It would have been extremely cheerful at the Beer Festival if we hadn't been jostling each other so hard. And how on Earth could we have avoided the hassle when, even for one single Alutus beer, one had to cross an Amazonian forest guarded by a swarm of viracocha tribes, piranha shoes and alligator elbows. Not to mention the kamagarini demons who could hardly wait for one to venture into those thickets to shut with a grin (the kind of grin only a kamagarini could have produced) the beer cask off to their faces ("we're sorry, you'll have to wait until we bring the new barrel"), to trip them up on their way back (and the beer – splash! – on a machiguenga's jacket), to take the better shot in the race for the last empty chair (only for the rewinding to later reveal that the picture had been touched up), to make one turn their heads enough to see their ex-girlfriend in the arms of their ex-best friend and all that kind of stuff in which no one in the world (be it visible, but mostly invisible) can outdo a kamagarini. And the wind would have been bearable, too, if it hadn't been for the rain that made a huge puddle out of the IzvorPark. I think one could have coped with the puddle and the mud if they hadn't had that special gift of stirring up the Woodstock instincts of 10, 20, 50 brave beer intoxicated citizens who came together in pogo-form circles whose only meaning was that of reunification with nature (through the mere act of falling flat on the ground) and of invocation of The Peak Cap Belonging to the Great Policeman in Charge of the Mutiny Reports. And with the Peak Cap there came the night, and night (just like the football recess) helped us sleep the excitement off. And it was either the night or the Peak Cap (what's the use of insisting on details?) that prompted us, dudes, to go home and, even after that sort of tremendous fun, one realized it was the only valid idea that had been formulated throughout the day. Since then, there should be three years by now, I preferred staying at home whenever some beer festival was rumored to start rattling its music bands and pouring its beer on the beaten tracks of the Izvor Park or on the stone plates in front of the People's House. But, however hard I tried to confine myself to my room, as only the proud owner of a bar security system, as I was, could have done, some damned inner genie or one of those things we got used to calling chores, or the perfectly natural yearning that certain pairs of shoes are said to experience (every six months) after the places where they had been torn and tormented pulled me out, blurred my mind, tempted me such that, about the time when the frenzy was beginning to wear off, I showed up, accidentally passing by, shyly, the fences and the crowd, just close enough for a glance. That glance told me: listen up, lad, if you get past this fence you are unbelievably stupid, you are the ultimate dunce. Lookie here: there's nobody you know, these folks are pushing each other as always, they enjoy stepping on each other's toes, there's more of them than usual, they have no attraction for beer whatsoever, they would undoubtedly take to drinking juice, oil or coughing syrup if somebody felt like organizing the Coughing Syrup Festival, if Bosquito, Fuego, Blondy shouted at them from a stage: "Hail, let's have some vinegar!", they'd all hurry to drink vinegar. Excerpted from Dilema, 24-30 Oct. 2003
by Matei Florian (b. 1979)
