How we found groupies

 

A guitar, as everyone knows, is a type of instrument.

The person who plucks the strings is akin to a guitarist.

A few guitarists, plus a few minor players playing less important instruments, constitute a kind of band.

For a band to function properly, it needs the support of an audience. For the audience to want to function as an addition, the band must perform at a certain level.

For a band to feel better, the audience must respond appropriately during a performance. This improves the well-being of those wielding guitars and those few unfortunate souls who wield drums, keyboards, and a microphone and would love to play guitar. To improve the well-being of the band members even more, groupies are needed. And groupies will emerge if the band plays, and plays at a certain level. The cycle is complete.

We wrote it all down on a blank piece of newspaper and bowed our heads mournfully.

"We have a long way to the top," Irka said. "We don't even have guitars.

" "It'll be fine," I muttered thoughtfully. "You figure out where to get the strings, and I'll look for the boxes.

They say faith can move mountains." Lifting heavy loads was absolutely not our intention, but the fact is, after three months, as a result of complicated financial transactions and lively trade between friends, we became the proud owners of two guitars.

We gazed at them in awe and silent delight for a good fifteen minutes.

And then Irka plucked a string, and the guitar emitted a sound. I plucked it too, and we had two notes together. So the problem arose of coordinating the notes and how to extract them from the instrument. It took us another few months, and after a year, we had achieved, without false modesty, a certain proficiency that inspired a certain admiration.

Now it was time to look for the rest of the band. The task proved as arduous as arranging instruments and learning to play combined. Even though we'd probably covered three-quarters of Praga, the results were both meager and uninspiring.

"I don't care about them all," Irka declared, "we'll work as a duo."

So we worked as a duo for a while, organizing raucous jam sessions in our studio apartment, much to the horror and dismay of our neighbors. And the first successes came completely unexpectedly, without any effort on our part.

And it happened like this.

It was the height of a beautiful summer, and we were stuck, due to our meager financial resources, in the middle of a hot, concrete city. Boredom-ridden, we hung around fire stations, and during one of the boozy fire brigade balls, Irka met a girl. This lovely woman came from a village near Prague, charmingly named Zaparcia. This charming creature suggested we spend a few days in her home village as a substitute for a vacation at a spa. We had nothing else to do, so we shrugged, packed a few pairs of underwear, and headed for Zaparcia.

This was the beginning of our several-day, completely unintentional wandering.

But first things first.

Our time in Zaparcia dragged on terribly long.

Irka's sweetheart worked at the local Dairy Cooperative as a senior milkmaid and, naturally, spent all day with the cows, diligently and consistently carrying out her duties. She would return in the late evenings, lugging cans of milk. We would drink the milk for supper, and then Irka and she would go to the barn for hay. I was left completely alone, patiently swatting mosquitoes and listening to the clucking of the poultry and the evening howling of the dogs.

After three days of such entertainment, I had had enough of the countryside and the milk. And Irka had also somehow grown tired of frolicking in the hay, which was understandable, considering he wasn't very stable in his feelings.

We would wander aimlessly all day along dusty, hot country roads, waiting for the standard end of the day: me with my mosquitoes, he with his barn.

An added attraction was the lack of running water. We ran with buckets to the well, cursing the living stones as we did so. On

the fourth day, sweating in the water to make tea, we encountered some locals. A few youngsters stood nearby, curiously watching our progress. "Hey! City people!" the ragged one exclaimed. "You're running at a really slow pace!" The rest cackled happily. Irek and I exchanged glances and started pumping even more furiously. "A little faster, but still poorly," the intruder said. "Praga is so big, and yet the results are so poor. I swear!" The company roared with glee. We turned purple with indignation and, grabbing our still-partly-full buckets, headed back to the village. "And don't let our water give you diarrhea!" – one of them shouted – your delicate, Prague stomachs may be unusual! – Terrible mental level – Irka grimaced – and a complete lack of good taste.

Furious and burning with vengeance, we returned to the farm. Half the day was spent scheming about what trick to pull on these local troglodytes. Finally, Irka picked up a potato, cut it in half, and began diligently poking at it with a knife. After half an hour, he had carved out a stamp that, dipped in ink, produced quite official results. We found a piece of paper and within moments had written the following notice:

"ATTENTION! ATTENTION! ATTENTION!

The local Sanitary and Epidemiological Control Station warns!

Dangerous bacteria and viruses have been detected in the water intake for the village of Zapatrzony: E. coli, typhus, typhus fever, and African pythostoma. Everyone who has had any contact with the water in the last 24 hours is kindly requested to report immediately to the local medical clinic for vaccination, examination, and analysis."

A stamp, a signature.

After some thought, Irka crossed out "24" and wrote "48."

"To make the joke more complete," he explained.

"What is African pythostoma?" I asked.

"I have no idea," my friend replied, "but it sounds dangerous."

One dark night, Irka left the barn, and we went to hang the notice in the window of the village shop. The choice of location was carefully considered, as it was here, according to our understanding, that the entire social life of the locals was concentrated.

Feeling well-fed, we went to bed.

