Chapter 7 - Vive la Europe
The first thing Romana said when we walked out of the office and entered the car: “I booked you a 6 p.m. flight to Munich.”
“Thanks for letting me go. It’s already 1 p.m. and we’re in Buckhead, let’s hurry up. I need to get home asap. Can you please give me a ride to the airport?” I asked.
“No, get your own ride. I have to take care of the kids,” she answered, irritated.
I wanted to leave the house at 3 p.m. at the latest to avoid the afternoon rush hour, so I kept pushing my luck.
“Why don’t we pick up Teresa from school a little earlier and all of us can go to the airport?”
Again, the answer was, “No.”
I was able to reach Milan who, as on a prior occasion, had no problem driving me to the airport. I was excited about the upcoming trip and was determined to make the flight, no matter what.
During the drive to the airport, I encouraged Milan to drive as fast as possible and noticed a camera mounted on the windshield in front of me.
“He must have been involved in video recording for some time and just now makes it obvious,” I thought, but did not ask him any direct questions.
In my mind everyone, including Milan, was in on this. I was leaning towards both the Reality TV show and the NSA scenarios, but had no idea which one became my new dimension.
The flight to Munich departed from the newest section of the Atlanta Airport, Concourse F at the International Terminal. We safely made it to the airport and there was plenty of time to look around, admire the architecture, sit down and relax for a few minutes. Since leaving the hospital, I quickly became tired after performing any everyday task and had to nap two to four times per day. Today was no exception, but I was so excited to get away from everything, from this madness.
“Maybe I will be left alone, to recharge my batteries for the next level of the game.”
Romana was a flight attendant for one of the major airlines and my departure was not guaranteed, since I flew standby. The line at security checkpoints appeared to be less than thirty minutes long.
I called my car mechanic, John, regarding Milan’s van, which was falling apart. I had to make the call since Milan doesn’t speak much English. I had known John for more than ten years. It is difficult to find someone who is honest, doesn’t perform unnecessary repairs, or overcharge. John is one of those people who is always friendly and positive. Every time I went to his shop, JW Auto in Austell, he offered me a beer and we talked for a while about anything that was happening in our lives. I consider him more of a friend than just a car mechanic. Milan’s blue 1999 Dodge Caravan had severe engine and transmission problems, something the average person would not consider worth repairing, but not him. He was always emotionally attached to his vehicles and drove them until all four wheels fell off and it became impractical to repair the vehicles any longer. It would have been considered more of a restoration project than a simple repair.
Why all this emotional attachment? Milan grew up under communism where everything was scarce. For example, in the late Eighties, the average lifespan of the cheapest Eastern-made car available on the market was twenty-eight years. The Trabant automobile was made out of laminate and had a simple two-stroke engine, which the average person was able to rebuild on the side of a road within a couple hours in case of unexpected malfunction. There wasn’t even a fuel pump since the gas tank was placed above the engine. The car was literally made to last a lifetime, since people in East Germany had to wait between eleven and fifteen years to buy one. There was a downside to this “simplicity” as well. Trabant produced thirty times more emissions than the Mercedes S500 of that era. Anyway, Milan’s thinking regarding automobiles was similar to a person living on the island ninety miles south of Key West. In 2017 Cuba, it is not uncommon to see 1950s American automobiles that have been on the streets for sixty-plus years, maintained literally from nothing. As expected, John quoted close to three thousand dollars for the repair.
I had to place my shoes, belt, watch, and everything that was in my pockets on a plastic tray just before entering a full body scanner. My jeans almost fell to the floor as soon as I took off the belt.
“Did I really lose all this weight during such a short period of time?” I questioned myself when entering the scanner.
“Spread your legs more and keep your arms risen! Didn’t you hear me?” said a female TSA officer in an impatient tone of voice.
Her wide-open eyes met my eyes for a few seconds.
“I better do what she says or I’ll go back to jail in no time. Again, I am being tricked to act out of the ordinary. She thinks I am just a junkie wearing loose jeans,” I said to myself, and was relieved after the security checkpoints were passed, but facial pains, especially eye pain accompanied with light sensitivity, had resumed.
My worst suspicions had become reality; the eyes were fully dilated when I looked into a mirror mounted in a men’s restroom. “No wonder the TSA agent thought I’m high as a kite when she saw my eyes. I am lucky she didn’t give me anymore problems.”
At a duty-free store, I bought a couple bottles of Belvedere vodka for my dad, then went to the gate. Belvedere is smooth and tasty Polish vodka, but Dad had never heard of it. Stolichnaya, Grey Goose, and Belvedere are my favorite vodkas, especially when mixed with cranberry juice to make a Cape Cod.
The facial pains had become too severe for me to keep my eyes open. I pretended to be asleep and just listened for my name to be called, hopefully to receive a confirmed business-class seat.
