Skip to main content

Ferekeeko Strikes Again!

Image
By


Coming home from my Georgian lesson, I got a second one for free, on individual responsibility.

On Chavchavadze Avenue again, in the Vake neighborhood, I’m busy furtively checking myself out in the shop windows when all of a sudden I see a beast of a man shove his petite wife, a shove such as two men do just before they throw punches at each other. She stops, drops her head and waits for the man, presumably her significant other, to grab her by the throat with his left hand. He holds her thus, screaming at the top of his lungs into her ear.

I have a big choice to make . . . and I decide, gutlessly, to keep walking and pretend that it doesn’t concern me. Taking a punch from some swarthy-souled cretin in the name of chivalry? — Ferekeeko, do not put the blame on me!

But another man walking towards me makes the right choice. In his sixties, of a slight build compared with the cretin, he seems to be on his way home from the shop. As soon as his eyes hit the couple, he acts. Snapping to attention he tells the cretin to take it easy — whereupon he, the cretin, angrily swings round on him.

Now I have a second chance to make the right choice, and this time, inspired by our hero, I stand firm. The blood rushes to my head and spurs a ringing in my ears. I clench my fists and wait to make sure that the cretin does not touch the good man. A few passers-by crane their necks to watch.

The cretin gets right in the man’s face and kicks up a loud fuss. I can’t make out any of their words. But sure enough, he doesn’t lay a finger on our hero and walks off with his whipping-girl in tow. In a few steps she catches up with him, and while walking abreast of each other the soft twilight tickles their slouching frames. Their gait slows but they don’t look back. 

Then our hero looks around to see who has been watching the scene. His eyes meet mine. I nod and shake my head in approval. He is visibly disgusted. And suddenly I wonder whether that disgust might actually be meant for me.

Labels

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Portland Flashback

By
“Put this under your tongue,” Josh said, handing me three small circles of thin white paper. The club’s owner, a dubious character, not because of his whittled-away teeth or the stringy, wet hair plastered to the sides of his head, but because of the sheen over his dark pupils, had offered the goods to Josh. I hesitated, but then this sickly looking man gave me a friendly salute. And so, already three sheets to the wind, I placed not one but all three under my tongue. They were tasteless and dissolved in seconds. While I waited for the fun to kick in I scanned the room. Halloween: goth kids dressed up as vampires. Or — wait a minute — were they vampires disguised as humans? The room was changing. I looked over at Josh to make sure he was still there. The pudgy motherfucker, with a serene grin on his face, was lost in the screeching music. All of a sudden I caught the hungry gaze of a vampire, its eyes comically wide open. Don’t look at me! Averting my eyes I watched as the wal...
Post a Comment
Read more

No. 6

By
To my dad My intestinal fortitude can be summed up in one basketball game fifteen years ago.  It was my junior year in high school, about halfway through the season. I was supposed to be improving and readying myself to play full time on the varsity squad the following year. On to glory. But my will failed me. And to think of my actions now makes my heart hurt. The ankle had been sprained but was undoubtedly on the mend. By half-time, though my body felt as light and nimble as it ever had, I was defeated. Barlow, the lively bastards, had us down big, and were showing no signs of slowing. The full-court press was kept up in spite of the lead. We had spent the first twenty minutes watching their guys take the ball from us and drop in easy lay-ups. They seemed to have sprouted wings. Instead of talking to my teammates and suggesting a strategy, I would take the inbound pass and delude myself into thinking I could break Barlow’s press single-handedly, dribbling ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Character

By
I first met the Bear on an unseasonably warm November afternoon. We sat on his balcony and were supposed to be discussing a job. But I squinted against the warm sun, and the Bear puffed a thin cigarette as we drank coffee from exquisite tea cups. A lively little jazz number reached us from inside his den. The Bear’s paws drummed the tune in time. This large omnivorous epicure smoked only hand-rolled cigarettes, which smelled like rain-kissed earth. He sipped only the darkest Turkish coffee, laced with just a touch of sugar. Naturally, he also listened to only the smoothest jazz, the transitions of which, he said, were made as flawlessly as can be done on any instrument in this world. He got quiet, closed his eyes and lifted his paw as if to command me to wait in silence for the next one. . . . Later the conversation turned to a mix of language and politics. Growing up in Belgium with one parent from the UK and one from Austria left him speaking three languages, and he’s a...
Post a Comment
Read more