Behind the Iron Curtain .. sort of.

“When you get off the train, someone will be there waiting. Go with them.”

This was the advice given to my query, “Where should I stay in Prague?” Prague had opened up to the west following the Velvet Revolution just two years prior in 1989 but it had yet to offer even third rate quality accommodations. My friend told me to not even bother looking into the hotels or hostels as there wasn’t much of a difference between the two and there wasn’t going to be anything available anyway. He was right.

On the overnight train ride from Venice to Prague, my girl and I shared a coach room with a wannabe road weary traveler (whose Lonely Planet travel guide was barely creased.) He was backpacking through Europe, he said, and was already bored. I asked if he had a place to stay in Prague.

“Naw,” he groaned.

I shared the advice I’d been given.

“Are you nuts?” He asked. “Who knows what kind of wackos are out there? You’re just going to crawl into the back seat of some stranger’s car and get ripped off or raped or whatever else they do to you in these communist countries? No way, man. There’s got to be something in the city.”

I could have done without the rape comment. My girl is pretty open to new adventures, but for some reason rape makes her squeamish. She and I whispered in the darkness after our friend fell asleep (making sure to tuck his passport into his underwear). She was worried. I was too. We fell asleep and in the morning we pulled into the Prague station.

On the platform were men of various sizes and shades of Eastern European gray. Every one of them was smoking. Their eyes watched the windows, picking out their prey perhaps.

My girl and I packed assembled our backpacks, our fanny-packs. We retrieved our passports from our underwear – yes, he had gotten to us. We had decided to chance it in the city rather than go with the seedy-looking men. When we stepped off the train we expected to be descended upon, but it was not the case. The men seemed respectful, if unsure of whom they should choose – almost as if we were the ones who worried them. A few steps toward the main building and a small man approached us.

“Hallo,” he said. He was close to 5 feet tall, about 40 years old, thinning hair, round, gentle face. “You come with me?”

“With you?” I asked. My girl was behind me. If she wanted to take charge I would have let her. “Where?”

“To my home.”

I explained we wanted a hotel.

“No hotels. They are not good. Come with me. It’s ok.”

The man could not have been less menacing. I asked the price. Twenty dollars for both of us.

“Seriously?” My girl nudged me.

As we left the platform I saw our friend from the train. He looked at me as if we had made a horrific mistake following our little host. He shook his head. What were we doing exactly, I thought?

The car we were escorted to was small, compact. We stowed our belongings and climbed in. My girl gripped my hand.

“Your house isn’t in the city?” I asked.

He smiled into the rearview mirror. “Not far,” he said.

When you’re young you rarely question how life can kick you in the side of the head. It was only at this moment that I truly began to ponder all the ways two Americans might disappear in a foreign land. There was no way we could communicate. The Czech language sounded to me like a record played backward. We had no maps, no guides, no reference points. I knew I could beat this little man if he tried something. Only after we left the city and were traveling down back country roads did it dawn on me that he could have accomplices; that he might simply be the courier. I wondered about our train companion. I envisioned him in the confines of a drab, windowless hostel with six other occupants, crowded, but safe.

How relieved I was when the car pulled into the driveway of a cute little home. I was relieved further to find another guest there, a tousle-haired youth who loved old cameras and gossip even more. The little man’s wife greeted us at the door. She appeared a Czechoslovakian version of June Cleaver complete with quaint little apron.

“Come, come,” she beckoned.

The home smelled of freshly made apple strudel and I immediately thought of Christmas with my Swedish grandmother and her lemon squares and krumkakes. The couple had two young children who welcomed us with open arms. The little man then kissed his wife and children on the cheeks, bowed politely to us and excused himself as he left the home, driving away in his little car.

Later that afternoon, as we prepared our trip back to the city by tram, we were sitting in the kitchen as the mother prepared the dinner’s meal of roast pork and dumplings, the little man returned. He was as happy and energetic as he was when we first met him. Behind him was our friend from the train looking haggard.

“Hi,” we said. We were giddy from the strudel and the comfortable surroundings. Following the example of our hosts, we stood and met him at the door, shaking his hand, welcoming him.

“No luck with the hotels?” I asked.