“This is definitely a setup; to make me panic in a public place was the ultimate goal of the producers or the agents. That’s why I was somehow drugged to make my eyes dilate. Maybe the marriage therapist or Romana placed something in my drink today.” I came up with this explanation and hoped to get a seat, any seat in coach or business, I didn’t care anymore. I thought of my friend Brant, who I knew from Houston’s restaurant. We always tried to stay positive and laughed, even during the most difficult times.
One particular memory crossed my mind; I used to fly to Europe quite often in the early 2000s and shared my stories with Brant.
“Most of the time I got lucky and sat in business class when flying overseas, and usually talked to the person sitting next to me. You wouldn’t believe how many interesting people I met on those flights, like directors and CEOs of large companies. The conversations were quite interesting,” I said to him.
“That’s great, Joseph, so what do you tell them, what do you have to offer when asked what kind of work you do?” Brant asked.
“Well, this is what I tell them,” I answered with a serious face. I paused for a few seconds then continued to speak. “I am a student at Kennesaw State University pursuing a degree in accounting. I qualified for Pell Grant and HOPE scholarships. My construction company went out of business last year, right after Lehman Brothers. I just filed for Chapter 7 personal bankruptcy and my daughter, Teresa, was born in September. I work part time as a debt collector for a small collection agency.”
Brant opened his mouth, laughed as hard as he could and said, “That’s great, Joseph, you are one of a kind; the person who always finds a way around the system. Do you also tell them you drive a Mercedes to school?”
I then answered, “That’s why I would like to get into taxation, to look for loopholes. Shit, the Mercedes, you have a great point! I didn’t think of this. In order to get a parking pass, a car has to be registered with the school. What if the parking pass data is somehow available to the government office that awards Pell Grant? Only the poorest students are eligible for the scholarship. The Mercedes is almost fifteen years old but still, I don’t want to raise any red flags. If someone starts digging into this, it’s not rocket science to figure out I cheated on my tax returns.”
I was genuinely worried, but Brant comforted me. “Don’t worry, they’re not that sophisticated. To be safe don’t buy any late-model cars.”
“Joseph T., please come to the counter,” a female gate agent stated over the loudspeaker.
I walked to the counter, presented my passport and was given a boarding pass with seat C9 specified.
“Great, a business class seat, this can’t get any better,” I thought, and walked onto the airplane.
The departure was delayed by an hour due to stormy weather. Using my cell phone, I purchased a connecting flight from Munich to Prague, leaving the next morning. I had to purchase a regularly priced ticket since Romana was on short-term disability, so unable to purchase deeply discounted tickets (90% off) on partner airlines. My eyes were still hurting so I placed a fully open newspaper in front of my face to cover the dilation. I was lucky to have a standalone window seat. And then, for no reason, an older female flight attendant asked me if I would like anything to drink. Her eyes met mine at full stare for a few seconds, her facial expression changed to “puzzled.” I thought for sure I am the reason for the delay. It was still being decided if I should be allowed to fly overseas.
I stayed calm and looked around the cabin. All female flight attendants were ladies approaching retirement age. The airline industry is based on seniority and many of the so-called “senior mammas” cherry-pick the best flights and work a couple times a month. The younger flight attendants, like my wife, always complain about them.
“Why would any flight attendant want to retire early while in their forties or fifties? They have employer-sponsored health insurance, can work a few days a month and fly around the world for free. Who is going to provide affordable health insurance in case of early retirement? Not the government, that’s for sure. Many older employees have been with the company thirty or forty years, did their time and deserve to work a few days a week and ‘cherry-pick’ trips. Delta is full of older female and obviously gay male flight attendants and truly is the employer for all people, regardless of race, gender, age, and sexual orientation. I think it’s great. This proves the US antidiscrimination laws work much better than, for example, in the EU or South Korea, where the flight attendants are forced to retire at a certain age. There is only one negative comment about the airline I can think of; per several pilots, Delta was deliberately driven to bankruptcy to reorganize, to be allowed to dump pilot pension plans. Is this just a rumor? Who knows, right?”
As I was finishing my philosophical thinking, the plane finally took off. I just sat there in disbelief, glued to the seat, surprised we were leaving the country. Fatigue overcame me. I put down the newspapers, closed my eyes and tried to get some sleep. I woke up just before the five-course dinner; a glass of chardonnay, shrimp appetizer, creamy vegetable soup, garden salad with vinaigrette dressing, another glass of the gourmet chardonnay, steak with vegetables, fully loaded ice-cream sundae, grapes, strawberries and two glasses of dessert wine. This was exactly the type of food my body craved at that time. The meal itself was worth every penny I paid for the ticket. There was a line of people in front of the restroom. I stood next to the exit doors and looked around. Unexpectedly, in almost perfect synchronized order, three men that surrounded my seat got up and stood behind me in the line. The men, well-built, masculine, and tall, looked like agents.
