CHAPTER 7 - Worries And Whats

BY the time of my one-month anniversary in the Czech Republic, money, or the lack thereof, had started becoming more and more of an issue. I figured out that I needed at least twelve hours of work per week in order to make ends meet. Just the basics – rent, food, books, and beer. I, however, only had six hours of steady work with my two evening classes. And so, as the bare last pennies I had saved up as that pharmacy cashier in Philadelphia so many months ago trickled into nothingness, I found myself in Elvis begging for more teaching hours.
I should say that I always felt a bit cautious when it came to my relationship with the King. Yet there was some justification in this. Certain things just didn't seem right. First of all and reason enough, Reinhard also worked there. What kind of school would hire him? In fact, what kind of school would hire me? In addition, the apparent "director" of this so-called language school, Priscilla, couldn’t even form a complete English sentence. Then there was also the fact that Kim had warned me that they might fire me without rhyme or reason.
Most disturbingly, the school was named after the King. It didn’t stop there however. The obsession with Elvis was deeper than I could have ever imagined. The front of every classroom I ever taught in for them was normal enough – a blackboard with chalk and eraser, a teacher’s desk, and a picture of the Czech President, Vaclav Havel, hanging prominently for all to see. Even more prominent though, and this is were it got a little too weird, were the large posters of Elvis Presley on both sides of the blackboard and plastered throughout the classroom. There were over a dozen of them in each class. I only ever saw one room and that was "relatively" empty... that one had "only" six posters of the King scattered on its walls. Presley was dressed in a bejeweled velvet suit and assuming a classic pose with microphone in hand. He was young and thin on a black and white stage. He was fat and performing live this Thursday in Jacksonville. He had just enlisted in the Army. He had just eaten a dozen jelly donuts and was now shaking Nixon’s hand. The small black and white photo of Havel – the first truly elected president this country had had after forty years of first Nazi, then Soviet oppression – could hardly compete with those posters of the King immediately below. But Elvis, the school not the legend, was still my only means of survival in this foreign land. There was nothing else I could do. I reluctantly placed my fate in their hands.
The school’s director, or rather, his wife Priscilla, told me that on any given week, there were usually an average of two substitution positions. These normally consisted of teaching fifteen or so post-high school students starting each morning at half past eight and lasting for three hours. I told Priscilla my situation and that I would gladly take any work available, so she obliged me by promising to give me priority as far as filling those weekly substitutions was concerned. My financial woes seemed to be over as the King once again outstretched his graceful hand.
Although I had the same initial communication issues with these students as I had had that fateful first day of teaching in November, my substitution classes were enjoyable enough. These pupils, most of them my age or a bit younger, had grown accustomed to their regular teachers’ routines of pair-work and workbook exercises. They were also used to someone who could speak Czech. I did neither.
"Hello class! My name is Paul Andrakis. Let me write that on the board for you. P-A-U... I will be your substitute teacher for today. Do you know what ‘substitute’ is? ... No? Well, it’s something, or someone, who acts instead of the normal thing or person. Okay? Um, let’s see... Your normal teacher told me to review the Past Continuous with you and do exercises fifteen to eighteen in the workbook. But, I don’t think I’m gonna. Instead, how about we..." I paused and turned around to take something out of the bag on my desk. I also paused for suspense, but seeing as most of the students had probably only understood me up until the ‘Hello class! My name is Paul’ point of my little speech, I decided it was pointless and soon continued, "...listen to some music instead!" as I waved the cassette in my hand.
They showed neither excitement nor disapproval at the proposal. Throughout my stay in Prague, I found that the Czechs, more so than other peoples I have encountered, are masters at controlling their emotions. More often than not, I would never be able to tell if a Czech was happy, sad, or something in between unless they directly told me what was on their mind. My countless substitute students were no exceptions. "Okay, well I’m gonna play you guys some songs today and then we’ll go through the lyrics together. These are pretty popular songs," I would always choose something from The Beatles, Rolling Stones, etc., "so you should recognize them. This way, you’ll be able to understand these tunes the next you hear them on a radio or in a pub! Sound good?!"
Silence.
"Well, okay then. I guess we’ll start. But before that, any questions? ... Yes! Yes, you. What’s your name?"
"Honza. Pardon, but what is ‘lyrics’?"
