V. Dave the Dude Continues Drinking
In the last episode, Dave Devoran, also known as Dave the Dude, free‑market ambassador, went drinking with his roommate and made some friends in the bar. What follows is Episode V.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
I can hear the screaming. I can see the faces: Some, like my own, have eyes that flash terror, others’ eyes are closed—either unconscious or dead. Scores of teenagers shrieking in Hungarian have fallen from a twenty‑foot‑high catwalk onto a crowded dance floor. The pseudo‑’70s strobe lights continue to flash, the disco-flavored house music continues to blare. And masses of people—raised in a country where slamming into your fellow human being as if they didn’t exist is considered polite behavior—writhe about on the floor. Dozens are dead and dozens more die as selfish, panic‑stricken youths try to kick and claw their way out of the pile.
I can see all this as I lean against a cheap railing, probably of communist design and held together by a couple of screws manufactured in turn‑of‑the‑century Bulgaria. The railing runs along the tiny catwalk, which is packed well beyond capacity with scores of drunken teenagers who carom off each other like so many pool balls.
Different details of the imminent death scene flash through my head as I tell Eva that the Hungarian economy will improve once it is totally taken over by outside interests. She can tell I’m a mover and shaker. She is obviously enthralled, because she keeps refusing my offers to dance, preferring instead to bask in my economic wisdom. I would much rather get off this death‑trap of a catwalk, but I don’t say anything—not because I would be embarrassed about Eva thinking I’m afraid of falling. I simply feel it would be wrong to show fear to someone who is my inferior in gender, intellect and culture. So I play it cool, lean against the railing with Eva and continue to charm her with nuggets of information about the world of mega‑finance that someone like her can never hope to comprehend.
“But Dave,” Eva says in an attempt to speak up to my level. “How can other countries help Hungary if there is a worldwide recession?”
Why am I wasting my time talking business with a woman? I try going back to the basics, explaining Adam Smith’s invisible man and that sort of thing. She finally realizes that it’s all too much for a brain that has been curdled by a communist education. She doesn’t want to dance but she will leave the cursed catwalk for a drink.
We squeeze our way across the dance floor, making far too much body contact with smelly, sweaty strangers. And what’s worse, these people are Eurodancing: The men make fists and stiffly swing their bent arms in front of their bellies in a motion that a bad mime might use to symbolize someone walking into the wind. The lower halves of the men’s bodies move in angular jerks, and their butts stick out in a completely soulless fashion. The women hold their arms straight at their sides, swivel their shoulders like a football lineman with a steroid overdose and do this weird stepping motion that makes their heads bob up and down. It has always amazed me that God could create an entire continent without rhythm. And what is even more amazing—and also disgusting to watch—is the way people here flaunt their disabilities without feeling shame. Personally, I’d rather not look at, much less rub against, these tormented individuals.
By the time we reach the bar, I need a drink bad. Fortunately Attila is already ordering and somebody has the idea to do tequila shots. Oh, how exotic. But I’m not complaining I need something strong quick. Just a taste of lemon ... some salt ... and some BLAACHH! They call this crap tequila?! Yet another basic that they can’t get right in Hungary. Sure it goes down like kerosine but it has the desired effect on the head. If someone else is buying, I’ll have another. I look around Atilla’s shoulder to thank our generous benefactor. Oh hell; it’s the calamari guy. Why is he still conscious? I guess he deserves some credit, so I buy a round and he responds by calling me tequila and himself canned seafood.
After the fourth or fifth I feel OK and the stuff almost tastes good. Eva and Attila have disappeared—their loss—and the calamari guy is cleaning up the bar with his lips. I need stimulation so I head toward the dance floor to watch the geek show.
A beautiful young woman wants to dance with me. OK, she looks a little young, and she shakes her head no when I tell her it’s time for her spin with Dave, but I stare into those big brown eyes and I can tell she really wants it. I grab her shoulder and she tries to shrug me off. I can play these games too. My forceful grip and firm, sensuous gaze into her eyes finally convince her. She slowly edges toward the rest of the dancers.
Out on the floor I really cut loose. Maybe I’ve had a bit too much to drink, but I also feel it’s my duty to show these losers what dancing is. My hips are going; my arms are going; my feet are going. The woman is going. She tries to back away from me—the tease—but I follow her, boogying all the way. I can hear the other dancers curse at me as I bump my way across the floor. They better just stay outta my way ’cause I’m a dancin’ maniac.
A strobe light flashes and I see the woman’s face. She looks scared, and a hell of a lot younger than I thought. She’s just a girl. Don’t they check IDs at these places? I figure her first brush with a real man—a real dancin’ man—is more than she can handle, so I’m going to let her slip away. That’s when I realize she’s standing under the catwalk, which is bulging with humanity and sure to give way any second. For God’s sake, this poor little kid is going to get crushed and nobody cares!
I stop dancing, rush up to the girl and try to pull her back. She screams, so I point to the catwalk by way of explanation. I look up again to check if it’s started to fall and something inside me gives. It’s like all the alcohol has been sitting in the front of my brain and when I tilt my head back the drunkenness can pour through my entire mind. I feel myself spin, but somebody catches me. A lot of hands are catching me. I’m moving—no flying—off the floor.
“Stop pushing! I’ll go!” I scream. But of course the thugs don’t speak English. Next thing I know I’m at the door and some huge, fat bouncer in a tuxedo is shaking me by the arm. Out of the corner of my eye I can see another one just like him and then suddenly I see I bright flash and my head hurts really bad. What happens immediately after that is hard to remember.