“I am being followed and there is nothing I can do about it. Crossing borders doesn’t mean anything anymore. The intelligence agencies have presence everywhere, in any city or village in the world where their service is required. The local governments don’t even know it or are powerless to stop them.”
I assessed the situation and continued to stay in line, yawning, and pretended to be extremely tired. The agents didn’t bother me at all, they just stood there in complete silence. The silence, the uncertainty, the not knowing what might happen next, made my heart race. This was nothing new since I had been in similar situations before. At least I knew how to act. After I brushed my teeth and used the restroom, I went to my seat without looking around. I didn’t want to see or experience anything else, I just wanted to quickly fall asleep and arrive at the destination as soon as possible.
In Munich, I missed the connecting flight by twenty minutes. Purchasing a last-minute flight ticket would have cost at least $500. I looked around for alternative transportation and ended up purchasing a ticket for a bus leaving that afternoon, with estimated arrival in Prague five hours after departure.
The bus stopped at Prague’s main train station, from where I took a train to Tišice village, located about fifteen miles outside of Prague. I arrived at the house shortly after 9 p.m., exhausted and hungry, but happy to see my grandma, aunt, and the three cousins: Matyáš, Ondra, and Štěpán. Grandma’s meal was excellent. Smoked beef with red and white cabbage and potato dumplings is one of my favorite dishes. I had two portions. Everyone was astonished at how skinny my body looked. I told them the story, minus the inner thoughts. Due to light sensitivity, I had to keep covering the eyes with my hand and finally asked for the light, suspended above me, to be turned off.
On Saturday, Cousin Ondra and I went out to the city with Marcel Peter, a childhood friend of mine. Marcel is an interesting individual and we have lots in common. He grew up without a dad and was able to brainwash his mom into letting him do pretty much whatever he wanted from an early age, just like me. He is more like family since his uncle, the crazy boyfriend Káža Peter, was shortly married to my mom. They were married in 1994, at the courthouse in Marietta, Georgia, and divorced around 1996. In the good old days, we frequently hung out at the Stardust Casino and did all the fun stuff the City of Prague had to offer. He was always one step ahead of me, always pushing things one step further than everybody else. I was fourteen and Marcel was twelve years old at the time, but looked like he was at least sixteen. Here are a few examples:
Marcel was never afraid of anything and knew what he wanted from life. At age ten, he was brave enough to have sex with a girl for the first time. At age twelve, he had multiple girlfriends, ranging from thirteen to twenty years old. On one occasion, he stole $100 from Uncle Káža’s jacket while he used a restroom when visiting the family. Káža complained to everybody about Marcel on multiple occasions: “I went to use the toilet and he stole $100 from my pocket. That was the most expensive piece of shit that ever came out of my body.”
On a few occasions, money strangely disappeared from his mom’s closet (most people were paid in cash in those days). The mom hired a technician to install a panzer plated entrance door with three independent locks; however, somehow the robber was always able to break into the apartment without damaging the locks or the door.
Mom gave Marcel money to buy new shoes, but he bought a glass of whisky and we played pool at a nearby bar located at Prosek, about ten-minutes’ walk from where he lived. He told his mom the money was lost and kept walking in his old shoes, the only pair he had: sneakers with the sole halfway detached. Prosek is a newer part of the town built in the 1970s and it is known as the classic Communist apartment development complex; all the grey rectangular buildings looked exactly the same, boring and ugly. The apartments themselves looked the same, with the same interior decorations and fixtures. The only difference was the amount of rooms each unit had. The Communists built the apartments for survival, not necessarily for enjoyment. We were kids and didn’t care about where we lived. To stay outside, have fun and wander around the city was everything we ever wanted to do at that time.
On one occasion at my middle school, the whole class, with the teacher right next to me, walked out of the main building to the cafeteria to have lunch. As we were walking outside, passing through the main entrance door, there was Marcel leaning his body against a taxicab and smoking a cigarette.
He waved his hand and yelled at me, “Hey Joseph, how do you like my unannounced visit? Come on, let’s go! We’ll take a cab to the casino and have lunch at the McDonald’s above.”
I separated from the class without saying a word, walked to and entered the cab as fast as possible, and said, “Dude, are you crazy, smoking right in front of my teacher? You’ll eventually get me into trouble.”
Marcel then answered with a calm tone of voice, “Don’t worry about it. There is nothing she can do.”
He was right, nothing ever happened as the teacher didn’t even bother to bring it up.
At the age of sixteen, Marcel’s luck ran out. He was arrested for breaking into cars and stealing the radios. He was released from jail after six months and completely turned his life around. In 1998, at age seventeen, he met his future wife, Ivana, and started a business selling cell phones. Marcel eventually became a real estate agent and a well-respected attorney in and around the city of Neratovice, where he resides. Marcel remained a down-to-earth person, regardless of income, and lives below his means in a two-bedroom apartment of a similar style to the home where he lived as a child. Money is your best servant, but your worst master. The world would be a much better place if more people were aware of this rule.
