Weekend at the Liebschers .part 2
The hour of the ball came and we waited for our friends well dressed in front of the town hall; they were arriving fashionably late. It was quite odd as groups of people well aware of each others' existence greeted each other before the entrance. The whole event was more of a case study for social dynamics. People who despised, fancied or longed for each other were thrown in a bowl together, in tailored suits and fashionable dresses, drinking cheap gin from disposable plastic cups. People were greeting each other with warm hugs scented with laugh all around me and then gossiped horrible things in a whisper that grew louder with every consumed drink, until I could hear them rumble from the adjacent tables. It was an unappealing mixture of class and of moral trash and in its middle I was drawn in myself. I was sipping one plastic cupped gin and tonic after another until the evening became manageable and I continued long after that, until I found myself in a bar next to a double borovicka with Sramo spitting words in my face. Janci was also there, leaning in with his small glass of beer he faithfully committed to and waiting for nothing in particular. My second shot I refused to drink which is the surefire sign that I am not going to do well in the morning. I have passed the limit. I stubbornly convinced Janci to come upstairs to the ballroom, lazily forgetful of the fact that Sramo himself had a valid ticket attached to his wrist and didnât just walk in dressed in his old sweater and torn baseball cap. We walked up and walked in and as I was petting my shoulder for the job well done, Janci was taken by the arm and escorted outside by the doorman. I stood there dumbly for a few seconds, then progressed further to get another drink.There was a drama unfolding that was sadly intriguing between Lenka and three guys who were somehow determined to gain her favors despite it being diamond clear that they will visibly suffer a social downfall by doing so. Lenka being undecided as she is left all of them agog, their willingness to publicly make a fool of themselves was rewarded with solely a few stolen dances. The end of it I didnât witness. We got in an unnecessary fight with Katja about my hands being locked in my pockets and my drunken swooning on the dance floor didnât satisfy her dancing needs. We were tearing at each other to a point that I was ready to turn around at the front door of her apartment and walk out into the cold Rosenberg night at three in the morning. It didnât come to that. I was seething for some minutes and then fell asleep puffing out soft clouds of evaporating gin and borovicka.The moment I woke up I was fine, but I did the math and it just wasnât adding up to being a nice un-headache-y day. Soon I found the one position I could lay without feeling the need to puke all over the room and I proceeded in staying motionless as long as I could. Katjaâs parents were wondering why I refused breakfast and what the strange noises slithering from the bathroom were. I told them it must have been the washing machine.I rolled over finally and showed my face outside, ready to receive some much needed council from mr. vili about how to deal with my hangover. He had considerable experience in the area and was eager to help, since he did get drunk back in his days. Namely once. Ever.I was anticipating an acidy eruption any minute and my head seemed to be nailed with an iron hammer, hence I suggested a walk outside to Katja, to counter my vertigo with some fresh air. It was drizzling outdoors but I needed to escape the apartment, the stiff tepid air and mostly Katjaâs parents. Getting rid of the latter wasnât as easy though, there being an unwritten agreement in place stating that they have the right, but not the obligation to join any walk taken in an area inside 20 km. By the time I put on a sweater they were all lined up fully dressed and excited for the trip. I was just happy I could still stand on two feet.The fresh air was a priceless change and even though the rain started drumming on the windshield, the view was amazing. After some left and right turns on roads unfit for adult cars we came to a stop where all mountains around us were visible and milky from the softly floating mist. In the end I was glad we all came. We walked a few steps where a hoard of goats and sheep were turning in circles, not far from them a 21st century shepherd named Ricky, with worn out clothes, hands in pockets and a face showing surrendered misery whistled to two shepherd dogs who tended the flock. A picturesque location right at the feet of Rosenberg.Back at the apartment I risked stuffing the heavy pork meat in my stomach, with onions, mustard, eggs, cheese and pretty much everything imaginable that could help itself end up on my clothes. I was eating it like a handicapped child. Everyone was waiting at the table with me, conversationally talking of their peculiar eating habits while three pair of eyes followed every draggingly slow movement of my food from plate to my mouth. Their table ethics didnât allow them to leave for the whole half hour.And slowly approached the moment of me leaving the Liebscher residence. An emotional departure. They grouped up in the hallway, waiting patiently as I tied one shoelace at a time, packed me up with food for the ride, which practically was enough food for the next two days. We hugged goodbye, I thanked them for everything and I flew out the door. It was the Liebscher way of doing things. Which wasnât a bad way at all.
