faster than the bubonic plague. Or, if the Huns were zapped into the future, and the Marines could take them on right here in the Puszta, Norm would show ’em what superior strategy and a few Patriot missiles can do. It should be obvious to anyone, but it isn’t to Atilla. Not the Hun of course. I mean the Atilla in the bar.
I’m having a few brews after work at the Budapest Genuine English Billiard Pab (Hungarian’s pronounce that last word as “pub.”) when I meet Atilla and tell him he’s got a whacky label. He says he’s named after the greatest warrior of all time and I try to set him straight. We argue for twenty minutes but the stubborn jerk still doesn’t get it.
Eva, the mildly attractive, red‑headed Hungarian who I was talking to before, and who would obviously give anything to get her hooks into a real American, tries to make peace. “Daaave. Don’t get so upseeet,” she coos. “Maybe Atilla and Stormy Normy were both very good generals.”
What a pathetic woman. Sure it’d be fun to tiptoe through her tonsils and then dump her with the rest of the babes‑who‑wanna‑be‑Dave’s‑slave, but I’m involved in something important right now. If these people can’t be made to understand how pitiful their country is, how are they ever going to make it better? I wave Eva off, but five minutes later my goofy roommate Karl comes up and tells me that maybe I’m getting too excited about something unimportant because I’m drunk.
Like I need a reality check from that airhead. He’s the kind of guy who claims he actually enjoys surrealistic French movies and understands what Picasso was trying to paint. Last night when I get I home I find him and his artsy‑fartsy, black‑turtleneck‑and‑high‑top‑sneakers‑wearing friends have turned over my TV set and, from the smell of the place, one of them probably puked. Then tonight, he gets all excited when he hears that a member of the Hungarian Parliament was near death after being found lying in an alley. This big‑shot politician gets whacked on the head and stabbed in the chest with a putty knife, which I think is hilarious. But Karl is upset at the news and wants to know if anyone’s been arrested for it. Eva reads the paper and all it says is that police suspect the opposition party, which seems to make Karl very happy. Only a space‑case would give a damn about the politics in this Paprika Republic.
So forget that art‑deco fuzz brain, I’ve got my hands full trying to reason with this dopey Atilla guy. At least Atilla is together enough to put on a suit and tie—though I don’t know who told him that plum is a good color for business attire. Finally, I wear him down a little: “OK Dave,” he says. “If you insist, then it must be true that the only thing wrong with the bombing in Bagdad was they didn’t kill that CNN man you call Peter Armpit.”
I accept this as a total admission of defeat and shake his hand. “Atilla,” I say, “Some day you may come from a great country too, though I’m not sure you’ll still be alive then.”
Then Eva says: “You see, all the armies are really the most beautiful at the same time,” and we share this warm, cross‑cultural feeling of good will that makes me want to throw up. That’s why I’m almost relieved when this intense little blithering drunk, wearing a $500 charcoal gray suit and a beautiful silk tie with a beer stain in the center, comes up to us without introduction and starts groping our forearms.
“It’s good to see people ...” he says, and then fades off for a few seconds before rejoining us earthlings. “It’s good to see all people—all the different kinds of people—shaking hands in this good ... good ... You guys are great.”
I know of no meaningful response to this kind of greeting—especially when the person making it drapes himself on the shoulders of the two people with whom he is speaking and drools. Obviously Attila doesn’t have a battery of suitable reactions either, because he just kind of squints at the guy and glances at me. Fortunately, our new friend is able to pick up the thread of what an untrained listener might consider a threadbare conversation.
“It’s like me,” he continues, without allowing the oppressive hand of logic to act as tyrant over his thoughts. “I come from Chile and I sell calamari in cans.” Poking Atilla in the chest, and winking at me, he stutters in a confidential tone: “Hu‑Hu‑Hungarians are going to love this shtuff.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his fancy suit, pulls out a can with a repulsive photograph of something resembling seafood and hands it to me like it was an engagement ring. Then he lets go of our shoulders, throws his arms in the air and delivers the summary he was obviously driving at from the outset: “So you see, it’s like you, English (taps me on the chest) you German (taps Attila) and me—canned calamari!”
At this point, Eva, who’s been speaking with Karl near the bar, has a bout of well‑timed ennui that makes me so grateful I consider her a serious candidate for a dream date with Dave. “C’mon you guys,” she says. “This place is boring. We’re going to the Pince Nez Rock‑a‑Rolla Pizza Klub.”
We tumble out of the bar and dive into a Mercedes taxi: Me, Atilla, Karl and Eva. Just before we pull away, calamari opens the front door and drops into my lap. The cabbie takes one look at this guy’s charcoal suit and starts tapping buttons on the meter like it was a damn typewriter. Our fare has hit Ft 200 before we’ve gone half a block. Calamari smiles all around and then slaps the driver on the back. “This is good, good,” he says. “It’s like, you, taxi driver ...”