“Who would have the balls to sue a law school over admission discrepancies? The building is full of lawyers,” I asked myself on numerous occasions.
Marcel not only sued the West-Czech University in Pilsen, but he won, and the school had to admit him. Based on countless political and nonpolitical discussions we had over the years, Marcel had reached a certain point in his life and wanted to make a difference by bringing back to political and public life the ethics the country was known for in the 1920s and 1930s. He has high political ambitions and once said, “I am third Christian, third Jew and third Arab; the perfect person to negotiate peace in the Middle East. Who would want to throw me away from the negotiation table?”
Marcel has a gift; with stone-cold face and smooth tone of voice, he can convince most people of anything, regardless of subject. He will maintain his standpoint no matter what and until a person is fully convinced. I became confused on many occasions. The CIA and NSA would love this guy, he is the human lie detector, someone who can analyze and read people very well. He even uses zodiac signs to assess personality types of potential business partners and competition. Marcel is the perfect politician. In 2009, a newly formed political party called TOP 09 welcomed him with open arms. He moved up fairly quickly and eventually developed a friendly relationship with Miroslav Kalousek, the Czech Republic’s Minister of Finance from 2007–2009 and again in 2010–2013.
Conveniently, Neratovice is only ten minutes away from Tišice and when I am in town, he always picks me up when we go out. Marcel drove his car, a 2011 Škoda Octavia, to my grandma’s house where Ondra and I entered the vehicle. After he and Ondra were introduced to each other, we talked about our families and how things are in general. It’s been a while since we saw each other and we had a lot to talk about. The discussion steered to two subjects: politics and Europe’s refugee crisis.
“How are the politics treating you?” I asked Marcel, then continued, “I read that Kalousek and Babiš (current Minister of Finance) are not the best of friends. They publicly keep accusing each other of who stole more money, and when.”
Marcel loves talking politics and gave me a quick answer. “For Babiš, it’s more about power. In my opinion, he would like to establish a dictatorship similar to Putin’s Russia, where he would be the king. Also, Babiš has plenty of money already; couple years ago, he and his party voted to extend the biofuels subsidy, in fact giving his company, Agrofert, five billion crowns.”
“What about Kalousek? He’s no angel either, right?” I asked him, with a smirk on my face.
Marcel looked away and didn’t give me any answer. I could tell he didn’t feel comfortable discussing the subject any longer, but I was persistent.
“Come on, Marcel, it’s no secret that Kalousek stole billions while he was in charge of the Pandur purchase and other defense contracts in the Nineties. For some reason, he is a huge advocate of church restitutions and a supporter of the gambling industry. Tell me, your secret will stay with me.”
He looked back at me and said, “The party (Kalousek’s TOP 09) insiders conservatively estimate he ‘cleaned’ and hid about seven billion crowns ($350 million) in such a way that nobody will ever find it.”
I was in total shock and said, “I thought it was two billion at most, seven is a little too much. He is smart, like Klaus (Minister of Finance and later President). I am sure Klaus ‘cleaned’ some money as well.”
Marcel answered, “That’s right, he also ‘cleaned’ billions of crowns. Did you know that Kellner is Klaus’ ‘white horse’?”
The conversation was interrupted since we had to decide where to go. A hookah bar close to Náměstí Míru (Peace Square) in Prague 2 was chosen as the place to start the evening. U Bassama Shisha Lounge is cozy, a small place with five tables and a couple of couches, situated in the basement of a historical apartment building built in the 1910s. The owner is a pleasant Middle Eastern man in his late forties who immigrated to the country more than twenty years ago. At the bar, the refugee crisis seemed like the perfect subject to discuss.
“What do you guys think about the refugees? In my opinion, the situation will worsen in the future because of bad politics. I am sure most of the refugees are nice people, but when it comes to social views on life, they have the mentality of 15th-century people. Think about it. These people lived in oppression and terror most of their lives. They are used to women being enslaved or stoned to death because of adultery, and things like public executions and mutilations. The people have no idea what freedom is. That is why they should not be allowed to enter a host country without some sort of training on democracy,” I said, and knew this wasn’t going to be the easiest discussion because I was sitting with two sun-men (Sluníčkář in Czech) who welcomed the refugees with open arms, without thinking about the repercussions that might happen twenty or thirty years down the road.
They both maintained their standpoint and Ondra answered, “I know there may be a few terrorists mixed in, but 90% of the refugees really need help. They will eventually assimilate.”
