Here I am sitting in a quiet, rustic Balinese warung for the past hour or so, enjoying a few cheap beers and attempting to write something meaningful or funny; both would be fantastic. And surprising.
Still, my ego is pacified when the waiter says he likes my look, my hair in particular. I understand it’s a pretty severe personality flaw to like/want completely random people’s adulation but spelunking that particular dank cave is a tale for another time.
I suggest to this spritely young chap that he too could have his hair cut into a Mohawk. I continue to ramble on that I had it cut not 500 metres from this very establishment, in a salon owned by a transgendered individual. I claim that she was one of the nicest men I’d ever met.
Goodbye meaningful. Goodbye funny. I mentioned the cheap beers right?
Unaware that this most thrilling of conversations is taking place a German couple wander in, immediately followed by their four curly haired Aryan broodlings. Without delay these four bastard children begin running amok. They could not have done a better job at destroying my lovingly cultured peace if that’d been their aim, tearing the place apart like it was a Jewish owned Berlinese dentist circa 1942. Cushions ripped asunder, thrown uncaringly to the ground, brutally assaulted then cast aside like an inappropriate simile.
Anyway, soon enough these little
fuckers cherubs began using the cutlery/glasses/bottles to start a percussion quartet and what do you think their parents do? Absolutely nothing!
No, I’m sorry, that’s a bold faced lie. They were actually stuffing their well fed faces with spaghetti and chips (which they said they were ordering for their children. I suspect to hide their shame of ordering so safely in a culinary expedition like Bali.)
Now one of these identical little shits (all of the hellspawn were dressed in identical checked shirts and cargo shorts) starts drumming hard. Very hard. Like he’s trying to out drum an in-his-prime Tommy Lee. And long. The longest drum solo I’ve heard outside of 70’s psychedelic rock.
As I turn my attention towards the performance, hopelessly hoping his ineffectual parents intervene in some way to break the cacophony, the lead drummer stops dramatically, looks up into some kind of existential infinity then slowly turns his head toward me. Slowly his head turns 180 degrees like an Aryan owl, and then he smiles. Such smugness for one so young!
I begin to rationalise. He’s four years old, maximum. His parents obviously don’t give a shit about their children or their disruptive behaviour and he’s most likely acting out to garner some attention. I get it.
Realising discretion is the better part of valour I promptly begin to finish the remains of my beverage so I can flee this horrible gulag. I turn once more to the little drummer boy, silently hoping that should I ever have children they never turn out like him and, perhaps sensing my thoughts, with all the force his underdeveloped four year old arm can muster he launches a bottle right at my face.
Naturally my cat like reflexes kick in and I dodge it like a ninja.
Finally the parents decide to act like parents as opposed to stuffed animals and apologise profusely while I, being the paragon of maturity I am, smile and accept their apology with such humility Mother Theresa would be proud.
As I depart the establishment which 30 minutes prior had been a bastion of peace, with their parents attention firmly ensconced in whatever profound Mark Twain prose they were typing into their iphones, I turn back to these four hellspawn and muster the most heinously vicious scowl I can muster and in one highly practised manoeuvre I raise the middle finger of my right hand and I gesticulate in the direction of the alpha male sprog with the force of a million suns.
Because I’m Zen like that.