I hold onto the gray rubber strap knowing it is useless. As
soon as the tram stops the strap will slide and I will stumble. Not that it
matters. There are so many people on the tram I won’t be able to fall far; an inch
this way or an inch that way. I will mumble, “Sorry,” even though it is not my fault.
Perfunctory apologies are big in English. You learn these quirks when you teach
the language.
The man in the seat beside me stinks. He is strumming on a
guitar and growling out Czech lyrics in a Tom Waits voice. He seems to be the
front man for a homeless jam band. They aren’t asking for money. They are
content to sing and stomp and take swigs of Bohemian moonshine from 1.5 liter Coca-Cola
bottles. They all stink. I try breathing through my mouth but the thought of
eating their stink disgusts me more. I settle on breathing only when I have
too.
The tram stops at Hlvani Nadrazi. The main train station is
300 meters away through a pretty tree lined park. The park is a haven for
hoodlums and homeless. The locals called it Sherwood Forest. If it were summer
the band would depart to entertain the bandits. It is winter. The doors fold
open and air rushes in bitter cold. The band plays on. They have seats. They
have warmth. They can ride until the rot-gut runs dry.
The guy with the guitar has a matted beard and missing
teeth. The skin on his face and neck is mottled with dirt. He seems to be
molding. He has a dog. The dog is pristine. I wonder why that always seems to
be the case with the homeless and their pets.
The band has a groupie. She is sitting across the aisle a
couple of rows back. She is big and drunk and she brays a lot. I don’t understand
the language but I understand the word “Elvis.” The King translates. Her
braying has finally caught the attention of the guy with the guitar. He stops
his Czech tune mid-strum and switches to “Only Fools Rush In.” He plays the
song well. He starts singing. He sings the lyrics in Czech. The braying woman
is not pleased, “Ne originál. V angličtině ty idiote!” I understand. “English
you idiot!” translates.
The screeching of brakes marks my stop. Dozens of people are waiting
on the median. Elvis sounds sweet and for a moment I consider riding it out one
more stop. I let go of the gray strap and let the crush of people push me
forward. It is always the same—a bunch of people squirting out like a plop of
toothpaste.
I stop at the potraviny adjacent to my flat. I buy tomatoes,
chocolate and beer. I need the tomatoes. The chocolate and beer not so much,
but once I get inside I don’t intend to go back out into the confounding cold
of a late Prague winter. I hold the beer bottles under my arm hoping they
won't fall and shatter before I can open the door.
The door swings open. Behind me the tram roars past headed in the opposite direction. I
wonder how long it will take the band to make the loop, to run out of songs and
booze, to seek shelter against the wind with the bandits in Sherwood Forest.