Marcel entered the conversation. “I am not too happy that millions of people are crossing Europe’s borders. There is nothing we can do but to help them. You know who caused the crisis, right? It’s the Americans. Saddam controlled the region with an iron fist. This wasn’t the best thing for the people, but it worked to a certain degree. The region was at least sort of stable. The U.S. Army brought down Saddam and left Iraq defenseless and unsecured. This created a void, a no-man’s land in the region. ISIS is not about religion, it’s about money. The same people and their friends that were in power under Saddam created ISIS.”
I then said, “That’s an interesting point. As always, it is all about money and defense contracts. That is the reason why the USA doesn’t want to quickly defeat ISIS. We could defeat ISIS in a matter of weeks if we wanted to, since the U.S. Army is the most powerful force on the planet. The government is using the war against ISIS as an excuse to increase defense spending, to appease the armament industry and, of course, to make more money for the industry and the politicians themselves.”
We each had a fruit drink consisting of cranberry juice with club soda, but Marcel was the only one who smoked apple-flavored hookah. I like the apple flavor, but didn’t smoke anything that evening.
“The only way to help the refugees is to set up an enclosed perimeter of, let’s say, fifty square miles somewhere in Spain, and build apartments, schools, and hospitals. The refugees would return home after the war is over,” I said.
“Politically, this could never work,” Marcel quickly answered.
I looked directly into his eyes and answered with a strong tone of voice, “If Grandma Merkel is going to invite the whole Middle East to Europe there will be total chaos. You will see a terrorist attack on a weekly basis. I understand that 90% of the refugees are decent people, but what about the other 10%? For example, if I give you ten pieces of candy and tell you one piece has been poisoned, would you still taste at least one?”
Both Marcel and Ondra were listening and not saying anything. I therefore continued to speak. “You wouldn’t take any, would you? So why accept the refugees without proper screening and a completed pre-assimilation process? In the long run, Merkel will do more damage than Hitler. This is why we need more people like Donald Trump in the government. He is the best thing that happened to the US in a long time. You know a lot of pissed people voted for him. We, the common people, are sick and tired of corporations that continue to outsource more and more jobs overseas each year, until one day, the hamburger flippers and financial speculators will be the only people able to find jobs. Do you guys know the real cause of most wars and misery around the world?”
Both Ondra and Marcel looked at me and answered “No” almost simultaneously, and I said, “It is religion. Organized religion is the source of most human misery and suffering. People are brainwashed to hate each other because of different religious beliefs. It is a pyramid scheme that keeps the people on the top in power and most of the population under control. Look at the history; most deaths from unnatural causes are attributed to religion. Long story short, the world will never be free unless it gets rid of organized religion.”
Marcel diplomatically stated that we should not continue to have this discussion any longer. I looked around and the bar was empty, except for a few older Middle Eastern men, including the owner, who were sitting a few feet away from us playing chess and quietly listening to our conversation. I got the message and we continued to talk about everyday subjects. Before we left the bar, I walked into a narrow corridor where the restroom was located. The owner was walking towards me, holding a case full of beer. I said “Hi” and he said “Hi” as well, while fully avoiding any sort of eye contact. I had a nice and long conversation with him about a year ago, so he had to remember me. It was sort of understandable he didn’t want to talk to me today, since I presented myself as Trump’s advocate, defending his immigration policies.
The next stop of the evening was a dance club, U Zlatého Stromu, located less than 200 feet from the Charles Bridge. The club is a multilevel place with several different bars, dance floors, and many different compartments where people can sit, talk, and drink. Three young, beautiful, and topless girls were dancing all night on top of a bar table in one of the rooms. A lesbian show was on the program that evening as well. The three of us had a few drinks, danced with girls and fully enjoyed ourselves. The politician, Marcel, is a well-networked individual. He contacted a girl who was willing to have some fun with the three of us. After all that had happened in the past couple of months, that was exactly what I needed. For all I knew at that moment, it might have been the last fuck of my life. We left the club right after the lesbian show ended and drove the car away from the city center to pick up the girl. We didn’t have to pay for a hotel room since Marcel, the real estate agent, had a key to an empty but fully furnished apartment that was on sale. Ondra changed his mind and didn’t want to participate in the activities any longer. This was understandable. He was in his early twenties and had just moved to an apartment together with his girlfriend and baby, who was born a few months ago. At least he touched the girl’s naked butt before exiting the master bedroom.
It was close to 5 a.m. and everyone except me was tired. My biological clock was still ticking in the US Eastern time zone, 11 p.m. was the real time my body was experiencing. Marcel and I traditionally end a night by eating a kebab purchased from a small vendor located in the downtown area, right across from Máj department store. My preference would have been a Waffle House, if I were able to find one. We skipped the closing ceremony and drove home.
Overall, the trip was going very well. I did not experience any of my usual medical symptoms, except for eye pain and sensitivity to light. Even those symptoms went away after about week. I felt very close to normal and was able to forget about the possible scenarios: Reality TV game, the Paranoid NSA, the Matrix and Heaven vs Hell.
