About how we went for cocoa

 

It was a beautiful Monday morning, and we were sipping beer at the "U Tigra" tavern. The tavern was a well-known and popular meeting place in Prague, famous, among other things, for the fact that a certain Bohumil Hrabal would drop in for his daily pint.

"There are some things in life worth sacrificing for," said Alan, our bass player.

"Perhaps," Irka muttered, blowing the foam from his beer, "but I have proof that very few things are worth sacrificing for."

"Can you give me some examples?" Alan pulled out a cigarette.

"I'm at your service." Irka passed him a light and began his story:

"I once knew a certain Zdenek Blecharz. He was a good friend and a very cheerful companion; He didn't shy away from alcohol, tobacco, the company of women, and other useful substances. Due to his sedentary lifestyle—because you should know that Zdenek mostly spent time in bars—he gained a dozen, maybe even several dozen, kilos overweight. Days passed, and he drank, smoked, cavorted, and dragged his impressive belly everywhere. This happy life would probably have continued to this day if Zdenek hadn't met a certain woman one day...

We nodded in understanding.

"...Something happened to him that he fell in love on the spot. And as you know, nothing in love is free." The woman he loved began to poke holes in his stomach: "Zdenek, lose weight, quit smoking, stop drinking, get rid of your friends, start reading the classics, come to your mom for dinner, and so on." He died with his boots on.

Poor Zdenek was ruthlessly determined and decided to live a healthy and exemplary life. From what I know, he only managed to get through all the classics.

Irka drank a beer.

"I saw him very rarely during that time—mainly at the crack of dawn, when on my way to the factory I'd see him jogging recreationally in the park. It always made me very sad to see him. I knew the poor guy had fallen into a jam, and in addition to his morning runs, he was also following a draconian diet, at the behest of his beloved." Two years passed.

I met him at the end of August last year. The man had changed beyond recognition! Athletic, handsome, lithe, and tanned! A teetotaler and an ascetic! And still with the same woman!

"Where's the moral of the matter?" Alan asked.

"Zdenek's dead now," Irka took a drag on his cigarette. "A drunk driver killed him in September. Just think! For two years he tortured his own body and denied himself even the slightest pleasures, only to end up under the wheels of a cart! Sad and virtuous!

" "Apparently, that's how it had to be..." muttered Pavel, the drummer.

"Perhaps..." Irka shrugged, "perhaps... But he could have had as much of it as he wanted these past few years, and here we are..."

We nodded.

It was approaching noon, and it was time to get ready. We grabbed our guitars and the rest of our gear, finished our beers, and leisurely left the inn.

The Office for Stage Control was just around the corner. About two weeks ago, we'd received official paperwork confirming our hearing date—a stupid, bureaucratic requirement for obtaining the proper permit to perform publicly. It was unavoidable, so, willingly or unwillingly, we decided to make a polite appearance.

The building made a depressing impression, and for some reason, it immediately reminded us of a Kafkaesque courtroom.

The high commission was already waiting for us. Behind a crooked table covered in red cloth sat three sad, balding men and a monstrously fat and ugly woman as the presiding judge.

"Good morning, boys," she said, "you may begin."

We plugged our guitars into the amplifiers and launched into our usual repertoire.

The distinguished committee managed all of three minutes.

"Enough! Enough!" the chairwoman raised her hand. "Can't you keep it a little quieter? It's terribly noisy!"

Obediently, we began to play more quietly, and just in case, slower.

"Enough!" the woman rolled her kilograms from behind the table. "I have reservations! "

We looked at each other. The clothes were just clothes—a few buckles, some chains, worn jeans, and a bit of paint on the hair. Nothing special.

"You can't show yourselves in public like this! Suits and ties are mandatory! Stage manners are paramount!

" "We can't afford suits," I said, "and my mom bought me these pants."

The commission fixed me with a searching gaze.

"She toiled for six months in a gelatin factory to buy them for me. Our poverty is terrible; my father abandoned us, the family has gone broke, and my mother and I are living on our own... On a pension... The poor woman is busting her ass so I can eat and wear something. It'll upset me greatly when she finds out I'm not allowed to wear jeans. We were so excited about these pants together..."

Silence fell, and the chairwoman's face showed a look of distress. Apparently, she was also my mother.