I explained what lyrics were. Still, none of the students showed any sign of interest. "Any other questions?"
"Yes, please. When is regular teacher returning?"
Basically, that’s how most of my morning substitutions went. Sometimes, after these lessons, a few of the students would invite me for a drink. I wasn’t sure if this was because A) they needed some alcohol to cope with the ‘English’ they had just learned, or B) they wanted to have a conversation with a native speaker. Either way, I always accepted, if I didn’t have to teach later on in the day, and found that, as the sun went down and the beer consumption grew, most of these people were as friendly as could be.
After one of those substitutions, it must have been my third or fourth, I stumbled home late in the afternoon and headed straight for bed. Dan found me as I was fumbling through my pockets for the keys and told me that some guy named Paul had called earlier.
"What are ya talkin’ bout?" I slurred.
"I’m not quite sure. He wasn’t very specific and his English wasn’t too clear. He simply said that he’d call back later tonight. Some Paul bloke."
"Come on Dan!" I found my keys and leaned against the door, searching for the lock while stabilizing myself. "I’m Paul... Who... What did he say exactly?"
"Nothing Paul. I’m telling you mate, just that he’ll call back later."
"Spit it out, man! ...where’s that damn lock..."
"I picked up the telephone with a cordial ‘Hello’ and heard a rather loud ‘IS there PAUL?!’ I told him you weren’t. ‘WHERE is there PAUL?!’ I told him I didn’t know. ‘THIS is PAUL!!’ I paused and he finished with an ‘I call later.’ That’s all."
"Ooo, there’s the lock... Okay then pal, that solves everything. Thanks a lot," as I finally got my door open and went promptly to sleep.
Later in the evening, the ringing phone woke me. I lurched towards it, half drunk half hung-over.
"Mmm... Hello..." I whispered.
"IS THERE PAUL?!"
The noise was too much and I instinctively withdrew the receiver from my ear. "Jesus Christ! Who is this? Don’t yell so loud."
"Yes. Sorry. Who is here?" apologetically in a thick Czech accent.
"This is Paul."
"THIS IS PAUL!!"
I stopped the receiver from flying out of my hand again. "OK! OK! Do you have to yell so loud?"
"Yes."
"What? What are you talking about? You do?"
"No."
"Listen. Maybe I’m speaking too fast for you. Did you... understand... my question?"
"Yes."
"Then why did you just say..."
"No. Hallo Paul! This is Paul. You remember me?"
"I’m sorry, but I really don’t. Um... When did we meet?"
"No you remember? From Řepy you come wif Reinhard? For small teach then beers?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. A few weeks ago. We came there on the tram and then went to a pub all night. Now I remember. I thought your name was Pavel though, wasn’t it?"
"Yes. Is Pavel. Is joke. Paul – Pavel. Pavel – Paul. You see? VERY funny!" punctuated with a loud guffaw.
"Aha..." How did this guy get my number? Either Reinhard must have given it to him, or I did without realizing it. Probably Reinhard. "Well, hey! How have you been? What’s new?"
"I call to see if you still go to cottage for New Year. You say you go before when we in pub and give me number you. I must rezervaze so you come. Okay?"
Goddamn it! I didn’t do it that often, but when I did get completely fish-tanked, I would always do and say things that would soon be all but forgotten. That was it! No more boozin’!
As for the entire New Year’s proposition, I figured why not. I had just spent my Thanksgiving in the Dum’s TV room, eating a soggy Margherita microwave pizza, drinking some beers and rum with Kim, Dan, Herman, Reinhard and a handful of other social misfits. As midnight came and went and the drinks kept flowing, we all took turns searching for porn on the German and Polish stations. After each of us had consecutively failed to find anything eye-catching, the night was abruptly cut short at around four in the morning when a born-again Christian preacher who had strayed from his flock* (* A group of ten or so of them had arrived from the Mid-West two weeks earlier. They cooked a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner that evening, thanked the Lord for it, and went promptly to bed. All except for this one, that is. He stayed behind to do the washing-up, and a bit of converting among the heathen expat community... at least until he started on the firewater.) suddenly vomited on the coffee table in front of him – and the remote control that providence had placed there. I figured anything would be better than that come New Year’s. Or, rather, I doubted if it would be even half as good.
"Yeah, okay Pavel. Why not? So, when do we leave and how long will we stay there for?"