“Did I really experience all those events? I feel as normal as ever. Maybe everything was just a bad dream. Is this going to resume once I return to the USA?” I thought, and immediately went over the physical evidence: the Facebook posts and the fact I didn’t have a job confirmed the incidents happened for real. The idea of writing some sort of a book first entered my mind a few days into the trip. I spent each morning with my grandmother discussing the family history and suspected that many of the events that happened to my family over the past one hundred-plus years are somehow connected to the recent unusual experiences. I hung around the house a lot and spent as much time as possible with my other two cousins, Štěpán and Matyáš.
Štěpán is the classic middle-school kid who spends most of his free time on social media sites or playing video games. He rarely goes outside to play with his friends. Times have really changed since I was a kid. To stay home was the worst punishment imaginable. But, overall, he is a great kid who helps his single mom with many household items, including eating half of everything that is in the refrigerator in the middle of a night.
Matyáš is almost thirty years old and still lives with his mom. Why move out if you have a free place to stay and hot homemade meals cooked from scratch on a daily basis, by his mom Simona or his grandmother? He lives the classic bohemian lifestyle; is around one or more free-loving girlfriends, enjoys life to the fullest each day by camping, exploring caves and historical sites, partying and not caring what may happen tomorrow from social and financial perspectives. At least he has been able to hold a steady job since 2012.
From 2010 to 2012, Matyáš lived at my mom’s house in Marietta, Georgia, and picked up some useful work ethics such as to get up from the bed and make it to work on time. He was not afraid of anything, including driving my mom’s 1992 Toyota Corolla with broken AC to the Great Lakes and back. He and his friend, also a young man from Czech, slept in the car most of the time. In the middle of the night, in downtown Chicago, they picked up a hitchhiker and were robbed at gunpoint. The money was lost, but their lives were spared. Matyáš and his friend had picked up many hitchhikers in the Czech Republic before and didn’t think this might happen to them. Matyáš’ stay in the USA was cut short when he was arrested by Gwinnet County police on I-85 after a minor car accident. Unfortunately, an immigration officer at the Gwinnet County jail checked his background and scheduled him for deportation.
My mom bailed him out of the ICE immigration prison by placing her house as collateral. He legally left the country six months later. I was sad but happy at the same time, when he said the final goodbye and left for the airport. I knew we would never be able to hang out together like that ever again. I was happy to see him go because there was no future for him in the USA. Unless a bride was found, Matyáš would always be illegally working rough jobs, like cleaning grocery stores at night. The stripping chemicals used to scrub the floors caused him to cough blood on numerous occasions. Mostly the Polish Mafia conveniently employed and underpaid illegal workers from Eastern Europe to clean Walmarts, Krogers, Publixes, Big Lots, and many other stores. The workers, of course, were not provided with any safety equipment to mitigate the risk of poisoning caused by the chemicals.
I visited my stepdad, Milan, and his wife, Ivana. They have been together since the mid-Eighties, hiding the relationship in the early days from their spouses. This visit was unlike any other experienced before; Grandma, Aunt Simona and Štěpán accompanied me on the visit. For some reason, Milan lives about twenty miles from Tišice, but the two families are not in regular contact. It has been at least a couple years since the last time Milan saw my grandmother. I had a chance to thank him for wiring me nineteen thousand dollars two weeks prior to the arrest.
In the middle of 2016, Milan and Ivana sold their business and retired. One of the main reasons the businesses were sold was due to a recently passed law (EET) that targets mainly small business owners. The new requirement is to electronically connect to the central tax department and live report every single item sold.
“Many small restaurants and pubs are barely staying afloat. Is it fair they have to immediately report every single bubble gum or beer sold, while in the meantime, high-ranking government officials are passing favorable laws to help them, in fact, steal billions of crowns from taxpayers? I don’t know the answer to that question but the Minister of Finance, Mr. Babiš, surely does,” I thought, while relaxing on a comfortable couch at Milan’s house.
I had visited Europe many times since moving to the USA in 1994, but had never hung out with my stepbrother, Patrik. This time was different. Patrik, his wife, and I went out and had dinner in a nearby pizza place. A few days later, we had lunch and went out to the Model Train Museum. We were able to catch up on our lives and relax in general. His business, a small commercial laundry, was also not doing too good, far from the golden Nineties, when everything and anything you put your mind and money into worked and was profitable. The profits eroded over the years, due to economies of scale and increased competition.
