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THE F*@#%$! DONKEY
Several years ago I had the pleasure of being stationed in Italy. One of my Saturday morning rituals included taking my coffee at a local cafe, or what Italians call a bar, while reading the Stars and Stripes. Throughout my time there, I marveled at the differences between our cultures and was often fascinated with the Italian people at how they approached life in general. The following is a documentary on events taking place in my favorite bar one such Saturday morning. I’ve translated the dialouge from Italian so it might not read as smooth as you would like in English but hopefully it is organized. My thanks and aplogies to Billy Joel for the use, or abuse, of some lines from Piano Man.
“It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in, there’s an old man sitting next to me making love to his tonic and gin.” Actually it isn’t tonic and gin that he is so enamored with, rather a glass of prosecco, a sparkling dry white wine, and it is nine o’clock in the morning on a Saturday at the local bar just down the road from my house. The words from Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” continue to fill my head while I watch the “waitress practicing politics as the businessmen slowly get stoned.” The “businessmen” in this case are a group of local farmers and artisans who reside in this sleepy little village tucked away in the shadows of the Dolomite mountains of northern Italy.
So here I am in the bar at nine in the morning reveling in the atmosphere produced by a dozen men smoking and drinking and rambling on about any subject imaginable, nothing is too insignificant for these great philosophers of life. Arguments ensue and voices rise as hand gestures come close to hurting someone; pointing, waving, shaking, and flapping. Sometimes it’s one hand, sometimes two. Then it might not be hands at all, but a head nod or a shoulder shrug, and if the point being made is really important it could be a combination of all of these with an eyebrow raised just at the proper moment. I listen in as the town elders contemplate critical issues facing the world today. They go on about how much tax they have to pay and how corrupt the government is. Oh, and how hard they have to work just to make ends meet. In fact they are just one hour into the workday and are already on their first of several “coffee” breaks. Breaks that don’t consist of walking down the hall for a cup of go juice. No, they get into their cars or tractors or on their Vespas and drive to their favorite bar and put down a glass or two of wine or grappa (a unique liquor made from the remnants of grape vines guaranteed to put hair on any part of your body), all the while complaining that they are slaves to their bosses. Poor devils.
As is my usual custom I sit in the corner, drink my cappuccino, and read my newspaper, while enjoying the banter among these great statesmen. Just as I was getting up to leave, a young man stepped into this sacred house of smoke filled opinions. He had long black unkempt hair tied in a nice little ponytail, a week’s growth of beard, and an earring dangling from his left ear. Although he did not fit into the hip looking crowd that frequents Gino’s bar, none of the regulars paid him any mind. That is until he spoke.
As the politically practicing large breasted brown-eyed waitress asked the young pony-tailed intruder what he would like, he answered that he wanted to talk to the “cazzo” who owned the donkey outside. At that point all conversations ceased, including those contemplating world peace, an overthrow of the corrupt Italian government, a discussion over what color the town hall should be painted, and who would be fortunate enough to spend siesta that afternoon with the politically practicing large breasted brown eyed waitress. Each conversation stopped dead in its tracks as the young pony-tailed intruder boldly put forth the donkey question.
Intrigued, I sat back down to watch the events unfold. Everybody seemed to freeze momentarily to stare at the new kid in town. Even the smoke seemed to have lifted, when an older gentleman stepped forward to within inches of the young pony-tailed intruder. He stood firm, looking up into the intruder’s eyes. He was gray-hared, dressed in a wool sports coat and vest, wearing a distinguished looking hat, and muddy boots. He definitely had an air about him, yet his hands were large and cracked from years of working in the fields and his face permanently tanned from the weather. Still, he held everyone’s gaze, as he stood stolid, staring at the young pony-tailed intruder. That is when I learned this distinguished gentleman’s name.
“I am Cazzo, the owner of the donkey,” he said. “Why do you ask, are you looking for a date Pinocchio?” He asked.
“No Cazzo, I am not looking for a date, I am trying to work, which is something I am sure you and your cronies know nothing about,” said Pinocchio gesturing with his hands towards the silent men standing in indifferent anticipation.
“Good then go to work,” said Cazzo turning away from the young pony-tailed intruder, and instantly the room filled with smoke and conversation as if Pinocchio had never entered that hallowed bar.
I watched as a vein started to pop out of Pinocchio’s temple when he shouted, “your f*@#%$! donkey is in the middle of the street and I cannot drive my truck to its destination cazzo!”
Instantly the room emptied of smoke and conversation again as Cazzo slowly turned around and calmly asked, “what is it that you would like me to do?”
“Move your donkey!”
“Move my donkey?”
“Yes! Move your f*@#%$! donkey!” said Pinocchio raising both hands in exasperation.
“Move my f*@#%$! donkey?” replied Cazzo pointing with his thumb at his chest and throwing in a raised eyebrow incredulously.
“Yes! Move your f*@#%$! donkey, or I will run over it with my truck,” Pinocchio said looking around the room for support, only to find empty stares eagerly awaiting the outcome of this exciting battle.
“Why would you run over my f*@#%$! donkey?” asked Cazzo.