"Sorry?"
"When... and... How long?"
"Ah, we go in free weeks and be there for four days. Okay? Leaving on twenty-nine Prosinec."
"What? Prosinats?"
"Ah sorry... is monf... November?" he asked.
"I’m not sure. Probably December, though."
"Yes, yes! December. You are good man! So we go?"
"Yeah, I said okay."
He paused, "Fine, what you tomorrow?"
"What am I doing? Nothing. Why?"
"We go for beers?"
"Well, I don’t know. I should cut down on..."
"Yes?! OK! I see you tomorrow. What time is good for you?"
"Okay... shit. Let’s make it at eight. Eight o’clock, alright?"
"Yes, good. Tomorrow. Eight. Good night. Čau!"
"Okay, ciao." What the hell did I just agree to? I had just promised myself no more boozin’... Oh well. It was Friday the next day anyway. All weekend to recover.

I tried to convince Dan and Kim to join me that Friday evening, but only Kim showed any interest. Dan always seemed to be feeling "a bit under the weather" for some odd reason or another. So Kim and I put on our backpacker’s best from our perpetual traveler’s wardrobe (clip-on tie excluded) and went to meet Pavel at a club that, coincidentally, was located right next door to the hostel I had lived at when I initially arrived in the Czech Republic.
The Roxy is one of Prague’s better known clubs. It was always full of young Czechs eager to dance the night away and young travelers from all over the world. The Czechs came because of the Roxy’s reputation, the foreigners came because it was next door to their hostel, and all the men – regardless of nationality or age – stayed for the reasonably priced drinks and scantily clad women. The dance floor was located below street level in an unkempt old theater. Live bands, or a DJ as was usual on Fridays, performed on the stage as onlookers took to the floor below or slowly lost their sobriety at the bar to the rear.
Pavel was waiting for us alone at the top of the stairs, near the coat check. I introduced Kim and we descended the once grand staircase together.
"You sit here. I get beers," and Pavel was off.
"I like your friend. He’s got his priorities in order!" Kim nodded approvingly. We sat down on one of the benches that lined the walls.
Pavel soon returned balancing four beers (half liter each) with two hands. It seemed almost second nature. He gave us one each.
"Hey Pavel? Why do you have two?" I asked as he held one glass in each hand.
"Nazdraví!" he demanded as we clinked our glasses and, as Czech custom dictates, simultaneously looked directly into each other’s eyes. Then he put one glass to his mouth and downed its entire contents. Kim and I stared with wide eyes. "Who have two? Not me," Pavel grinned as he sat down next to us. "But now I must sit for little and watch girls. Ha ha ha!"
"Ha! Really in order! Thanks for bringing me along, Paul. I haven’t been here in a while. I forgot about the chicks here too!"
A slender brunette with form-fitting shirt and revealing just a bit of cleavage passed in front of us and immediately caught all of our eyes. "Yes... Yes... Many chicks," Pavel agreed. We all watched her as she crossed the room and faded into the crowd. Then we got back to the task at hand, finishing our beers. "You come New Year too?" he asked Kim.
"No, I can’t. Thanks for asking though. Paul told me about it, but I’m busy. Sorry."
"Škoda."
"What was that?" I interrupted. "Skoda? Like the car company from here?"
"Ha ha! Yeah!" replied Kim. "But it’s not Škoda, like Ford or Toyota. The word also means ‘pity’. You know, like ‘That’s a pity.’"
"What?" I chuckled. "Are you serious? The country’s automotive industry is called ‘pity’? They make ‘pitiful’ cars? Un-fuckin-believable!"
"Yep. That’s coincidence for you. I think the founder’s name was actually Mr. Škoda or something like that. Not sure though."
"What?" Pavel interrupted. "You like Škoda? Is nice car, yes?"
"Well, yeah, actually they are Pavel. But, I mean, the name is..." I stopped myself before I even started the conversation. "Never mind. Three more beers? I’ll go get ‘em."
I waited in line for a good ten minutes and by the time I returned, the music had grown a notch louder and the dance floor in front of us had filled with soulful teens and twenty-somethings.
"Thanks Paul."
"No problem... nice chicks."
"Real nice."
"Is very sexy girls here. I drink this beers wif you then go for sex."