And the next day, panic broke out in the village.

We woke up around noon. To be precise, we were awakened by screams. We curiously stuck our heads out the window and saw a large gathering of people near the shop. Women in colorful scarves were wailing and wailing loudly, raising their hands to the sky.

At that moment, the door to the room creaked, and our landlady appeared on the threshold.

"Did you drink water?" she asked, out of breath.

"Did we drink," Irka replied.

"A terrible thing!" – the girl wrung her hands and sat down. – The water is contaminated!

– Contaminated? – It took a lot of effort not to burst out laughing – in what sense?

– In the sense of the plague – the girl looked at us inquisitively – typhus, spotted fever, and American pythostomy. The village head says this pythostomy is the worst of them all. What's so funny?

– It's the body's natural defensive reaction to tragic news – I explained, bursting into laughter – it's called gallows humor…

I couldn't hold it in any longer. I roared with laughter, and Irka rolled on the floor, clutching his stomach.

– Pyrostomy… American… American! – he choked, kicking his limbs.

– African! – I cried, doubled over – this one is the gooiest… the gooiest!

"I don't understand this reaction at all," the girl looked at us, disconcerted. "This is terrible news, you're also in danger... What is this?"

She walked over to the table and curiously examined the half-potato smeared in ink. Our laughter died on our lips. What a terrible oversight! Without a second thought, she stamped the half on a piece of paper.

"So it's like this?" she muttered. And before we could stop her, she ran out of the house.

We rushed to the window. The girl quickly approached the shop and in a loud voice began to say something to the lamenting women and the gloomy, mustachioed peasants, repeatedly pointing her finger in our direction. The people clearly didn't like what she was saying, because at one point the crowd muttered menacingly and moved towards us.

"Holy shit!" I said, alarmed. "She's unleashed a mob on us!

" "I see." Irka bit his lip anxiously.

"Did you tell her you loved her?!"

"Of course! I tell everyone that!

" "Oh, you have the constancy of a woman! Why are you just standing there! Walk or they'll lynch you!" I pulled him after me to the back door.

We burst into the yard, jumped the fence, and plunged into the cornfields.

It was a long run.

Unfortunately, it turned out the men were in pretty good shape. And besides being tired, we were also let down by our unfamiliarity with the terrain. When the last shrieks died away in the distance, we collapsed panting on the grass and spent a good five minutes recovering.

"Let's consider the situation," Irka finally said, "we have nothing to eat or drink, and we're both without breakfast. To make matters worse, we don't even have a broken heller, and Prague is about 50 kilometers away...

" "Not to mention the fact that my entire supply of underwear is left in Zabrze," I added grimly.

"And the worst thing is the geographical situation"—Irka plucked a blade of grass and began gnawing on it—"we can't take the main roads because the peasants are probably lurking somewhere there... They're stubborn serfs. So...

" "So?

" "All that's left is a walk through the forest and picking. Berries, roots, and mushrooms. Back to the roots, my dear!"

"An encouraging prospect," I muttered. "

I hate picking anything! And picking raspberries, blueberries, and blackberries on an empty stomach is real torture!" The constant bending over made me so tired I didn't want to eat. Irka clearly felt the same way, because at one point he straightened up and announced with a gloomy expression,

"I don't feel like having a second breakfast anymore."

We sat down on the moss and lit cigarettes.

It was a boring day.

We lay through the forest, hungry and angry, with nothing but leaves, trees, and tufts of grass all around us. And not a pub in sight. And the worst was that, as is always the case, dusk began to fall at some point. We had to look for a place to sleep.

Stumbling over each other, groping in the sweat of our brows, we finished building our makeshift shelter.

We were so exhausted that we fell asleep before we could even crawl into it.

It was dawn when a loud shout woke us.

"Forest Service! Get out! "

I rubbed my sleepy eyes.

"What's going on? Did we park wrong?

" "Get out! Get out, you joker!" A mustachioed man in a green suit was holding us at gunpoint.

I nudged Irka.

"Get up! The uniforms are here!

" "Just a moment, honey..." my companion murmured sleepily.

"No time for petting! We have problems!" I shook him vigorously.

We stood up, fumbling awkwardly. We brushed off the leaves and obediently raised our hands.

The mustachioed forest guard walked cautiously around us.

"Where are they from?

" "From Prague," Irka grumbled, "it's obvious.

" "Can they read?

" "They can," I confirmed.

"Let them read!"

Prodding us with his rifle butt, he pushed us toward a large sign. Literally two meters from our den!

"NATIONAL PARK,

CAMPING AND FIRE MAKING PROHIBITED UNDER PUNISHMENT OF A FINE!"

"True misfortune," Irka muttered, "how could we have missed such large, handsome, block letters in the middle of the night!"

The forest guard turned out to be a ruthless clerk and bureaucrat.

He fumbled with our ID cards, smacking his fingers and drooling, and filled out some sections with his tongue; it took him an entire hour. And then he simply kicked us out beyond the forest edge.

"And don't let them come back here!"

We set off, yawning widely and stretching our bones – it was six in the morning, and those damn birds were chirping so loudly that our heads pounded.

