"I have only met two Americans in the past month. One licked my book, the other nicked my wallet. The first one's story is rather complicated, the latter's a rather simple tale.
The old, grumpy American had abused the staff and insulted the guests and earlier in my stay had forced me to change beds as he would not allow the cleaner to climb up our bunk's steps to change my sheets. On that occasion, and then a second time after that, the hostel made it perfectly clear that were I to complain, they would request he leave the establishment. I told them I was not particularly bothered.
He was in the room, though I had thought he had his back turned, when I reached into the secret compartment of my backpack to pull out some cash for the night. In the hour that followed, I watched it later on the security tapes, he would come into the room and leave the next minute and he did this three times and then he disappeared for two days from the hostel he hadn't left in thirty. My money, my card, and my made in Ramalde wallet that smells of old milk were all gone too. The wallet had two sweets that monks had blessed, which were supposed to be good luck for the money to keep in it. They had melted a long time ago.
When I saw him again, he was at the supermarket and all his clothes were brand new. He didn't look any happier and I was almost moved to break a bottle on his nape. It was not for the money - it was gone; or the card - I had cancelled it already and it was now useless to me; it was not even my not having certainty or evidence of his guilt (I, like Justice know these two to be triffling matters). It was the awful black basketballcap with some red character on its side, the black tacky shirt that sparkled on the shoulders which he had remembered to tuck into his black tracksuit trousers and the spotless, white trainers. It was like one of the Sopranos had gone shopping in China Town.
I knew, if he had taken the money, there was not that much to take, and he could hardly have gone to the opera with it. But surely he could have hired himself a concubine for the weekend instead of buying contraband Nike."
The old, grumpy American had abused the staff and insulted the guests and earlier in my stay had forced me to change beds as he would not allow the cleaner to climb up our bunk's steps to change my sheets. On that occasion, and then a second time after that, the hostel made it perfectly clear that were I to complain, they would request he leave the establishment. I told them I was not particularly bothered.
He was in the room, though I had thought he had his back turned, when I reached into the secret compartment of my backpack to pull out some cash for the night. In the hour that followed, I watched it later on the security tapes, he would come into the room and leave the next minute and he did this three times and then he disappeared for two days from the hostel he hadn't left in thirty. My money, my card, and my made in Ramalde wallet that smells of old milk were all gone too. The wallet had two sweets that monks had blessed, which were supposed to be good luck for the money to keep in it. They had melted a long time ago.
When I saw him again, he was at the supermarket and all his clothes were brand new. He didn't look any happier and I was almost moved to break a bottle on his nape. It was not for the money - it was gone; or the card - I had cancelled it already and it was now useless to me; it was not even my not having certainty or evidence of his guilt (I, like Justice know these two to be triffling matters). It was the awful black basketballcap with some red character on its side, the black tacky shirt that sparkled on the shoulders which he had remembered to tuck into his black tracksuit trousers and the spotless, white trainers. It was like one of the Sopranos had gone shopping in China Town.
I knew, if he had taken the money, there was not that much to take, and he could hardly have gone to the opera with it. But surely he could have hired himself a concubine for the weekend instead of buying contraband Nike."
-One Nation Under God
Know What I Mean?
Addendum:
This was written before I was sent an extract of my bank account which registered the dimwit's six dollar Burger King feast and two hundred dollar sportshop extravaganza. We can only conclude the NIKE weren't contraband after all. I leave to you whether or not this is a redeming point.
Addendum:
This was written before I was sent an extract of my bank account which registered the dimwit's six dollar Burger King feast and two hundred dollar sportshop extravaganza. We can only conclude the NIKE weren't contraband after all. I leave to you whether or not this is a redeming point.
No comments:
Post a Comment