“There wasn’t anything,” he grumbled. “Nothing. Not a damn thing.”

“This is better,” I said. “This is the safest place you could possibly be.”

Write about taking the long way around

My car was egged last night. I was driving home from work later than usual, around 7:30. The sun was just dipping beyond the horizon. Rounding a corner I was noticing a street lamp was out when WHAM! WHAM! two eggs slammed into the passenger side door of my car. I hit the brakes, thinking at first that some errant bird or suicidal rodent had heaved itself into my Volvo, instead what I witnessed were two mangy kids ducking into the bushes presumably from whence they came. I leaped from my car to view the passenger side. Egg and shell chips, smeared across the metallic blue paint. I ran after the urchins.

Now, let me just say that the line between adult and child is easily blurred, at least it can be for men. I knew right away, chasing these boys, that as a man, a father, as a respected member of society, I was in the wrong. For one, I was too big to follow the path these rascals took, through the bushes, squeezing into the holes of fences, traversing the logs and undergrowth in the small stretch of forest beyond the houses, the damned marshes. Where these bastards live is beyond me. Maybe they’re wild children living among the animals. Perhaps the eggs were laid by their collective mothers. Who knows? However, as wrong as it may have been for me, an adult, to pursue these remorseless youths, I also knew – felt keenly – that I could not let them get away with such vandalism.

It was two hours before I made my way back to my car. My dress shirt was smeared with mud and I fear animal excrement, my tie I abandoned in the woods – it having been caught in a branch, nearly strangling me – the legs of my pants were soaked and muddied from the marsh, my arms, hands and face scratched from the bull rushes there, worst of all I lost a loafer and I fear it may be floating in a neighbor’s pool. The car was as I left it, parked slightly to the side of the street, but with one small difference. The little maggots had somehow circled back on me and had – for lack of a better description – “painted” the remainder of my car in additional eggs. From fender to fender the whites of the egg shells glistened on my Volvo sparkled as if I intended what I drove to be some shining disco ball on wheels.

The houses along the street were aflutter with glowing windows as televisions raged in living rooms. Were there no witnesses? Is there no block patrol? Look at my car! I knew the smug delinquents were probably nearby, in one of the homes – unattended to by their parents, or more likely hiding in the same bushes I had chased them through. They were sitting there shoulder to shoulder, crouched low, holding in their snickering joy. Call the police? What would I tell them? And how I looked …

My wife fussed over me. My young children were terrified and curious. I told them the truth. There was nothing else that would make sense. I spent the night washing my car, caressing the dried eggshells off, hoping not to chip the paint. What a fool I am. I am an adult, not a child. There are better ways of dealing with issues such as this. That being said, I will find them, these tykes of Satan’s spawn. They will be punished. My Volvo will be avenged.

Write about Sunday afternoon, Pt 5 - End

Throughout the funeral, the gathering after, the ride back home, and late into the afternoon, Carolyn barely spoke. She did cry, sitting in between her parents at the church, holding their hands, and again standing between them at the cemetery, their arms wrapped around her as her friend was lowered into the ground. It felt good to let it out finally, unreserved, unconcerned with embarrassing herself. Others were crying and this was her friend. Missy would have cried for her.

At Missy’s home after the funeral, Carolyn spoke briefly with Missy’s mother who thanked her for being such a good friend. Missy’s brothers too patted her shoulder or nodded silently for her friendship. On the back porch, she accepted an awkward hug from Rick. He was trembling and he apologized. Carolyn had heard that he felt responsible for the accident and later disassembled the dirt bike at the junk yard, scattering the pieces in every direction. To him she whispered, “It’s not your fault.”

James and Dina allowed Carolyn her space. They kept an eye out if she needed them, but otherwise kept their distance.

The car ride home was short and quiet and when they arrived Carolyn went directly to her room, closing the door behind her. Her eyes were red and puffy in the mirror. The memory of why caused her to cry some more until at last the tears ran out and she fell asleep on her bed.

It was dark when she awoke. Her body felt drained, limp. She left her room and started down the stairs. Her parents were in the living room below.

“She’s ten, James. She’s not just going to open up because you take her fishing or call her champ.”

“I’m not saying that, Dina. I just don’t see why a counselor is necessary.”

