Make Time for Jelen Borovsky

Another fictionalized encounter. I found this one hilarious. Humans of Prague can be a true inspiration.

Early morning commuters are the perfect source for quick, impartial, free-of-charge, given-with-my-kindest-regards, and, above all, unsolicited advice. I am convinced that some snippets of random conversations would make intriguing opening lines for contemporary urban youth drama. ("Yo, got a lighter on you?" Wait, let me see what else I've got.. "Pa rúski? Deutsch? Eh?" Uh-uh. "No more museums, for Christ's sake." ..Did I just make an overstatement?) And so as a passionate keeper of oral history records, it hardly bothered me that one morning that the urban planners had put one of the most frequented streets of Prague's Jewish quarter between me and the swirling currents of Vltava (the agonizing closeness is nearly fatal, by God I could stick out my tongue and lick the scent of the fresh waters dispersed in minuscule drops floating freely in the air) and the sluggish, unresponsive traffic lights proved too slow to avert embarrassing encounters.

"The film was average, but bloody hell, you should make time for Jelen Borovsky."

I see clearly who's talking, a solitary aged businessman in appearance is patiently tolerating a self-absorbed speech from a frequent visitor of unappealing country pubs, with a lot of inappropriate humor, friendly debts, and exceedingly clingy personality ("Hello how'd you do!") - or so I think before the poor middle-class bystander replies with an air of collegiality. What a wily and surprising trap. Look at them, lovebirds. Right before my eyes, they transformed into old school friends in a matter of seconds, jovial perhaps but decidedly discordant, like a mouse and its prey, except meanwhile the mouse has grown bigger and has turned into a bully.

"Absolutely fantastic, I tell you," chirping on, more so leaning over in a twisted angle and spitting his uncontrollable rush of impressions in the businessman's face. I wonder if they know each other since school days, or whether the junction had become a habitual meeting spot and a certain opportunity to foist the contents of one's brain on the helpless victim. Howdy pal, I know you'll be passing by this way each morning, and I'll come for ya.

"Haha, yeah, it was her, I swear, mate, I have no idea why she ran away from me like that!"

Excuse me? Time for me to step in. The poor businessman is starting to squirm anxiously. There is statistically a good chance I am his imaginary daughter who is ready to save her father from the murderous monologues of a classmate he once hoped would let him into his posh social circle. Ahem, talking about me again, papa, and behind my back?

"What d'ya say?"

Sure enough, the expression on my papa's face is that of shame and horror (I don't actually see as I am watching everything from a rear seat), his eyes flitting back and forth in search of the nearest escape route, and I don't even have enough time to rehearse my clumsy line when the flashing green light signals his release and, as always, I am late to the game. The pedestrians start crossing the road in a frantic manner. I think I can still see the radiant eyes of the pub storyteller. Is this the moment for me to speak up? Because I'd have a few questions for you champs, if you don't mind, such as - let me think - wait, where are you going? - the waterfront clearly has nothing to offer, I see - but wait!, I beg your pardon, what class did you graduate with, why did you obviously decline to forgive his debt, and who the heck is Jelen Borovsky?