Skip to main content

‘He Ain’t Heavy’, Part II


(Cont’d from Part I)

. . . V. E.’s size works against him.  He is unable to lower his center of gravity and thus has to grab Rhappy around the chest rather than lower down — that is, what would be beneath Rhappy’s center of gravity.  This makes V. E.’s task of getting Rhappy into the dumpster hard going, and, as such, Rhappy at length wins the struggle.  Winded, V. E. shifts his attention to our fourth character, the proud and poised Giorgi, “Gio” for short.

Giorgi, the energetic young go-getter working his way out of hard times, is as stark a contrast to his peers as it is possible to be.  Each morning Gio brings delicious-looking baked goods to the supermarket.  Sober and walking tall, he delivers the delights with a quip and a smile not only for the drunkards but also for the ladies working in the store.  He even tosses V. E. a warm treat for free.  Thunderous lip-smacking and finger-sucking — and the jelly doughnut is promptly reduced to oblivion.

Gio then holds the door open for a second delivery man who, just a moment ago, had to honk his horn twice to get V. E. and Rhappy to move from the driveway so that he could park his van.  Instead of moving, the pair had given him the “I ain’t the one” shoulder shrug, arms straight and pointed down, palms out flat, as if to ask also, Why can’t you just drive around us, you lazy bastard?

The shenanigans are coming to a close.  The boys, including a revived Number Three — Lazarus — are done playing grab-ass, their buzz wearing off.  Rhappy is squatting Asian-style on his haunches.  V. E., now satiated, issues a solemn good-bye and starts to cross the street. 

Not two minutes later I hear a commotion in the landing: a heavy banging on my neighbor’s door.  I look through the peephole.  I had moved in only two months earlier and had not met any other tenants.  As far as I knew, my neighbor was an octogenarian so hard of hearing that her television was also mine.  I thought she lived alone.  But sure enough she just opened the door for a huge shadow with a now-familiar voice.

Catching myself in the act of spying, I realize that it’s high time I get some proper sleep lest I myself end up on the streets with the boys.

   *  *  *
Select Enlightenment:
F. MacLean, Eastern Approaches (London: Jonathan Cape, 1949).

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

HE AIN’T HEAVY — THE GRAND FINALE

( Cont’d from parts I and II .) After a year in town the sounds of the street which I once thought sensuous became nothing more than endless streams of noise. Once again I couldn’t manage to fall asleep. Rhappy, V. E. and Co. were at it right outside my bedroom window. I considered getting up and roaring from the balcony, fist pumping like Il Duce, but finally could not bring myself to do it. It will only make things worse, I decided, because then they will start to take pleasure in annoying me in subsequent 3:30 am sessions, talking even louder to mock my fury. Better to let them remain oblivious to my suffering, to do it in silence. At length I became so tired that their voices seemed sufficiently muffled to act as a white-noise machine . When I got up later that morning I took a closer look at the pine tree whose branches shaded my window. It reminded me of a tree I had seen near a chapel at Kodjori, a town in the foothills above Tbilisi with a ruined fortress t...

Beijing The Behemoth

Beijing the behemoth. At the airport I’m beat from being up some thirty-odd hours, but too sentient to think of sleep, the hotel be damned. Throw me instead into this sea of concrete, bemused smiles and unabashed stares. In the taxi with Chris, the school’s recruiter, Iphigenia and I watch the towers of concrete repeat themselves for miles. I command myself to take in every detail, no matter how small. But I’m fading fast and when the city center at last comes into view, she’s too late. The fatigue has unfortunately set in and I can’t make out much but the obvious: taxis, bicycles, rickshaws. . . . And so the hotel it is for us, because anyway I’m just too damn worked up. I don’t have a map, I don’t speak Mandarin, I haven’t changed any money yet. I promise myself a good random stroll the next morning, one which will enlighten me as to the way of the street, the dao of the hú tòng.  But the morrow brings nothing so edifying. Only a short walk with killjoy Chris, who cl...

‘He Ain't Heavy, He's My Neighbor’, Part I

I have a drinking problem.  That is, I have a problem with drinking in Georgia. At least five times a week I am awoken at various early morning hours by the so-called street boys.  It is usually a youngish crowd in their twenties barking in the street outside my flat. Some, admittedly, come home with an honest boozy glow about them: though their wits are dulled, they seem good-natured and maintain a modicum of respect for their sober sleeping neighbors. Others lack this restraint.  They yell at their friends’ windows ten storeys up.  Hanging all over one another, they cry out their friends’ names in drunken exuberance at the top of their formidable lungs: “Avto-o-o!” and “Lu-u-uka-a-a!”  They finish the lively conversations they must have been having earlier indoors, and they turn up their car stereos to the point where the bass grabs my window and throttles it like a can of paint in a mixer. Surely, all must be stolen away from dreamland at the...