Hey, Old Man!
Brno can be mystic too
Hey, Old Man!
“Hey, old man!” is the starter of every morning, even on weekends, Hampl pesters you even at off hours. “Lousy business…” he says with a helpless gesture. And you think, “Bloody workaholic”.
“Old chap, you’re out of the set, we don’t see you any more in the club, at Dufek’s dacha. What happened?”
It could be put like this: “Pajo, old man! I’m so glad to see you! Drop in tonight, by all means!” Or, “Old man, you’ve slackened a lot, got thin and peaky. Are you okay? Really? Don’t you want to tell me something?”
“Take it easy, chap, things will sort themselves out. Life is a strange thing, you know…” Well, that’s for sure.
Nonstop: in the shop, in the club, at parties, at the barber’s and at the gas station, even your MISTRESS does it! Over and over again they harp - old man! Old man! Old man! Perhaps, only your mother calls you by name…
…But you’re not an old man. You’re just twenty eight. It’s just that a year ago you accidentally found yourself at a psychic hotline in one of the restaurants next to Capuchin Square. It may be hard to believe, but some spirit offered each of the ritual’s participants to choose blindly his or her chapter in the book of fates. This demon could allegedly repeal the already traced line of life, obliterate the past and give a carte blanche. With a cunning smile you watched your agitated fellows in misery. When it was your turn to choose a page number in the endless book, you decided to dodge (after all, why not?), and asked the spirit to give you a hint, to point out the numbers of the most ordinary, mediocre, commonplace fortunes. The spirit could think of only one chapter. There was no choice. When the lottery was over, each participant cloistered himself in a special closet. There, hidden behind the dark and heavy velvet curtain, he was going to listen attentively to a short audio play that would define everything, all the nuances and details of new adventures for body and soul. You left the restaurant at daybreak. Water carts were rolling along the sidewalks with quiet rustle. Only near Moravian Square you managed to snag a taxi. The driver was expressly polite. And you suspected nothing. Only at home, having kicked off the shoes, did you see your reflection in the cupboard mirror – your hair was white as snow… “Hey, old man…” nodded the man in the mirror.