The acid test. Everybody knows that in the long block in Kretzulescu, the one which runs across the residence which shelters the Musica shop, there are a few S.R.I offices. The irresponsibility we made proof of while singing there, all the more as we used to also play a few legionary hymns taught from a score book of the kind, indicates a certain freshness but also the exact value of the happiness we employed in everything we did. We had no need to pretend or to fool anyone. We were just us. It was us and our music, lamer and uglier than the one we had listened on cassettes and records.
I have a strange and embarrassing memory of the S.R.I gentlemen. I used to shiver for a while after the conflict I had with them in a beautiful summer afternoon. We were close to our lunch break. Shaorma was popping out as the only life priority we had when two men in suits scattered the content of our hat with their broad palms. They were stoned and they found it appropriate to chill out with another beer, this time on the money we had earned for the respective day. We were shocked. We were starring at the emptied hat without being able to believe our eyes. We quickly ran after them down the sidewalk parallel to the Musica shop. We caught up with them. They weren?t in a hurry. They had no reason to be. The tramp granted by the badge in the pocket was very powerful. As a matter of fact, they wouldn?t have been able to run anyway. They went stumbling along like in a weird dance. ?Our parents would never do such a thing!? we hurled at them in an ethical and moral tone. ?Hoy, go to hell you loafers! After letting you play for two years without saying a word, do you still cut figures with us?? ?Our parents would never do such a thing!? we hurled back and I don?t know why that thing with the parents kept on eating into me.
Afterwards, one of them tried to hit me. He slapped me on the nape, but he only managed to partially hit me since I stepped aside. Anyway, that was a broad, big, indecent palm I still remember very well. I was going to see the guy again in a few years in various pubs in Bucharest. Either in Cişmigiu, or in Lipscani. Each time he was drunk. And each time he was telling those with him in a very loud voice about what he had done in the prisons were he used to work. He was a former chockey guardian. Watching over prisoners. A very lyrical life. When you see people like that, you can?t prevent yourself from thinking of the extenuating circumstances which can many times justify our deeds. Well, we depend on many things. On the way our parents wiped our arses, of the first marks our primary school teacher gave us, of the success of our first kiss. There are things we carry with us up to the grave, memories neatly folded up in the secret chest of the soul. In the majority of the cases we are what we are because of these things. So, that guy is trying to slap me. Things quickly get nasty because we try to fight back. I kick that guy in the arse and the two go crazy. They start running after us around the parking lot in front of the Telephone Palace. People gather around as if at circus. ?Good people, take these two out of here, otherwise, we are going to have to hit them!? I don?t know where I got those lines from. I mean, I know because I was dominated by the huge tension of the event. Of the follow-ups. I have always had an obsessive fear of follow-ups. I cannot understand why each step we take has to have consequences.