czech men part deux

exhibit B.

czech men part 1

there are two versions of the czech man... thanks to the meticulousness of this chart we can diagram the first type... the balding man (this type is not age specific).

30 seconds of Czech

Tonight I hurried like all the local penguins too proud to be seen taking a huge fall on the newly fallen snow that is so artfully decorating the inches of slippery ice beneath. I have learnt not to be fooled by the powdery artifice that so quickly makes us think we can hop around freely like little does. As I fumble for my keys with gloves and arms sticking out perfectly perpendicular thanks to 5 layers and 2 coats I watch the children whose dad own "Dobre Trafika" the little cafe and cigarette and wine shop below our building. Their dad reprimands them briefly in Czech as the small girl drops her glove and plows heedless of a small brother figure in her path. Within the course of 3 seconds I try to catch her attention about her lonesome green glove likely gone for good realize I reacted in English not Czech and before I could begin another sorry second attempt she snow shovels her brother straight into the front door and I decide to take the opened door offered to me rather than get involved in the sibling catastrophe. The Komwag man, or so I call our trash collectors simply because the word is written on all the canisters on the streets, holds the door for me so I hold my nose as normal in our building's entry and begin to run up the stairs trying to pass the flight that never has a functional light switch wanting to make it to the next switch with all the glory and convenience of tungsten. Somehow the light is switched off quicker than usual and I hear a deep and assertive "Dobry vecer!" coming from the direction of a rectangular figure at the top of the landing. It is only his extremely American ball cap that leads me to believe it is my landlord and not the crate greeting me "good evening!" In broken English he pants, "I go too!" and suddenly my aged landlord Lubomir makes it nearly as quickly up the stairs as me while holding what must be twice his weight even beating me to the next light switch and graciously keeping us from utter oblivion. As I fancy he is our little belfry's darling Quasimodo with a more right-angled impediment than the traditional hero I skip up the tiny little stairs to our attic flat which he shares the left half for his storage and marvel at this vivacious Czech and all the absurd poetry of the quickest seconds.