And, lastly, I visited my biological dad, Josef, and his wife, Kamila, numerous times. The visits were great and probably the best to date. Kamila normally doesn’t talk much but this time she was able to keep up with Dad, who always talks way more than anybody else. The three of us were finally able to communicate on the same page; we discussed and made fun of the crooked politicians. We also spoke about our lives, everyday problems and pleasures, and thoroughly discussed the family history from his side. My dad always picked on his dad because of political views. My granddad grew up in the 1940s, and in the late 1950s became a Communist supporter. To this day, he didn’t return his red book and remained loyal to the party. Dad was the exact opposite; he disliked and to a certain extent fought against the Communists his whole life. This created a huge friction/wound between Granddad and Dad which to this day has never healed. We discussed the circumstances of my job loss, arrest, hospitalization, and the memory loss (less the inner thoughts) while a show about alien abductions played on TV.
“Sounds like you were abducted by aliens,” my dad said, as a joke.
My face froze as I looked directly into his eyes and thought, “This better not be another possible scenario. I need to get those books as soon as I get back. Mom surely still has them in her house.”
I remembered the mysterious Swiss man, his alien contacts, then replied to my dad, “Yeah, right, you could not come up with a crazier explanation than this. All these people claiming to have contact with or be abducted by aliens are actors. I know the people because I live in the USA. This is Hollywood! All they want is money and fame. It’s such bullshit.”
“It doesn’t seem like bullshit to me,” he said.
I quickly changed the subject of the discussion to something else. Dad, for some reason, was a big believer in that aliens do exist and we’d had similar conversations before. In the back of my mind, I also believed life exists somewhere else besides the Earth, but to this point always had other things to worry about. Other things, like going to work, providing for and spending time with my family. My dad, on the other hand, had all the time in the world to think about aliens since he was already retired.
Sometime in the middle of the trip, I bought two tickets to see a Macbeth opera in the old National Theater, standing on the bank of the Vltava River, overlooking the Prague castle. My preference would have been Don Giovanni; unfortunately, the opera was scheduled to play next month at a different theater. My grandma was almost eighty. I had a feeling this could be the last time the two of us had an opportunity to see an opera together, especially at the National Theatre. This wasn’t the only cultural event I experienced during my trip. The whole family went to see a musical performance played by The Charles University orchestra, where Cousin Ondra was singing. We had third-row seats and the performance was amazing. I had a chance to admire all the beautiful college girls who were performing or walking around the Municipal House concert hall, dressed at their best.
A few days before my departure, I went to a late lunch with my childhood friend, Honza Dosedla. I’ve known him since elementary school and we always hung out every time I was in town. He suggested we go to the U Fleků pub. This was strange, since for the past ten years we always met at a different pub, called U Houtků, in Žižkov; an older area of town located away from the tourist-filled city center. About fifteen years ago we went to the U Fleků pub all the time but haven’t been there since. According to written documents, the pub has been continuously brewing its own beer, dark 13-degree lager, since 1499. According to legend, the place has been brewing beer since the mid-1300s. This is kind of cool since the original owners possibly died of the Black Plague that ravaged Europe during that time. Anyway, I arrived about an hour ahead of schedule, sat down at a window table closest to the exit door, had a few beers and talked with a couple of middle-aged ladies sitting right next to me. An older gentleman played harmonica, so I gave him 200 crowns to play some of my favorite folk songs, such as “Škoda Lásky” and “Co Jste Hasiči.” Once Honza arrived, I ordered my favorite dish: half an oven-roasted duck with bacon, potato, and bread roll dumplings, accompanied by cooked red and white cabbage and, of course, another pint of the black beer. He ordered a goulash with bread roll dumplings. We spoke about the events that had happened to me over the past couple of months (again, less the inner thoughts). He listened continuously for about two hours and then said, “You’re not gonna believe what happened to me. I was hospitalized with a nervous breakdown in the middle of December, an ambulance was called to my work. The diagnosis was stress-related breakdown and I have been taking it really easy since then. A doctor prescribed me some psycho pills, but I refused to take them.”
I was in total shock but remained calm. “I hope you feel better. How are your wife and kids?” I said to him, and thoughts were racing through my mind at the same time: “Who is this person? Is he an actor or the friend I’ve known for over thirty years? Are the producers fucking with my mind again? All this is too coincidental.”
I started to talk about the music from our childhood. “One concert I regret not attending was the legendary one, the one that happened in 1991 at Bzenec, where all the bands like Tři Sestry, Orlík and Braník performed together.”
“Something like that is never going to happen again,” Honza answered.
Here is some background information explaining why an event like that is extremely rare. For a few years after the 1989 Velvet Revolution, the whole country was in total happiness and euphoria, including the shaved skinheads and the long-haired anarchists. To my knowledge, this was the only time in the history of the planet the two groups that traditionally hated each other came together and did a joint concert. The main sponsor of the festival was the well-known cultural and political weekly magazine, Reflex. The band Braník was/is and will be the only openly racist band that has a logo and the name of its sponsor, also named Braník – the fifth-largest brewery in the country – printed on the back cover of the album, Power. It is the only album the band ever recorded. The band’s slogan, Braník pije (drink) Braník, is printed right below the logo.