“She needs to talk.”

“We’ll talk to her.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Why the hell not? We’re her par -” James stopped as Carolyn came into view. “Hey, pumpkin," he said, "How you doing?”

Carolyn rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Her parents were blurry, distant. When she spoke, her smoky voice surprised her. “I want to see the counselor.” she coughed to clear her throat.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

Dina nearly started crying again herself. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I’m ok,” she said. “I’m hungry.”

“Of course, of course,” said Dina, jumping at the task, a sign of normalcy again. “What should I make? Grilled cheese? A bowl of cereal?”

Carolyn thought about it, biting her lip. “Can I have ice cream?”

“Ice cream?” asked James.

“Is that alright? I don't feel like anything else.”

James looked to Dina who nodded. “Yeah,” she said with a laugh, “Sure.”

For the longest time the only sounds in the house were three metal spoons scraping against ceramic bowls.

Write about someone who left, pt. 4

Missy was the youngest of five and the only girl. Her brothers were the rough and tumble sort, always dirtied, bloodied, clothes ripped from some adventure or another. Rick, the oldest, had a passion for dirt bikes. He planned to race them and after a year of hard work at the cement plant managed to buy a used one. His brothers salivated over the thing. With the high whine of the engine and the slim body, it exuded speed and daring-do. Can I try it? Can I try it? The question never ceasing until one by one each brother was permitted to take it to the nearby vacant field and roar through the high grass and dip in and out of the pit that served as the launching pad for a short sail through the air. “Whoooo-weee,” they cried on this last thrilling part. But not Missy, she was allowed to watch, but was told she was too young.

“You’ll get hurt,” said Rick. “It’s too fast for you and you’re too small.”

“And you’re a girl,” her brothers teased.

Missy smirked. She was used to this treatment. But anything her brothers could do she could do too. She had proven that time and again.

The dirt bike frightened Carolyn. “You can’t ride that, Missy.”

“I can too. You just watch me.” The younger brothers were away on a Boy Scout camping trip. Rick and her mother were both at work. Missy’s father had skipped out a long time ago when she was but two years old. She pushed the bike into the driveway to show Carolyn.

“It’s way too big.”

“Once you get it going you don’t have to worry about that,” Missy said. She gripped the handle bars and knocked the kick stand back. “Hold the other side so I can get on.” Carolyn did as she was asked. Missy straddled the bike and started it effortlessly. A small cloud of smoke popped from the exhaust. “It’s loud, huh?” Missy shouted. She turned the throttle and shot off. The bike careened to the left across the front yard where it hit a small bump in the ground. Missy held on, but in gaining her balance turned the bike sideways until it ultimately laid out flat in a cloud of dirt and dust. Carolyn raced to her friend who lay laughing, relatively unscathed.

“That was just stupid, Missy,” she said, “Just stupid.”

Missy kept on laughing.

When she heard Missy was in the hospital, Carolyn knew why. There was no way she was going to let her brothers get the better of her. Missy took the bike out every chance she could get. “It’s just a stupid bike,” Carolyn pleaded. “Don’t be such a baby,” was Missy’s reply. In the weeks before the accident, Carolyn stopped seeing her friend. She was too mad at her.

At the wake, Carolyn was terrified to look in the coffin. She had heard Missy had broken her neck jumping out of the pit. There was an idea that Missy’s head would be grossly out of place and Carolyn didn’t want to remember her that way. When she mustered enough courage, Carolyn clenched her jaws and held back her tears looking at her friend. She looked normal, like she was asleep, except that she had too much make-up and she looked stupid. Stupid, she thought, just a stupid bike. She ran out of the room to the car, locking the doors, weeping quietly, holding it in. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Blue - the color or the emotion, pt 3

The funeral was at eleven o’clock. Carolyn stayed in her room until it was time to leave, not wishing to eat or to see or talk to anyone. She was tired of her parents hovering about her, wanting to talk, getting her to talk, “Do you want to talk, honey?” No, she wanted to be left alone. She stayed in her pajamas moving from her bed to the floor to the window whenever an emotion threatened to overcome her. Everything reminded her of Missy. The bedspread they had used to make a tent, the scrap book they created together with pictures of all the places they planned on visiting, the trees out back, the yapping pups - one of which Missy had picked out for her own, the strongest of the litter she named Mr. Smarty. At any given moment, depending on the memory called up Carolyn went from feeling sick to her stomach to wanting to laugh out loud to being on the verge of crying uncontrollably. She moved each time the emotions came, not wanting to do or feel anything at all.

