Man and the Beast

Up the stairs, down the stairs.

When Winston Churchill spoke of blood, sweat, and tears, he was referring to fathers living on the fourth floors of apartment buildings without elevators, whose children loved walks. Eighty-eight steps up, and it felt like descending into the depths of hell. Cotton legs, arms buckling under the weight of new potatoes sold in 3-kilogram packages, just to add to the torment. Step by step, it becomes increasingly difficult. The beast whimpers joyfully, trying to call all the households to inform them of its return. After the forty-fourth step, there's a break. In the shade of a fern, the old father replenishes his micronutrients, encouraging himself; only forty-four more to go. We set off, slowly, so as not to lose the replenished micronutrients too quickly. At the finish line, step eighty-eight, we ascend full of energy, like mountaineers climbing another eight-thousander. Instead of a red-and-white flag, we insert a key and enter. Oh, the coolness of the floor, the joy of flat surfaces, stay a moment without climbing!

The beast eats whatever comes to hand, sets the yellow teddy bear in a corner, picks up the white one, and with a voice that brooks no argument, announces another Himalayan expedition, this time downhill.

"Please, I have no strength. Another walk? "

"We need to take the teddy bear out.

" "Let him walk himself!"

"He's a teddy bear of very little brain, he can't, Dad, go any faster, or he'll pee."

"Alright, alright, we'll go to the cooperative while we're at it. We'll ask if they have any unnecessary elevators.

A zoo."

Despite the lousy weather, we took the Beast to the zoo. At the entrance, it turned out that children under three years old entered for free, without a ticket. The Beast begged him to leave, saying he wanted a ticket, because if he didn't get in without a ticket, it was stupid. The security officer sitting at the gate glared at him and said that if the Beast didn't get in soon, he wouldn't get in at all. So we went in. There were plenty of animals. Small male and female humans raced along the concrete paths in strollers. They were watched by quite civilized monkeys, eating peanuts and watching the TV their sponsor had bought them out of boredom. Because of this sponsor, even the elephant had to renounce his ancestral African name and introduce himself as "Lotek," winking as if he were advertising a non-alcoholic beer. The Beast had his eye on a green parrot that made noises reminiscent of passing jet planes. Attempts to pry the Beast from his "screaming" cage were unsuccessful. His insistence on the wonders of giraffes, baboons, and even anteaters proved futile. Bribing the Beast with the promise of a shared bath with a hippopotamus, we headed toward the monkeys. The explanation that monkeys' bottoms turn red from sitting on cold water had a touch of pedagogy to it, but the effectiveness was electrifying. After each slap, the Beast immediately jumped up. (Speaking of stenches, you could write a habilitation thesis on this topic at the Prague Zoo). After the monkeys, we paid a friendly visit to the lions, who didn't even bother to raise their tails at the sight of us. The Beast was furious, berating the lions in his own way for being lazy, for having traveled a hundred kilometers and yet showing such lack of manners. Then the camels got mad for hunching over. The peacocks got mad for letting their young peacocks roam free. And so on, and so on. After two hours of the excursion, everyone except the Beast was speechless. If it weren't for the promise that we'd go to the zoo the next day, we probably wouldn't have left yet.

NSZZ Solidarity of People Wanting to Sleep in on Saturday

. Saturday is the worst, or rather, Saturday morning. The Beast doesn't know it's the weekend and wakes up as usual while the rest of the family is fast asleep. The mother turns to the wall and says she has the day off. The father tries to negotiate. He tells the Beast about a certain man with a mustache named Wałęsa. This Wałęsa really hated getting up for work on Saturdays, but he had to because he worked at the shipyard. So he decided to fight for Saturdays off. He jumped the fence and hung himself on the gate. Everyone loved it, because no one liked getting up early on Saturdays. That's how Solidarity was born. The solidarity of people wanting to sleep in on Saturdays. The Beast didn't care about the ethos of solidarity – he carried shoes, a set of stuffed animals, and a hat to the front door.

"Father, it's seven o'clock and we're not in the sandbox yet?

" "Remember the monkeys?"

"What monkeys?"

"Those dogs with red bottoms that jumped so funny...

" "Yeah."

"These monkeys didn't listen to their parents, sat on the cold sand, and now their bottoms are red. The sand is still cold at seven o'clock on Saturday morning. Do you want a red bottom?

" "Yeah."

"Then let's go. I'll put double underwear on you."

We return two hours later, covered in dirt like Donbas miners, we jump on our still-sleeping wife and mother, demanding breakfast. It's a futile effort. The fridge is empty, even more so than our stomachs. We order a retreat—we need to do some shopping, but hush, Mom needs her sleep.