Another popular skinhead band of the time was Orlík. The band’s debut album, Oi, was one of the best-selling 1990 albums in Czechoslovakia. Even someone like Lou Fanánek Hagen, the front man of Tři Sestry punk rock band, who is normally reserved, got carried away by the unique atmosphere of the event. In a TV interview given during the concert, he made a few unpleasant comments about the gypsy minority. No one – the event organizers, the sponsors, the bands themselves or anybody else – was ever sued for racial discrimination or for supporting human rights violations against certain groups of people. The early Nineties was unlike any other period in the modern history of Czechoslovakia. It was a no-man’s land, a paradox, some sort of twilight zone where everything and anything was possible. It was a period of lawlessness where, to a certain extent, you could say and do whatever you desired without any repercussions. Even if the political system were to change in the future, this type of lawlessness will never happen again.
“How did we first find out about the Braník band?” I asked Honza.
“You don’t remember?” he answered, and continued, “I came across the album by accident when my mom and I went Christmas shopping. I said to my mom, ‘Look, Mom, these songs like “White Europe” are great. Please buy me the record.’ She looked at the album and beside ‘White Europe’ saw the ‘Fuckable’ song, then answered, ‘No, Honza, this album is inappropriate for you!’ and bought me the Vysací Zámek album instead.”
I then remembered the surrounding circumstances and said, “That’s right, she refused to buy you the cassette, so I immediately ran to my mom, who gave me the money with no questions asked. I bought the album and we listened to it the next day after school.” (In March 2017, I unsuccessfully searched for the original cassette. It’s a shame. It would have been a collectible, since only twenty thousand records were released.)
I remembered about our other favorite records of that era: Rebelie Punk ‘N’ Oi (1990) and Ultrametal (1990). These two albums feature a nice collection of bands that were forbidden to legally exist until late 1989. This is real music, way different from the mainstream commercial garbage that’s coming off assembly lines these days. "Well, because we are all over fifteen, there is not five of us and shaking our asses on TV and singing other people's songs. . ." Dave Mustaine of Megadeth once said, when asked, "What was it about the music business or music itself that made you say, OK I've had enough?"
The year 1990 was incredible for Czechoslovak music. Many artists that were unable to perform released their first official albums. Tři Sestry – Na Kovárně to je nářez and Orlík – Oi fully capture the unique spirit of the era and are my two favorite albums from that time. The two bands heavily advertised their first albums on TV since there were hardly any domestic and foreign corporations willing to pay ridiculous amounts of money for a few-second time slots. The commercials were memorable. Tři Sestry video clip: a man with guitar enters the Na Kovárně pub and within a few seconds, the bartender kicks him out and breaks his guitar over an asphalt sidewalk. In the Orlík commercial, the group members ride a wooden cart going downhill, while laughing. Other bands like Tublatanka – Žeravé Znamenie Osudu and Arakain – Thrash the Thrash became the symbols of the Velvet Revolution for younger people.
By 6 p.m. I had about eight pints of beer in me but, oddly enough, I wasn’t drunk or had any kind of buzz at all. The Macbeth opera was scheduled to start at 7.30 p.m., so we left the pub and walked to the Main Train Station, positioned just above Wenceslas Square, to meet Grandmother. Honza knew my grandma very well since she had been his third-grade elementary school teacher. We both attended the same class until seventh grade, when I was kicked out of the language school for receiving one D grade. I attended normal middle school until we moved to the USA.
It felt special, sort of magical, sitting in the National Theatre for the first time in at least a quarter of a century. The opera exceeded my and my grandmother’s expectations. Most importantly, I was grateful for having the opportunity to experience such a special event with my grandma. What a perfect ending to the perfect trip.
I didn’t want to take a bus from Prague to Munich again. I purchased a flight ticket to Frankfurt, from where I flew standby to Atlanta.
“Lucky me, another free business-class seat!” I thought, as I entered the US-bound airplane in Frankfurt.
I had plenty of time to recap the two-week trip. It was a great trip, since I was able to do everything and see everyone according to plan. Most importantly, except for Honza’s coincidental hospitalization, I was left alone by the producers, intelligence agencies and everybody else, as a matter of fact. During the second week of the trip, I felt normal and did not have unusual inner thoughts and did not experience any weird events. I was almost sure my life would get back to normal upon my return; to start a business or find a job, go to court, to see the marriage therapist, would be the only few things required to resume living the life I had known until December 2016.
“How are the girls doing? I miss them, and the lunches, they were so much fun. I hope nothing bad happened to Ronnee.”
As I thought about the three women from Argos, I became sad and hopeless. I was in love with Ronnee and didn’t have a clue what to do about it.