It's 9:21 am, April 4th, 1998... in Vinohrady.
"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood," echoes Mr. Roger's song as I lie in bed and spy the blue sky upside-down through my window, letting all of my nocturnal adventures viciously slam back into me like the long strand of spirits in an old cartoon jumping back into some misshaped antagonist, rejuvenating him so he can go f*ck-up again and make all the little kiddies laugh.
It's an instinctual kind of tension left over from the good old days in the trees-which for some of us weren't all that long ago. It's that strange moment when everyone is trying to decide if it's just some old woman flipping out at having discovered the cool, stiff carcass of her ancient bag-poodle or if she really is actually dying herself... unable to convince themselves that deep down it would make a rat's ass worth of difference if she was.
Her window is wide open and her fresh white lace curtains are billowing gently. She's got exquisitely-manicured flower boxes on the sill and the petals shimmer in the sun. I wonder why it is that only humans, rats and pigeons thrive in urban environments.
The wails have grown into something else now. A high-pitched growling-honk devoid of grace that might as well be coming from a cow being disemboweled on an altar in front of a thousand dark-eyed on-lookers. Too bad she doesn't have one of those nifty little gadgets that you wear around your neck in case something bad happens.
She could be pressing the button right now telling someone at some hospital the Czech equivalent of "Help me, I'm having a heart attack and I can't get up!"
But instead she's rolling around in agony on her nicely vacuumed carpet watching her life fly by her eyes like some lousy 'B' movie that never made it to the theatre. Maybe she never saw the commercial for those emergency neck things. More likely they don't want such products polluting this country.
It would mean someone would have to do something... maybe even quickly.
Can't have that. If there was a way to make her wait in line, now that'd be a hot seller. "I'm sorry ma'am, but without the correct documentation we cannot respond to your life-threatening situation at this time... but please stay on the line and perhaps your call will be answered. And oh yes, thank you for choosing our wonderful product."
It is not my intention to paint a grim picture without including myself in it. God-damn, that old gal sure has a set of lungs. I'm gonna have to close my window if she doesn't shut the hell up. Can't concentrate with all that racket. A good man in my shoes would call the hospital and then run across the street and bound up the three flights of stairs, kick the door down, give her CPR, then leap out the window and fly off to some other important matter just before the medics arrived.
But this ain't Mayberry and I ain't Andy Griffith. Heroes are as dead as Nixon. Where do I stand? I don't stand. I sit and write and laugh, knowing all too well that that I'm gonna be her sooner or later and that if I'm so sorry that I have to scream and cry at my death for all that I left undone then I can only pray that someone hears me and takes heed.
Ah, there are the sirens. How prompt. Good thing they didn't get here on time, they might have had to save her life.