XIII. Dave Takes a Delivery
Dave "The Dude" Devoran, free‑market ambassador, came from America to Budapest a little more than a month ago to set Hungarians straight and get rich doing it. Since then, Dave has been rejected by women and bouncers, he has been fired from his job before getting a chance to do any work, a member of Parliament has been attacked in his apartment while he was out and he has learned that the people who raised him as a profit‑fearing capitalist where not really his parents. What follows is episode XIII.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
Why do so many people drink beer, even though it tastes bitter? Why does everyone have an irresistable urge to look at the scene of an accident when they drive past it? What makes a person put their finger to a bruise, when they know it will hurt? I need the answers to these questions so I can understand my problem better. Right now, I just can't explain it. Maybe it's a chemical imbalance. Maybe it's because I feel sorry for him. Maybe I have a masochistic streak. Whatever the reason, I feel a strange attraction to Dave "The Dude" Devoran.
I know he's shallow. I know he's vain. I know he's a jerk. My good friend Karl says to me: "Erzsébet, you are a beautiful, intelligent woman and a talented artist. You could have any man you choose. Why would you be interested in my roommate, who is a shallow, vain jerk?"
"Perhaps I have some sort of mothering instinct," I answer with a shrug. "There is something so childish and vulnerable about the ridiculous act that Dave puts on. I ... I don't know what it is."
What makes my problem worse is the way that Dave seems to avoid me. Our first lengthy conversation begins with him telling me I'm a "hot looking piece of tail" and ends with him calling me "a brainiac who thinks too much for a woman." After this, he makes polite small talk whenever I see him, but he tries not to get involved in any deep discussions. This evening, however, when I'm visiting Karl in their apartment, Dave is different.
"Hello Erszébet! It's great to see you! How the hell are you anyway?" He slurs a bit as he speaks and he acts almost too nice. I can tell he's drunk, but he really does seem to want to talk with me.
When I tell him I'm doing OK, he says: "Of course you are. Hungarians are great that way. Everyone says they're too depressed and they complain too much, but that's not true. In spite of all the suffering Hungarians do, even though their country's in the toilet economically and politically, they always keep their spirits up."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Karl asks. "You always tell me that Hungarians are pessimistic and they'll never get anywhere because of their negative attitudes about everything."
"Awww, you didn't really believe that stuff did you?" Says Dave, waving a hand sideways as if to shoo away Karl's foolishness. He's so drunk that this motion throws him off balance. He staggers forward a few steps and leans his elbow against my shoulder to steady himself. Then he suddenly throws his arm around my back and gives me a hard squeeze. I can't keep myself from laughing a little at this.
"You see how happy she is?" says Dave, gently shaking my shoulders as he maintains his grip. "You can't get us Hungarians down. Just you wait. We're gonna show the world what Magyar moxie is all about."
"Us Hungarians? We're gonna show the world?" I chuckle. "When did you become Hungarian Dave?"
"Oh! I never told you?" Still hugging my shoulders, he turns his face toward mine, opens his eyes wide and lets his jaw drop in a stunned expression. "My parents were a couple of '56ers. I'm a regular all‑Hungarian‑American boy."
"I didn't know that," I say. Karl frowns, pulls his chin down and looks at Dave the way someone might look at a crazy person.
"That'sssh a fact," Dave slurs. "I'm Hungarian, and I think this is a great country. And I think you're great too, Erzsébet. Whaddya say me and you go out for a drink or somethin' huh?"
I really don't know why, but I can't reject his offer. Besides, he's so cheerful it makes me feel giddy. I laugh and say, "Maybe a coffee would be a better idea."
That's when the doorbell rings. Karl answers it, and two men brush past him with huge wooden crates that are the size of a child's coffin. They slam the crates down on the kitchen floor and the taller one with the mustache says: "Dave? Right?" Dave nods his head, a little dazed. "Good," the man says. "Matthew sent us."
Then the men go back in the hall and carry in six more crates of the same size and four slightly smaller ones. The whole time the men are filling his kitchen —making it impossible to get near the refigerator—Dave is yelling at them: "No! No! I don't want this stuff! Get it out of here! I don't have any deals with Matthew!" But these are big men. Kind of scary looking too. They ignore Dave and keep bringing in boxes as Karl and I watch, confused.
"What is this stuff, Dave?" Karl asks.
"Perishable goods!" the man with the mustache snaps. "Don't open the boxes or it will spoil, and you'll have to pay for it!" Then his tone becomes more civil and he says, "Its alright. Just leave this stuff here. Someone will be by to pick it up in a couple of weeks, when things calm down a little." Just before they leave, the man turns and hands an envelope to Dave. "This is for you," he says. "You don't have to do anything and you don't have to worry—as long is these boxes are OK when our friend comes for them."
They slam the door and Dave curses, whipping the envelope at the floor. It opens, and several one‑hundred dollar bills spill out.
"Dave! Dude!" Karl says. "This is perfect. This is just what you need now that you lost your job, right?"
"Yeah. Just what I need," Dave mutters. But he doesn't seem as excited as Karl. Dave's mood has changed completely, and I get the feeling that we won't go for coffee. I still can't explain why, but I feel disappointed.