Her mother gently rapped on the door. “Carolyn? Honey? It’s time we get ready.”

“Ok, mom.” The voice, soft and hoarse, seemed to come from someone else.

“Are you alright? Do you want to talk?” asked Dina. Carolyn didn’t answer. “We’ll be downstairs waiting, honey.”

Carolyn opened her closet. For the wake, her mother suggested that she wear her Sunday dress. Carolyn felt it was too pretty, too white, not at all how she felt. Instead she chose a pair of brown corduroys she hardly ever wore and a cotton top with vertical black and white stripes that she hated. The outfit felt uncomfortable, stiff, which suited her mood. She didn’t want to go. Why should she “honor” Missy, as her mother put it? She was a stupid girl who did stupid things. But once at the funeral home it was Carolyn who felt stupid. The room where Missy’s coffin lay was too quiet. The people there spoke in hushed, respectful tones. Those who cried did so softly, their sniffles soaking into the textured walls and thick carpet. Whenever Carolyn moved, her corduroys whirred like a motor revving up. She wanted to hide from embarrassment. For the funeral she would wear the dress.

Her mother was on the phone in the kitchen as Carolyn made her way down the stairs. Her father was by the front door. He turned as Carolyn approached. It was obvious he wasn’t sure what to say.

“Feeling ok?” he asked.

Carolyn nodded her head.

“As soon as mom gets off the phone we’ll go.” He gazed over her dress. “You look very pretty.”

This is what dads say when they don’t know what else to say, as if being pretty is what matters most in surviving the worst of times. Carolyn smoothed out the front. She didn’t wear dresses very much anymore. Even for church she had begun wearing pants more often than not. She couldn’t recall ever seeing Missy in a dress.

Dina came in from the kitchen. She smiled at Carolyn. “You look very pretty,” she said. Mothers, too.

As they were leaving the house, Carolyn stopped. “Mom,” she said.

“Yes, honey.”

“What if I can’t stop crying?”

Dina pulled her close, kissing the top of her head. “I’ll be there right next to you,” she said. She held out her hand for James to join them. “We’ll both be there.”

Write about promises that were broken, pt. 2

“Do you dare to make a promise?”

“I do.”

“We’ll be best friends forever.”

“I swear.”

Carolyn couldn’t feel the wind against her skin or hear it pass by her ears. She was numb from head to toe. The night closed in around her, deepening her seclusion from emotion and pain. She felt as dead as Missy was only Carolyn wasn’t truly dead and somehow to her that seemed unfair.

There is a clearing in the center of this clump of trees where the two girls had arranged rocks in a circle as a fire pit. They did this with energy and excitement because they were going to brave a night alone in the trees - their private, secluded hideaway. “I don’t know if you should build a fire,” Carolyn’s mom said. But her father interceded. “Why not,” he said, looking around at the clearing. The two parents had insisted on reviewing the quarters before allowing such a dangerous undertaking. “There’s no dry brush around, the leaves are still green in the trees. The branches are high enough.” He smiled at the girls, honing in on Carolyn. “As long as you keep it small, ok?” Carolyn nodded. She knew her father trusted her.

“You have flashlights? A radio? Sleeping bags?”

“Yes, mom,” said Carolyn with appropriate annoyance. Missy was less tended to by her parents. She was the youngest child of four and the only girl so it was important that she knew Carolyn too could handle herself.

“We’ll be alright, Mrs. Clausten,” said Missy. “I’ve been out camping tons of times with my family and we made all kinds of campfires. I could even make one rubbing two sticks together if I had to. It’s easier with matches though, natch, er … of course.”

James chuckled. Missy always did remind him of Peppermint Patty with her raspy voice and stocky body.

“Do you have to have a fire?” asked Dina.

