XIV. Dave Faces the Morning After
Dave "The Dude" Devoran, free market ambassador, came to Budapest from America over a month ago. In previous episodes, a man was stabbed in Dave's apartment while he was out, he rejected a friend's offer to get involved in the arms business and he was fired for losing a box of paper clips. What follows is Episode XIV.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
At first I'm barely aware of it. All I know is there is something that needs my attention. Then I open my eyes and it takes over my whole existence: A pain that starts in the center of my brain and radiates outward, up through my scalp and into each individual hair. I gasp and the pain intensifies—any breathing seems to make it worse. It must be dehydration. With my eyes closed against the hideous sunlight, I feel my way to the kitchen, stick my head under the faucet and gulp down a quart of water. Then I fumble to the bathroom, find the aspirin I brought with me from the States, take the last three tablets and gulp another quart of water. On the way back to bed I stub my toe at the doorway. The nerves trying to send the message of this sensation join the tempest inside of my brain. Instead of feeling the pain in my toe, my headache just gets worse.
A half hour later I wake up again to find the pain has dropped to a dull throb and I'm starving. I want a meatball parmesan hero, but all we have in the kitchen is stale cornflakes. I eat those by the handful and put a pot on to make instant coffee. Sitting at the kitchen table I stare at the pile of wooden crates in front of the refrigerator. Then I let my eyes go out of focus and stare at nothing.
Yes, I am hungover. Usually when I get this way, the awful physical sensations are accompanied by guilt over the things I said and did the night before. But if anyone deserved to get hammered last night it was me. I started drinking palinka—the Hungarian word for grain alcohol mixed with gasoline—because I lost my job and found out that my good‑old, all‑American parents are not my parents. I'm really a Hungarian exile by birth. Then these thugs come in and fill my kitchen with 10 crates of weapons that they want to smuggle to former Yugoslavia. I have to lie to my roommate, Karl, and his friend, Erzsébet, and say I have no idea what's in the boxes.
Erzsébet. Oh hell, here comes the guilt. What did I say to Erzsébet when I was drunk? Was I rude? Did I make a pass at her? Did I act like a jerk? She's really not so bad, for a brainy, artsy‑type babe. I'll have to apologize to her.
But first, I've got to get rid of the arsenal in my kitchen. I mean, as far as I'm concerned, Serbs and Croats speak the same goofy language and come from the same hopeless part of the planet. I think their war is ridiculous and I certainly don't want to have anything to do with it. I'm going to do my part to stop the fighting. But how? If I call the police, will they think I was involved with these death merchants? And what will I say to the thugs if they come back and all their guns are missing? Will they try to kill me for turning them in?
I better call Matthew the lawyer, my alleged friend, whom I hate. He's the one who's really behind all this filthy business. I'll just tell him that if he doesn't get this shit out of here I'm calling the cops.
Of course he'll want me to give back the $1,000 those guys gave me for holding their weapons. It's still in an envelope on the kitchen table. I won't touch that blood money. Although, I am unemployed right now ... No. I couldn't. I'll just call my dad for a loan. The only problem is I just hit him up a week ago, and he was complaining about it then.
I've got it! My real father, David Katona. That scumbag sold me for a few thousand dollars when I was just a kid, and now he's rich. He owes me, big‑time. Sure I've never spoken to him before, but he must feel a little guilty. I should be able to sleaze a loan—and maybe even a job—out of him. To hell with Matthew and my Dad. I've got my pride. I can take care of myself—with a lttle help from this Katona guy. The more I think about this plan, the better I feel. Now I've got the confidence I need to call Matthew in New York and tell him where to stick his goddamn guns. I dial the number on his business card and his secretary makes it sound like he's doing me a favor by taking the call.
"Hey dude. How's it goin'?" he answers, all smooth and friendly. "Listen, guy, before you say anything, I just want to remind you that Hungary has very different laws regarding privacy. I mean, they can pretty much tap any call they want, you know. I think you understand."
"What? ... Oh uh, yeah. Well listen ..." I begin, but he cuts in.
"Hey, by the way, me and Jennifer had a great time in Budapest, really. We want to thank you for everything. It was swell, I mean it."
"I'm glad Matthew, but that's not why I called. I've got a big problem here in my kitchen, and I want you to solve it."
"Whoa dude, what am I a plumber?" he says, chuckling.
"You know what I mean." I raise my voice a bit, but this only makes my headache come back. I continue in an angry whisper: "I'm talking about the crates of guns that your goons left here."
"What?" Now Matthew raises his voice. "Did you say plates of gunk? In your kitchen huh? Well gee, dude, you let them put stuff in your house already? I thought you weren't interested. I didn't know you were gonna actually do this. I mean jeez, if you've already accepted the stuff from them. ... You didn't take any money did you?"
"They told me you sent them!" To hell with the headache, I'm shouting anyway. "They went ahead and dumped the stuff here and you knew they would!"
"I really don't know what to tell you dude. These are some pretty hard characters, you know. If you already took the stuff, I'd advise you to just go along. It'll be OK, really. They'll take it away soon. But—hey! Look at the time. Gotta run. Good talkin' to ya dude. Send me a post card. Later."
Click. Dial tone.