"It's all the truth!" I heard Irka's voice behind me. "Their poverty is so bad that it not only squeals but howls even halfway across the estate! You can't sleep!

" "Okay, okay," the chairwoman waved her hand, indicating the matter was closed. "Let's look at the texts now."

There was truly something to look at. Our lyricist was a highly entertaining man. Due to his dissolute lifestyle, he temporarily landed in the psychiatric ward of a certain hospital; one could have easily one-flew over the cuckoo's nest. Despite being grounded, he continued to send fresh produce from behind bars. But only he and I knew about that.

"This needs to be changed," the matron said. "What kind of vocabulary is this?! What kind of rhymes are these?! What kind of formulations!

" "I can try to change it," Irka said, "but I'm not sure if my pen won't shake.

" "Why is that?

" "I wouldn't dare correct the works of our national bard, poet, and authority. We'd have to change the school textbooks and start proofreading his immortal works... If he wrote it that way, then it must be so. But if the high commission wishes...

" "A bard?" the woman looked at the sheet of paper, embarrassed.

"A bard," Irka agreed eagerly. "THAT bard! "

The commission members exchanged glances.

"Then I have no more questions." The chairwoman spread her hands and pushed herself back behind the table.

We were granted permission.

But as everyone knows, fate, or whatever you call it, is a trickster with a peculiar sense of humor. We didn't have to wait long for it to play a powerful joke on us.

To celebrate Children's Day, we were scheduled to perform at a festival on the meadows. The event was organized on a grand scale, with the highest-ranking district authorities announcing their presence, and the generous Committee for Managing Something There donated free lemonade for everyone.

Sweaty and ragged, we pushed our way through the crowd of kids, dragging our instruments behind us. When we finally, barely alive, reached the stage, we discovered we were missing a band member. Alan had wandered off somewhere. He moaned the entire way about being hot, and it was very likely that, taking advantage of the crowd and our inattention, he had run off towards one of the beer stands.

We climbed onto the boards and began setting up the equipment. The Karel Gott-esque stage host hovered impatiently around us, smoothing our unruly hair and asking repeatedly if we were ready. It turned out we weren't quite ready, as we were still lacking bass. Despite his desperate search, Alan vanished into thin air.

Karel Gott was so taken with his role and the presence of the local officials that he quickly rushed to the microphone and shouted joyfully,

"Galeria Pod Pisuarem! Give them a warm welcome!"

We were greeted warmly.

We stood center stage, looking uncertain.

And then our bassist appeared.

He climbed the stairs to the left and staggered halfway across the stage to the microphone. His guitar, slung over his shoulder, dangled nonchalantly. He hiccupped, tapped the microphone, and, before any of us could stop him, said,

"Now, dear children, run home! I'm off to buy myself a new, better system! Long live a free Czech Republic!"

And he stuck his tongue out at everyone.

We were banned from playing for a whole year.

It turned out that the entire front row of the audience was filled with the offspring of party officials. These brats, tongues lolling, immediately flew to report back to their fathers. And that was that.

We were furious with Alan, although on the other hand, his demonstration of freedom evoked a certain admiration. Regardless, the incident had unpleasant consequences for him.

When the embargo on our work was finally lifted, mindful of our previous experiences, we didn't leave Alan unattended.

Helpful and available fans watched over him before concerts, and we often heard dialogues like:

"But a little! One beer...! One glass...!"

"No! Here's lemonade!

" "But gentlemen...

" "No! Here's goat kumys!"

Of course, in the evenings, the situation changed dramatically and pleasantly.

One evening in particular stuck in our memories for a long time.

The parents of our good friend Pepa had gone off to the blue for a few days, leaving their impressive villa and all their belongings at his disposal.

The cottage was free, so Irka and I arrived at the appointed time, armed with the appropriate alcoholic beverages.

However, a certain attendance problem arose – it turned out that all the invited ladies had screwed up at the last minute, leaving us only three frustrated guys.

We drank in silence for fifteen minutes, before Irka couldn't take it anymore.

"This sucks, gentlemen! I'm going out!

" "You're leaving me alone?" Pepa frowned.

"I didn't say that," my faithful friend replied. "I'm going out to find some female company. Give me an hour. "

And he left.