We marched until noon.

"I've had enough!" Irka collapsed exhausted on the grass. "Water! And alcohol!"

I lay down next to him, refusing to move a hair.

The sun showed us no mercy – it operated ruthlessly, reaching our most sensitive places.

And then, just when we were beginning to lose hope, the sounds of guitars and a wailing voice reached our exhausted ears.

"And Mother Earth rolls, rolls her lovely hump... rolls, rolls time..."

I propped myself up on my elbow.

About a dozen meters away, in a clearing sheltered by trees on one side, a bonfire blazed. Some strange characters were sitting around the fire. They were all dressed in flowing, airy robes in pastel colors, all of them long-haired and, without exception, bearded.

"Look!" I nudged the half-dead Irka. "We've stumbled upon Woodstock!

" "Let me know when Cocker starts singing," my friend yawned widely.

We lay in the grass for a good ten minutes, listening to them sing. The performance was poor and the repertoire was awful: they sang out of tune, environmental songs with an ecological message. Boredom and dishonesty.

"Move, Irka," I finally said, "these aging hippies are our last resort."

We rose from the grass and, baring our teeth in a peaceful smile, approached the fire.

"Ahoy, good people!" I raised my hand in greeting. "Is there room among you for two weary travelers?

" "Hello, brothers!" said the most bearded of the group. "I'm Petr, and these are my friends. Sit down and enjoy the beauty of nature with us."

We sat down and enjoyed the beauty for a moment.

"Dear brothers," I asked again, and Irka almost bit his tongue with laughter, "is there any chance we'll get something to eat? We've been admiring the beauty of our mother nature on an empty stomach since yesterday.

" "We haven't had anything warm in two days," my companion reassured.

"But of course, brothers!" Petr smiled broadly. "We don't have much ourselves, but we'll gladly share our food. Enjoy our food."

We began to enjoy our food. The rascals gave us soy cutlets and spring water.

We gorged ourselves on healthy food, and to our surprise, our mood improved slightly.

Petr picked up his guitar and began strumming.

"I've been playing guitar," he declared, "for over ten years. Do you know this song?"

He played some sad ecological song with three chords.

"World class," he closed his eyes dreamily, "I wish I could compose like that..."

We looked at each other.

"Is this some kind of classic?" Irka asked stupidly.

"A legendary figure," Petr explained, "Zdenek Blecharz, a Greenpeace fighter and tireless environmental activist... A defender of whales. And a brilliant musician, too."

And he played another song, which was even worse than the last: three chords, a silly verse, and a chorus about fresh air and daisies. The rest of the environmentalists swayed sleepily, humming the melody.

"Do you play too?" Petr asked.

"A little," Irka said, making a modest face, "but not for long. It's only been a year...

" "Play it." Petr handed us the guitar.

"I don't know if it's appropriate," Irka said, squirming like a teenager, "I'm really bad and I don't know much..."

"Play, brother!" Petr propped his head in his hands and listened intently.

Irka leaned over the instrument, waited a moment, and began to play.

His fingers, at first slowly and lazily, moved along the fretboard, then with each passing second, the movements began to gain momentum. The lively yet wistful notes of "Pasadoble" rose into the air. My friend lost his mind, and the environmentalists began to jiggle to the Spanish rhythms.

I looked at Petr. His bearded mouth gaped in astonishment and his eyes widened.

And Irka was raging on the box. It seemed that in a moment he would shatter the instrument into tiny pieces, when suddenly the melody abruptly stopped, and he bowed his head, stroking the tender strings.

"That's all I know," he said, making a modest face. "Forgive me for being so bad...

" "Don't be too modest, brother," Petr grunted, embarrassed. "That wasn't so bad. Does your friend play too?

" "A little," I replied, "but I'm even worse."

The ecologists pulled a second guitar from the bushes.

"Make us happy, brothers!" Petr raised his hands.

We played until evening, on one and two guitars, with and without voices, whistling and humming alternately, improvising in various ways. And when our throats were completely dry, the ecologists gave us each a cup of spring water and offered us a place to stay overnight at their ecological settlement.

The settlement turned out to be a sizable campsite, well-camouflaged in the thick forest. We got a good night's sleep.

And in the morning, a surprise awaited us.

It turned out that the Settlement Council, during a midnight meeting, had voted on Petr's motion to reward us with an ecological dinner at the "U Tygla" inn. This was because of our supposedly outstanding musical talents and skills.

Once we had swallowed the last of our soy roast, they handed us guitars and we started playing again.

Leaning over our fretboards and focused on the music, we didn't notice what was happening around us.

Imagine our surprise, then, when the inn suddenly turned out to be packed and literally bursting at the seams. Besides our ecologist friends, there were also summer campers from nearby campgrounds and, most importantly, a large group of young and beautiful girls.

Irka winked at me, and I smiled broadly.

Those were good days.

We spent another week there.

And upon returning to Prague, another surprise awaited us.

Our mailbox was filled with offers from musicians looking for a band.

Of course, we started a band. And we had many funny moments and joyful adventures.

But that's a whole other story...