VI. Dave the Dude's Tour
In the last episode, Dave Devoran, also known as Dave the Dude, free‑market ambassador, was asked in a rude way to leave a Budapest night spot. What follows is Episode VI.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
I suppose that if you take a quick glance at Matthew’s existence—with his perfect haircut, his expensive‑yet‑casual yellow and white rugby shirt and his slightly‑faded‑but‑still‑new‑looking jeans—you might think he is successful. Sure, at age 27 he’s already earning a sinfully high salary as lawyer specializing in corporate takeovers. Sure, he owns a co‑op in Manhattan and a house on Long Island. Sure, his intelligent, sensitive and fashion‑magazine‑beautiful wife is a do‑gooding public defender with a perfect pair of legs and a flawless set of morals. Sure, I wouldn't mind being in his $170 “urban jungle” shoes—or his king‑size bed—for a while.
But it’s all on the surface with Matthew. My kind of success is much deeper and less tangible.
I’m self‑made: I practically paid for half of my college. Dad only shelled out for my room, board living expenses and tuition, and gave me a lousy $300 a month for party money. If I hadn’t grunted through six‑hour shifts as a waiter at the country club every summer, I never would have been able to join my fellow students for the two‑week, spring‑break parties in St. Croix. I’d like to see Matthew sweat that kind of heat: being nice to 10 tables worth of whining old farts while your arms are practically breaking from carrying huge trays of starchy, over‑priced food. Besides, Matthew took the tired old route of college, law school, big money. I’m bold enough to ride the untried highway that passes through Hungary’s wolf‑infested free market on the way to a capitalist’s wet dream of unlimited credit and mega bank accountage.
So I’m not going to grovel as I eyeball his condescending nostrils and show him and Jennie around Budapest—my turf. They’re just passing through on their expensive European vacation, but I’ve been living here for at least a month and a half. As soon as I meet them on Váci utca, Matthew’s superiority complex kicks in.
“Nice shades Dave. Where’d you get the shiner?” he says.
Fine, so the sunglasses don’t hide my black eye. Maybe I’m just wearing shades because it’s sunny. Who asked what he thinks anyway? I explain that I was on one of Budapest’s maniacal stop‑and‑go trolley buses and I fell when the driver jammed on the brakes. The truth is I was attacked by disco bouncers while trying to save a young woman’s life, but Matthew wouldn’t understand that kind of selflessness.
The first stop on our tour is the Castle District. It’s such a wonderful day that Matthew and Jennie insist on walking. Fine for them. They didn’t get roughed up by a gang last night, or have to limp home after finding they’d spent all their money in the club. This day will be hell on my body, and what’s worse, I’ll go through it with Matthew. I’m stuck playing host just because I shared a dorm room with his brother Robert, whom I hate. Somehow Robert finds out I’m in Budapest, so Matthew feels compelled to look me up when he’s in town. I want to tell him that I wouldn’t have been offended if I never saw him, but if he can do this phony polite routine so can I.
“It must be really inexpensive to live here,” Matthew says, in the sincere, friendly tone that snakes are born with and law students spend years perfecting.
“Why yes! You pay more per week for hair‑style maintenance than the average Hungarian earns in six months,” I want to tell him. But I'm not petty. “Oh definitely,” I say in a straight voice. “My standard of living here is quite good.”
We arrive at the Buda side of the bridge and Matthew and Jennie mercifully agree to ride the funicular instead of making me walk up the hill. He describes the ride as hokey. She calls it “quaint.” I shrug defensively and shake my head in silent agreement. When we reach the top, Matthew takes one look around and says Budapest’s Castle District is not as nice as Prague’s. “Yeah. It doesn't look as old,” says Jennie, with a tone that suggests I'm responsible for the unforgivable newness she is looking at. “Well,” I explain, “Much of Budapest was bombed during World War II, so a lot of this has been restored.”
Then it suddenly occurs to me exactly what I’m doing: I’m trying to defend Budapest. Hell, this place is run‑down, ugly and unsophisticated, and I’m usually the first one to say so. I came to make things better and get rich while I do it. If everything was fine here, there’d be no point. Only Matthew could make me embarrased about a mess which isn’t even my fault. Enough of this idiocy. I will not be humble, and I will not put up with this hangover any longer.
“Wait here,” I tell them outside an over‑priced grocery store near Mathias Church. “I'm gonna get you guys the best beer you ever had.” I run in and grab three Drehers—one of the few good products they sell in Hungary. When I walk out, this fat, red‑faced guy, with a wife who could be his twin if she wasn’t balding faster than he was, blocks my path.
“Wie viel? How much?” he says, pointing at my beer. I step around him, but he gets in my way again. “Ich wille kaufen. I vill buy zis b‑e‑e‑e‑r fom you,” he says.
“Get lost Pop! Buy your own damn brew.”
“Ohhh! Goood!” he snarls in a perky sort of way. “You are speaking English. Vere did you learn? In die schule hier?”
I bolt past this deranged tourist and he chases me for a few steps, waving an assortment of foreign currency, before giving up.
“Hey. That guy thought you were a Hungarian beer vendor,” observes Jennie, who despite her sexy appearance is beginning to bug me.
“Whoa fella,” says Matthew, laughing. “You’re starting to look like a local. You’re gonna have to get yourself some new clothes.”
I calm myself by imagining a tractor trailor running over Matthew’s head, making his brains squirt all over the pavement. “Isn’t that funny,” I say in a painfully polite voice. “Well. Let’s walk down by the castle, shall we?”
They follow, giggling.