“Du da, du da,” sung the young Gypsy with a drunken smile on his face. “All the du da day!”
“Come on man! Sing with me,” he encouraged us. We did sing, and frolic, and continue to make glorious messes of ourselves as we tramped on through the night time streets of Prague.
The Gypsy was singing in the street outside of a club in downtown Prague. It was late at night, and I was with Chip the science fiction writer – who was a jovial black expat from Chicago who has been on the bum in Prague for the past two years – and a young American tourist. The gypsy passed a joint to Chip, and he took it gladly. I was sitting on a stoop just enjoying the night, sipping from my hip flask of good Czech rum.
“All the du da day!” roared the gypsy, as he proceeded to bother passer bys in front of the club in the Prague night. This guy was funny, and he made glorious jokes as he proceeded to annoy and bother any body that he could. Myself, Chip, and the young American tourist were his audience, and laughed and laughed at his antics. A couple of Czech girls then yelled at the Gypsy quite harshly, so we figured that we should make an exit and find other people for the Gypsy to harass.
We made our way down the street only to find a fat girl being fingered by a bald man. It just happened to be the same fat girl who insulted one of my friends earlier in the night. I felt slightly ruthless.
The fat girl was leaning her big thick back against a concrete wall and the bald man was really ramming his fist up between the gal’s very imposing thighs. This was a pretty forceful fingering, and I found myself wondering how so much pressure could create a real feeling of pleasure. But, as I said, the girl was quite fat, and the operation probably necessitated a little extra effort. The fat girl did not seem to mind. She was moaning.
I thought that it was a funny scene. The Gypsy did too.
So he bothered them to his satisfaction, we wave and asked them stupid questions in Spanish, and then we soon tired of this particularly wearing scene. They fat girl and her bald operator obviously did not want to be our friends. They did not even laugh at our jokes. But, to the bald man’s credit, he kept on keeping on up the fat girl’s skirt all through our assault.
We then decided to let the copulation continue, as we cut down a side street where there was a bunch of parked cars.
“Do you want to steal a car?” the Gypsy asked us. He was serious.
“Ok,” I said. Chip shrugged his shoulders; I think he would have stolen a car just for fun – we were a little drunk. But the American tourist showed no little amount of hesitation. He did not believe that the Gypsy was serious.
The Gypsy then tried to convince the tourist that his proposition was not in vain:
“No really,” spoke the Gypsy, “I steal stuff.”
I believe him.
But, for the better, the consensus of the group fell towards discretion, and we carried on through the night on foot.
The Gypsy lead us down dark winding alleys. The Gypsy was telling us that we were going to “Romania.” I did not really want to go to Romania on this night.
“Hey, Chip, do you know where we are?” I asked.
“Nope,” Chip said with a laugh.
We were going to “Romania.”
I have never found it to be a particularly wise decision to follow a Gypsy to “Romania” in the dark of a drunk Prague night.
“Chip, I don’t want to go to Romania,” I whispered under my breathe.
“Neither do I,” answered Chip.
We began to lag behind the American tourist and the Gypsy who just started up a new chorus of “All the du da day” as we marched on through the unlit alleys.
“Lets get out of here,” I say to Chip.
“Ok, I will tell him that we are going home,” said Chip. He knew the Gypsy from previous nights of his two year stay in Prague, so was not too worried about were we are being lead, but still seemed to want to take the first road out as soon as the chance presented itself.
Chip suddenly found his bearings, and we cut off in another direction from where we were being lead.
“Wait, wait!” yelled the Gypsy after us, “we still have to go to Romania! Du da du da!”
We laughed and kept on walking towards the light of nightlife Prague. The American tourist found his hotel and went to bed, Chip and I kept on walking with the singing Gypsy. But the Gypsy soon grew tired of following and he stayed behind in Old Town Square while bothering a night time bum.
“I am going to stay here with Steve Martin,” yelled the Gypsy. He liked calling the bum Steve Martin. Chip and I waved and left the Gypsy behind. I took one look back and saw the him accosting the poor bum with nonsense Gypsy talk: “Hello, Steve Martin. What do you want Steve Martin . . . give me five, Steve Martin.” I listened as the Gypsy’s voice faded off into the distance.
Prague is a good town.
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