Malfeasance in Motion

Excerpt from Malfeasance in Motion...

Drunk Man in Ljubljana

Slovenia, 2004

   Now believe me, I’m definitely not the high and mighty, holier-than-thou-type by any means. I’m not one to tell you how to live your life. But nobody likes a sloppy drunk do they? Especially when the sloppy drunk is bothering you instead of someone else. And drunks always have to bother somebody don‘t they? I tend to avoid drunks in most settings, but somehow, some way, I always wind up becoming a malfeasance magnet. A bulls-eye target for drunks. They just like to talk to me for some reason. It must be the look in my eye. If there’s a weirdo in the area, they’re headed straight for me. Maybe I look compassionate? Like maybe I give a damn about what they have to say? Well, maybe if it’s a good enough story. Unfortunately, the story is rarely a good one and a mean look just isn’t good enough to disway them. Don’t ask me what it is, cause I don‘t know.

   I feel a bit guilty talking to you about drunks while I sit here sipping on an ice cold Red Stripe, but what the hell, here goes…

   The old frotterist Dusty De Carlo and I had just returned from a day trip to Bled, a beautiful lakeside, alpine town nestled beneath the Julian Alps in northwestern Slovenia. After a shower at our pension, which happened to be located above a fancy vegetarian restaurant, we strolled through Tivoli Park. Ljubljana’s version of Central Park. However, I’ll have to admit, I was more worried about stepping in dog crap than getting mugged while traversing this one.

   A mile or so and twelve peel outs later (apparently the art of peeling out is a very novel thrill to Ljubljanites), we hit the historic downtown district splayed out beneath the imposing Ljubljana Castle, which rests on a bluff above the river and storied town below. Sorry, but I have to back step to the peel outs. Some towns like Antigua, Guatemala, feature backfires, while others such as Cusco, Peru sport horn honking as their pastimes. Ljubljana just has an affinity for squealing rubber. And I don’t mean two or three isolated incidents. The rubber was burning all over town.

   Ljubljana, the capital city of Slovenia, and formerly known as Emona in Roman times, is a thriving, bustling, modern city. Which seems to be a rarity in Slavic circles. Or maybe Zagreb was really beautiful and I somehow missed out. But I doubt it. The crown jewel of the city centre is the Old Town district, which straddles the Ljubljanica River ( a tributary of the Sava River), where a tired old traveler can grab a cool drink and people watch beside the famous Triple Bridge or gawk down on those floating by on beer boats. It’s in these environs you’ll find the tourists and I guess it stands to reason…The drunks.

   We had spent the entire day walking. Many a mile. So as the sun finally set, we wearily shook out a couple stools at an outdoor café nestled between the river and a pedestrian walkway. Feeling good about our position next to several pretty damsels, we ordered a drink and prepared to relax after the long day of traversing.

   No sooner did our drinks arrive than a drunk Norwegian guy in his mid-fifties swaggered up to our table. Just zeroed right in on us. He couldn’t have chosen one of the other fifty tables in the joint? He propped his elbows up on the raised glass table and attempted to light a cigarette from the wrong end. We didn‘t stop him. “Where are you from”, he slurred out at us in English with a strong Scandinavian accent. “What is your name?” “Where are you from?” “What is your name?” Unfortunately this went on longer than I can stand to explain. Finally he changed his tune and began a rant on how intelligent he was. “I aaammm intelligent.” “I aammm an idiot.” “I aamm intelligent, I really am.” “No…I’m annn idiot.”

   He then decided he liked hanging out with his new found friends and made himself welcome by ordering a beer. He spilled more than he drank. We couldn’t quite figure out what to make of the guy. He definitely wasn’t a bum. He had nice duds on and was probably a successful guy, but not this night. He was anything but.

   He gave us a sermon on how we were “just the same as him”. What the hell that meant, I don’t rightly know? “I am Norwegian, you are American, we are the same”, he babbled over and over. In between rants and raves he screwed on a serious (albeit very comical) look and told us how important a man he was. Then he pounded his chest and subsequently the table and asked in shotgun bursts if we knew why Reagan was shot? When I told him I knew why, this seemed to make him angry, so he asked the same blithering question three more times.

   Eventually he gave us a brief reprieve and stumbled across the narrow stone street to relieve himself on the building across the way. In plain view of everyone at the cafe. Unfortunately, he gradually found his way back to our table and proceeded to ask the same silly questions all over again. As if we missed the premier. By this time, we were tired of the old boy and told him how it was…Drunk or not. “Dude, you’re gonna have to hit the road, we don‘t want to talk to you anymore.” With this announcement, he became saddened and began the “I’m aaannnn idiot” speech anew. He looked like a lost puppy as he headed toward the middle of the café.

   He located new targets. Maybe two of each, double-vision style, as he nearly knocked two tables over. Umbrellas and glasses quivering. New victims to pester and torment. Anybody that would listen. “What is you name?“ “I aamm intelligent.“ Waiters chasing him around as he picked up drinks off tables and started to down them.......