Spying

Poland Dispatch: Village Gossip

A son from the richest village family was sent off to jail for six months for having a few too many stolen tractors in his possession. No one seems to care because the family is a little too snobby for village tastes, plus he stole their tractors.
Marcin’s wife was sleeping with another man, also married. Marcin seems to believe the affair is over now and forgives her. Marcin says he doesn’t have a problem with the fact his faithless wife was then hired to be the man’s secretary.
The former socialist restaurant and function hall remains up for sale. The efforts to keep the restaurant open failed shortly after socialism did, as the new method of charging people for meals turned out to be unpopular. Home cooked meals remain the norm for most, if not all, here. The closest restaurant is about 20 minutes from the village and always appears to be closed. It isn’t, they just keep the lights off to save money.
The old guy with the horribly broken nose didn’t want to move his jacket, but was eventually encouraged to do so by the village bartender.
Wladek thinks he’s going to make a killing when Poland joins the EU. He thinks Germans will be eager to buy his one acre plot of land in the middle of nowhere for outrageous prices.
In 1945, the Russian Army helped the Polish resistance punch through German defenses here. Then the Russians tore up the train tracks and took them back to Russia. This is one of many reasons the locals aren’t fond of Russians.
Also in 1945, Piotrek’s grandfather’s Army brigade discovered a huge cache of moonshine. After they drank it all they worried they might be attacked. They weren’t, but folks agree it was a dumb thing to do at the time.
The village disco is still out of business. No one seems to know why opening a nightclub in a tiny village and charging an unheard of cover charge didn’t pan out.
For the second year in a row the folks who live across the street from the bar have entertained the masses with the high-pitched Christmas jingle generator they have mounted outside. It runs through a repertoire of five or so jingles before running through them again and again and again. All night long.
It’s official! Anja makes the best cakes.
Even though suicides are supposed to be buried in a different part of the cemetery, if you pull some strings you can get buried in the normal place.
The girl who the former village priest got pregnant lives with her mom. The priest has since been relocated. The new priest is very nice and lives across from the doctor. Nobody thinks there’s any monkey business going on with him.
If you’re friends with the police officer who is checking your seat belt he will tell his superior that you’re wearing it, even if you’re not.
There is no plastic food wrap available for sale in any of the stores in the village.

Plastic Bag Man

Standing behind a gentleman at the Whole Foods on Seventh Ave. His transaction is taking longer than normal. He’s a small guy, bearded. Geeky comes to mind. He’s nervously fiddling through his front pockets, looking for something. Money I assume. The little Asian girl behind the counter smiles and waits patiently. He’s mumbling as he’s looking, aware there’s a line behind him. I’m annoyed, but quiet.
“As you can imagine, not having enough bags is my worst nightmare,” he tells the girl. She smiles.
For a moment I think that perhaps he’s talking about picking up after his dog. During any given stroll down the street you’ll see some poor fool with a dog kneel down and collect their pup’s poop with a plastic bag. It’s a lovely spectacle capable of rendering the latest supermodel completely unappealing. Perhaps that’s what he meant. But he doesn’t have a dog with him.
Then he turns a bit and I realize he was totally serious. Not having enough bags is definitely his worst nightmare. He’s got one bag on each hand, secured with a rubber band. And indeed, he’s been rifling though his pockets for money as I had thought. What I hadn’t realized was that each bill he was removing was individually wrapped in its own plastic bag. The reason for the delay was he had found an individually wrapped twenty and an individually wrapped one in his pockets, but needed to find another indivdually bagged dollar bill.
While he searched I desperately tried to get the attention of my wife, who was in a nearby aisle. She looked over at me but I was unable to convey the fact that someone with an amazing Obsessive Compulsive Disorder was delaying my purchase of wheat germ.
He finally found the second bill, wrapped in plastic of course, and presented the still-smiling cashier with the three bags. She opened them, placed the bills in the till and rang up the transaction. Which wasn’t complete yet.
“Here’s your change,” she said, offering him some coins.
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” he replied, waving it away.
She offered him the receipt.
“No thanks,” he said.
He moved away from the counter but continued to look through a bag of smaller bags. I have no idea why. As we headed towards the door, he was still engaged in some sort of bag operations, BagOps as they’d be called in the military, but I decided not to stare. In what must have certainly been his second worst nightmare, he dropped the box of whatever it was he had purchased on the floor.
A whimper of an “Oh.”
I didn’t stick around for the conclusion. I wanted to get my wife outside where I could describe what I had just seen, to which her only response was, “Why does he not just buy gloves?”

