2 bowls of goulash, 2 frothy beers, 2 Czechs sitting against the wood-paneled partition; They are engrossed in talk. The one on the right being the more gregarious & jovial of the two. The other has yet to smile; he looks like a cop or a hitman in some made-for-youtube flick; head large and planed flat in the back, a thinking stone; crewcut except for the rattail sitting on his collar. He’s dressed like many of the Czechs I have seen in the city: bluejeans stitched with 1000 superfluous zippers and seams, furry clearance-rack pullover embroidered with 3D parallelograms of a 1990s screen saver design, shiny black leather shoes with insidious pointed tips.
The waitress arrives with a beaker of vodka, pours the shots; they toast, the jovial one percolates with laughter. The other still refusing that grace. It’s as if mirth is prohibited in his stoic world. But then, after about three shots, it happens: he forgets himself for a moment, then he remembers; he wipes the grin off his mouth like it’s a sloppy lipstick mark & scans the room for witnesses.
Smiling, apparently, connotes weakness.
Prague, October 2011
Sketches from Berlin (& Parts Beyond) 