Kim turned to me and nodded, "One hundred percent in order!" Then to Pavel, "Great idea! Here’s to Czech women!" as he lifted his glass.
"And the Czech beers! Best in world! Nazdraví!" as he clinked and looked into both of our eyes.
Kim and Pavel finished their drinks rather quickly and then made off for the dance floor together yet separately. I remained seated, nursing my beer, rolling a cigarette, and biding my time. When I had nearly finished my smoke, the same brunette with the form-fitting shirt from earlier in the evening emerged from the very dance crowd she had vanished into so long ago. She made her way towards my general direction but, unfortunately, sat a few feet away on an adjacent bench. Here was my chance. A gorgeous knockout with the body of a sex-goddess within arm’s reach and me sitting there with nothing but a wet glass between my legs. What if she was there with someone else? Maybe she had a boyfriend, hell, even a husband? The same questions that always run through my head did so once again. I silenced them with the last of my beer, stood up, and walked over to her – unsure of what I would say or do next.
"Pardon. Mluvíte anglicky?"
"Only little. I don’t speak English so good," she replied. Her handbag was resting between where her short skirt ended and her bare, firm thighs began.
"Oh, um, okay. Can I sit here?"
"Yes," she smiled back.
"I saw you earlier. You’re really, well, I just wanted to say that..." now I needed a great line. Something to smooth her over completely with. The charming foreign traveler sweeping the lovely, yet perpetually bored, native off her feet into a world of passion and adventure "...you’re nice."
"Em, thank you. It’s very good to say. I am Katka," she gave me her hand, "and you?"
"Paul." My plan had worked. "Listen, would you like a drink?"
"Yes, okay." We went to the bar and waited in line together, striking up a conversation about nothing in particular. She was Czech and studying journalism at the Charles University in Prague. Her English was a lot better than Pavel’s. I told her I was American, how I had just come from Greece, and that I was now a teacher. Nothing interesting in the least but she seemed to be hanging onto my words. We returned to where we had been sitting, drinks in hand.
"I like you shirt. It is red. The color of change."
I looked at my t-shirt and noticed that, indeed, there was red. The color outlined the word TransFormers and rested on a blue background. "Yeah, red. It does contain red. How about that?"
"Red," she looked deep into my eyes not blinking once," is the color of change. Revolution and passion. I love red. Everything it represent..." she placed her soft, manicured hand on my forearm "...and everything it does."
Normally, this kind of turn in any conversation would give me the chills. But this chick was really, really hot. I glanced down at her succulent cleavage, reassured myself, and quickly reconnected my eyes with hers. She had been staring at me intently and firmly grasping my forearm all the while. "I understand you completely. Red is such a magical color. It’s incredible. Fantastic. It represents so many things and steers our lives towards so many unforeseen forces."
"Yes! Yes! Exactly. And the change. Revolution. It is always there. Ready for you... If you are ready for it."
I placed my hand gently on the exposed part of her tone inner thigh as I moved closer and responded, “Yeah, you always have to be ready. ‘Cause you’ll never know when it’ll come.” She stared at me stronger than before. Only silence ensued. “Listen, would you like to go somewhere a little more... private?” as my hand subtly worked its way ever so slightly towards her underwear.
“Why?” she kept her eyes fixed on me.
“I feel the change. I would love to kiss you. Your red lips. Hold you. Be with you.”
Again silence except for the thumping dance beats all around us. She then withdrew her hand from my forearm, took a sip from her drink, and proceeded to remove a little book and pen from her handbag. “Please, what is your telephone number?”
I promptly gave it to her and slyly guided my eager fingers further up her firm thigh and nearer to her underwear... if she was wearing any. She smiled.
Before I realized it though, a man of about my age was standing over us. I instinctively pulled my hand away from Katka’s lap and waited for his reaction. He said something calmly to her in Czech. She replied and then stood up. She leaned over and kissed me gently on the lips, “My boyfriend is here. Sorry. I must leave now. But remember and don’t never forget... the red.”
Katka left hand in hand with the man – the boyfriend who had appeared out of nowhere – through the crowd, past the bar, and up the stairs into the cold Prague night. I took a sip of my beer, wiped the moisture from the lips she had just kissed, leaned back on the bench, and rolled another cigarette as the flashing disco lights continued bouncing off the red-rimmed TransFormers on my chest.