"Can I figure something out?" Pepa asked hopefully.

"Don't worry," I replied, "he's an old, seasoned, and experienced professional."

Irka was as punctual as a Swiss watch.

At the stroke of the hour, he appeared on the doorstep, dragging curious girls behind him.

By some secret method known only

to himself, he had gathered as many as twenty of them. Pepa and I exchanged glances.

Despite our youthful, inexhaustible strength and considerable potential, there weren't enough of us.

So I sat down by the phone and called a few friends. They, in turn, called their own, and on their way to our place, they met other friends who also knew someone there.

Around midnight, the villa was bursting at the seams, and the tipsy crowd was practicing diving into the pool fully clothed and group dancing without clothes.

"Play something!" someone shouted from the crowd.

Why not?

We set up the equipment and started playing.

The party intensified.

Two hours into the concert, it became clear that Pepa's neighbors were antisocial and completely unsociable.

Some guy from the house next door called the police.

Pepa was doing the honors, standing on the balcony and chatting with the officers.

"You're not coming in!" he shouted, bending his elbow. "You have no right or warrant! You can jump me! "

The officers didn't want to jump me, but they tried to threaten.

"I don't care about you!" Pepa pulled down his pants and showed them his pale butt.

It was a successful social gathering.

Around five in the morning, we all fell asleep in the strangest positions.

I was just starting to dream something very pleasant when someone suddenly tugged on my arm.

I opened a sleepy eyelid and saw Irka.

"Are you asleep?

" "No, holy crap!" I muttered, furious. "I'm just getting ready for work. What's up?"

"Listen," Irka scratched his head in embarrassment, "this may sound stupid, but I have a terrible, cruel craving for cocoa.

" "Cocoa?" I opened my other eye. "Why are you coming to me with this? The kitchen's in there! You're on your own!

" "I've already ransacked all the cupboards," Irka confessed, "and there's no sign of milk or anything else.

" "Hmm..." I stretched, "so there's only one thing left for you: curb your urges and go to sleep. You'll manage somehow.

" "I can't stand it! I'm going into town to the Soup Kitchen! Will you do me a favor and come with me, friend?"

I cursed viciously under my breath.

The rascal was teasing me and using big words.

I propped myself up on one elbow.

"Look around Irka: all decent people are asleep at this hour. And you'll crave milk drinks!" You're not pregnant by any chance? It's very possible, because you partied all night with a lot of women and something inductively might have rubbed off on you...

" "I don't reproduce until I'm thirty," Irka shook his head. "Are you coming or not?"

I went, unhappy.

The morning was beautiful, Praga was coming to life, and we were going to the "Garkuchnia"

(Garkuchnia). We called it a small pavilion near the train station where, regardless of the time of day or night, you could always find something to eat and drink.

There, we met some friends from a punk band, who had also come to sober up after a hard night's work.

So we sat sprawled on the steps by the fountain, exposing our faces to the sun. We chatted about this and that, while Irka sipped his cocoa.

Then, with the strides of tired long-distance runners, we returned to Pepa's villa.

And here a small surprise awaited us.

The entrance gate was wide open, and across it someone had strung tape reading:

"Militia operation in progress. Keep out!"

We shrugged and climbed through the tape.

The house was empty. It looked like a complete wreck, but there was no denying that there wasn't a soul inside.

We wandered around the rooms for a while.

"Where did they all disappear to?" Irka wondered aloud.

"I have no idea," I replied, yawning. "Maybe they all suddenly craved semolina and, driven like sheep, ran to the Soup Kitchen?"

We went outside and stood there, undecided.

The mysterious disappearance of everyone in the group surely had some rational explanation—but we didn't feel like thinking or investigating; it was nine in the morning and high time to get back to our beds.

The truth came out the next day.

Pepa's neighbor was a stubborn character.

Seeing the ineffective intervention of the rank-and-file officers, he decided to seek help a bit higher up and called the anti-drug squad, the anti-terrorists, and someone else.

They broke down the door, rushed in among our merry company, and handcuffed everyone.

"How did you know it was time for cocoa?" I asked Irka.

"I was cavorting with a lot of ladies all night," my friend winked mischievously, "and perhaps I was touched by something... Women's intuition?"