Stone Age 21st Century Lady

Seated at the table next to us in this old-fashioned, charming steakhouse, a man and woman. Both early 40s, I’ll presume. Both were a little heavyset, the woman more so. She was short, with dirty blonde hair. They had both recently consumed the restaurant’s signature two-person Porterhouse and were now contemplating dessert. Their conversation revealed they were not on a date, but rather associates of some sort.
The gentleman excused himself to make a phone call. The woman waited until he was out of visible range, then proceeded to pick up the gargantuan Porterhouse bone and gnaw on it.
Now, there was little meat on this bone. They had both previously done a good job of removing it using the utensils the restaurant had thoughtfully provided. However, the woman gnawed on the bone with such violence in her quest for protein that one would be inclined to think she hadn’t eaten in a fortnight.
The sucking noise was the perfect auditory accompaniment for the sight we were beholding. After gnashing the bone, she would suck loudly as to draw in any bits of meat loosened by her fore-teeth. She would then break free of the bone and suck again to clear out any spaces in her teeth occupied by any micron of beef. Vacu-flossing, if you will.
Her fingers and face glistened with oil.
After what seemed an eternity, she placed the bone back on the plate and made use of a napkin. Her companion returned shortly after. They both discussed how happy they were that their dinner had been low in carbs which apparently warranted the ordering of dessert and coffee.

The Germ Freak

Standing behind a gentleman at the Whole Foods on Seventh Ave. His transaction is taking longer than normal. He’s a small guy, bearded. Geeky comes to mind. He’s nervously fiddling through his front pockets, looking for something. Money I assume. The little Asian girl behind the counter smiles and waits patiently. He’s mumbling as he’s looking, aware there’s a line behind him. I’m annoyed, but quiet.
“As you can imagine, not having enough bags is my worst nightmare,” he tells the girl. She smiles.
It’s a strange comment, and for a moment I think that perhaps he’s talking about picking up after his dog. During any given stroll down the street you’ll see some poor fool with a dog kneel down and collect their pup’s poop with a plastic bag. It’s a lovely spectacle and can render even the most attractive folks completely unappealing. Perhaps that’s what he meant.
That hypothesis dies instantly though, when I realize he was serious. Not having enough bags is definitely his worst nightmare. He’s got one bag on each hand, secured with a rubber band. And indeed, he’s been rifling though his pockets for money as I had thought. What I hadn’t realized was that each bill was individually wrapped in a plastic bag. The reason for the delay was he had found an individually wrapped twenty and an individually wrapped one in his pockets, but needed another dollar bill.
While he searched I desperately tried to get the attention of my wife, who was in a nearby aisle. I caught her eye, but was unable to convey the fact that someone with an amazing Obsessive Compulsive Disorder was delaying my purchase of wheat germ.
He finally found the second bill, wrapped in plastic of course, and presented the still-smiling cashier with the three bags. She opened them, placed the bills in the till and rang up the transaction. Which wasn’t complete yet.
“Here’s your quarter,” she said.
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” he replied, waving it away.
She offered him the receipt.
“No thanks,” he said.
He moved away from the counter but continued to look through a bag of bags. I have no idea why. As we headed towards the door, he was still engaged in some sort of bag operations, BagOps as they’d be called in the military, but I decided not to stare. In what must have certainly been his second worst nightmare, he dropped the box of whatever it was he had purchased on the floor.
A whimper of an “Oh.”
I didn’t stick around for the conclusion. I wanted to get my wife outside where I could describe what I had just seen, to which her only response was, “Why does he not just buy gloves?”