XXIV. Dave Sees the Light
Dave “the Dude” Devoran, free‑market ambassador, came to Budapest to get rich, but he’s run into a few glitches. In the last episode, Erszébet suggested that Lithuanian mobsters could steal the weapons out of Dave’s kitchen to keep the gun runners from getting mad at him. What follows is Episode XXIV.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
I can taste the whiskey now. In fact I can taste what it’ll be like when I’ve had too much. I’ll belch, and then somewhere in the front of my throat, right around the Adam’s apple, I’ll feel it: a gritty collection of pre‑puke, that leaves my mouth full of the flavor of nausea and leaves the rest of me with 45 seconds to find a toilet. My palate tingles in anticipation of the delicate bouquet of barf.
I need to be too drunk. I need to loose control of my head and my body, because I’ve already lost control of my life. What am I gonna do?
I’m out of work and facing prison. Meanwhile, three women — my mother, my lawyer and my friend — sit in my home and make plans to get me mixed up with the mob. I flee that miniature coven and head for my favorite bar.
“Hey Dave! It’s the Dude! What’s happenin’ Dudester?” Hell, it’s Chuck Saunders. Like I need to talk this guy. He’s a slick, cut‑throat S.O.B., who’s probably already sold his mother for a nickel, and who always shakes the right hands and kisses the right asses in Budapest’s business world. I really have to respect someone like that, but seeing successful Chuck Saunders just reminds me of my failure.
“So Dave, how’s Hungary treating you?”
“Oh, you know Chuck, kind of so‑so.’’ I pound a shot of whiskey, order another and continue: “Sometimes I wonder if this country is really the fertile investment field that the financial pundits first saw when the way was cleared for free‑market cultivation.”
“Whats‑a‑matter? You outta work?” Chuck pats me on the back. “Let me tell you a little about history Dave: Way back in 1980s America, a guy could steal, cheat, lie, screw over their wife and their best friend — and as long as they got rich doing it, everybody loved ‘em. In fact, I think people admire Michael Milken all the more because he got his by being crooked. The public didn’t just worship wealth, they worshipped greed.
“.... Ah, those wonderful days have vanished. The recession screwed everything up. But the ‘80s haven’t ended here in Hungary. This country may be 50 years behind in telephones, but they’re only 10 years behind in business ethics. A beautiful decade of hedonism is just dawning in Budapest. It’s survival of the sleaziest, and that’s why I’m here. I’m gonna ride the crest of this wave and when it peaks — well, it’s off to Moscow, or Albania, or wherever the ‘80s turn up next.
“So don’t be so glum Dave. I’ll tell you what: I’ve got a chance to do some special consulting work, but I need a good executive with unique morals. I think you’re my boy. How about it? We start work bright and early at noon tomorrow.”
In the course of this little diatribe, I’ve knocked back five quick whiskeys, but I’m not too drunk to see the lightbulb turning on inside my head. That’s what I’m gonna do: consult. I celebrate my bright new future by toasting Chuck, downing another shot and letting out a burp.
Uh oh.
Excusing myself and standing up takes three seconds. I have 42 seconds left.