“Because it is in my way and I have to drive my truck to its destination!” replied the young pony-tailed intruder pointing off into the distance towards some far away place.
“You have to drive your truck?”
“Yes! Are you not listening cazzo? I have to drive my truck and your f*@#%$! donkey is in my way!” he came back with both hands together as if in prayer moving forward and back while rolling his eyes toward the heavens.
Cazzo then pulls off a coup that totally destroys the young pony-tailed intruder, whose vein is now throbbing and who has yet been unable to find any supporters in his plight.
“Then why did you come in here and disturb my coffee break and the coffee break of these hard working men Pinocchio?” said Cazzo sweeping the room with his right hand palm facing upward in a grandiose gesture.
Pinocchio replied, “I did not come in here to disturb your coffee break, or the coffee break of these hard working men,” he pointed in their direction purposely, “I came in here to move your f*@#%$! donkey!”
“You came in here to move my f*@#%$! donkey?” both eyebrows raised.
“Yes! I came in here to move your f*@#%$! donkey!” both hands raised, moving toward his opponent with all fingertips joined and pointing upward.
Cazzo turned to the smokeless and speechless crowd of hard-working men and said, “he just came in here to move my f*@#%$! donkey.” Shoulder shrug.
Heads nodded with understanding and acknowledgment of the young pony-tailed intruder’s mission. Smoke and conversations once again filled the room when the politically practicing large breasted brown-eyed waitress who had over the years spent a siesta with all of the men in the room, except for the young pony-tailed intruder, said with some confusion, “but there is not a f*@#%$! donkey in here.”
Once again the smoked cleared and the conversations ceased this time with some annoyance towards the young pony-tailed intruder. After all, it was their coffee break that was continuously being interrupted.
“Gabriella is right,” said Cazzo speaking of the politically practicing large breasted browned-eyed waitress with whom he himself had spent several lovely passion filled afternoons. “There is no f*@#%$! donkey in here.”
“I know there is no f*@#%$! donkey in here, it is in the street blocking my truck from driving to it’s destination!” said the pony-tailed Pinocchio without any body language whatsoever.
“Then why are you in here?” asked Cazzo pointing to the floor.
“Because the f*@#%$!…the…donkey…my truck…destination….” stammered the pony-tailed intruder named Pinocchio, with the vein in his temple throbbing, who had never spent a passionate siesta with Gabriella, the politically practicing large breasted brown-eyed waitress.
I couldn’t help but smile as the pony-tailed intruder turned on his heels and stormed out of the bar climbing into his truck determined to run over the f*@#%$! donkey standing in the street. The room filled with smoke and conversation once again as I heard Pinocchio rev his engine with a purpose. My smile quickly vanished as I realized what the young angry pony-tailed intruder was about to do. The hard-working men on their coffee break, who had each enjoyed the company of the politically practicing large breasted brown-eyed Gabriella at one time or another, all seemed to have come to the same realization as I. Yet not one moved an inch. They all turned their heads slightly towards the location of where the devastating deed was to occur, froze momentarily, and then nodded in understanding of the inevitability of what was to transpire. After all, the young pony-tailed intruder did have to drive his truck to its destination. The room once again filled with smoke and conversation.
I was beside myself. I could not believe that everyone was going to stand by and allow the young pony-tailed intruder to drive over the f*@#%$! donkey! I jumped to my feet intending to race for the door to save the f*@#%$! donkey, as it wasn’t his fault. He was only standing in the street waiting for his elegantly dressed distinguished gray-hared farmer with muddy boots to finish his seemingly endless coffee break. Before I could maneuver my way out from behind my table, I heard the truck roar down the street. No one seemed to notice until the politically practicing large breasted brown-eyed waitress started yelling.
“Hey cazzo! What is this f*@#%$! donkey doing in my bar?!?” hands flying in all directions until they rester on her hips.
“What is it you would like me to do?” replied Cazzo calmly.
“Move your donkey!” said Gabriella.
“Move my donkey?” replied Cazzo.
“Yes! Move your f*@#%$! donkey!” shouted the exasperated politically practicing large breasted brown-eyed waitress throwing her hands to the heavens.
“Move my f*@#%$! donkey?” replied Cazzo pointing with his thumb at his chest and throwing in a raised eyebrow incredulously.
“Yes! Move your f*@#%$! donkey or you can be sure that you will not spend another siesta with me, you can spend it with your f*@#%$! donkey!” arms crossed across her large breasts and eyebrows raised above those brown eyes and a smirk on her face.
The message must have been clear, clearer than that of the young pony-tailed intruder whom the politically practicing large breasted brown-eyed waitress desperately hoped would return before siesta, as the elegantly dressed distinguished gray-hared Cazzo with muddy boots led his f*@#%$! donkey down the road back to his farm, mumbling to himself all the way, and the hard-working men were finally able to resume their smoky opinionated coffee break. After all they did have to go back to work and make enough money to pay their taxes to the corrupt government.
I chuckled heartily, sat back down, ordered a glass of prosecco, and wondered what conversations might be going on around the coffee pots and water coolers back home in America.
Sgt Hook out.
Posted by Hook @ 0303 zulu | | Permalink
This post is filed under: La Vita Dolce & Reconstructed