“Jesus Dina, they can handle it.” James turned to Carolyn. “Listen, if there’s any trouble, like with monsters or rabid werewolves just run inside and I’ll have your widdle wabbit weady, ok?”

Carolyn pouted, “But then, daddy, what would you have to sleep with?”

Missy laughed meeting Carolyn’s high-five mid-air. “Oh yeah,” she said.

Later that night the girls lay still on their sleeping bags listening to the crickets and owls and watching the stars filter through the swaying tree branches. After they exhausted the topics of boys they liked and girls they didn’t and what they wanted to be someday when they were old enough to marry but wouldn’t until they made their own money first, Carolyn rolled over to look at Missy. “This is fun,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Missy, drawing out the word, savoring it. “It’s awesome.”

Carolyn nudged over a rock in the circle with her toe. “We are the Queens of the World,” they had yelled that night when their friendship really took root: two nine year olds, bright and happy, dangerous little girls. “We are the Queens of the whole wide world,” they yelled.

“Best friends forever and ever.” Missy said. She promised.

On the eve of the funeral, pt. 1

Carolyn went out back to play with the puppies. Her mother, Dina, watched her from the kitchen window as she ran down the steps and across the yard to the pen where the puppies were kept. On normal days her mother would call after her, reminding her to keep the gate closed, but not this time.

Carolyn’s father came into the kitchen. “Is she ok?”

Dina nodded. “She’s definitely hurting.”

“She’s strong. She’ll get through this.”

Dina flinched, bothered that James could be so flippant about such things. Today was not the day for another fight however. “I'm going to take her to the school’s councilor Monday,” she said. “She might need to talk to somebody.”

“What’s wrong with us?” James said. He joined Dina at the window. Carolyn was sitting in the middle of the pen. Seven puppies, born just two weeks ago – white and black spotted mutts from Carolyn’s dog Sally and whichever stray got hold of her in the neighborhood – pawed at Carolyn, some jumping up onto her crossed legs into her lap, others stretching their tiny bodies up her back. Carolyn would move them away playfully with her hands so that they would have to come after her again. She let them nip at her hands. The gate was closed.

“She’ll ruin her clothes sitting in that dirt,” said James.

"Let her alone."

Dina sat down at the kitchen table pulling her address book open. James' stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since noon.

“Should I get a pizza?” He asked.

“I doubt she’s going to be hungry.”

“I am.”

“I’m not."

James lifted the phone from its cradle.

"What are you doing?" Dina asked. "Are you seriously getting a pizza?"

"I'm hungry."

Dina threw up her hands. "Oh, right, sure, get a pizza. If your hungry, you should eat. Get some beer while you're at it. Let's have a party."

“Dina…”

“No, do what you need to do. Your daughter’s friend died a few days ago, though. She's going to watch her get buried tomorrow. But you go ahead. I just thought it would be nice if you actually gave a shit."

“Come on, Dina.”

“As long as you’re happy, right?”

“I’m not happy, ok?”

“Yeah, I know. You’ve made that perfectly clear. We all know how unhappy you are, James.”

“I mean about Carolyn. I'm not happy about Carolyn. Jesus, Dina.”

They stared at one another, familiar with the ebb and flow that was their communication, waiting for the next level - the shouting and accusations - but this was different. They couldn't win this fight.

Dina apologized, adding “Let's just ... ” James agreed.

When they regained their composure Dina asked for and was given the phone. James turned back to the window and Carolyn. She remained as she was sitting in the middle of the pen. The puppies had settled down around her now. Some still nipped at her hands, but Carolyn no longer pushed them away. She petted one or two, absently stroking her hands along their backs as she gazed into the twilight sky.

James felt a chill air coming in from the window. He crossed his arms over his chest. “What did you talk about?”

Dina was dialing. “I told her it was ok to cry, that she should remember their friendship."

“Did she seem scared?”

“She’s ten, James.”

“I mean about tomorrow, the funeral.” He thought that's what he meant. “Who are you calling?”

“Missy’s mom. I want to make sure she’s ok.”

James took a deep breath. From the window he watched as Carolyn stood up in the pen and opened and closed the gate. She then crossed the yard to the stand of trees beyond the property line where she and Missy used to play. She looked so small. James remembered when he cradled her in his arms. "Jesus," he said.