So there we are, sitting on the steps of Sándor Petöfi’s imposing statue, sipping beer, smoking cigarettes and planning out our next short film. Jaro and I had gotten it into our heads to make the same type of videos I make for my work, except make it as sarcastic and disingenuous to the viewer as possible. So, as the voice over praises the beauties of the ‘Jewel of the Danube,’ we show neo-Nazi skinheads chanting or a dirty homeless couple fucking in the stench of a metro station.
All can be easily accessible in this beautiful city.
The Danube is on our right, with foreigners and Magyars alike walking up and down the strip next to the river, called the ‘Korzó.’ This is prime real estate in Budapest: major hotels like the Marriot and InterContinental are based side-by-side on this strip of riverfront, giving guests unparalleled views of the Danube and the hills of Buda.
What we didn’t know was that it was home to something much uglier.
Jaro is talking 100 miles a minute, writing about what shitty juxtaposition we should show next, and I’m taking a drag of my cigarette, not really thinking about anything, letting my eyes wander across the faces passing by, looking at the river, looking up at the statue, talking to their friends or families, and…. I stop. My mind is trying to comprehend something but it takes a second. That guy. He wasn’t looking up at the statue.
He was looking at me.
I size this guy up pretty quick. He’s just standing there, looking at us. A younger guy, a boy almost, stands next to him, looking at us but looking away every few seconds to follow the steps of passer-bys. This guy staring at us, he looks like Nicholas Sarkozy. Except really tan. Brown almost. He’s smiling too, but I can’t tell what its about. Something is wrong. A chill goes up my spine. I nudge Jaro.
Umm. What the fuck is up with this guy?
Which guy?
That one. The one staring at us.
Oh. Ummm… I don’t know.
I’m looking behind me, to make sure he might not be looking at someone else. The only thing behind me is the base of Petöfi’s statue. There’s nothing else behind me, but…
Jesus, do you think it’s the statue?
Jaro looks up. What?
The statue! He might think its sacrilegious or something to drink beer on this thing. Or something.
I doubt it. I bet Sándor was doing the exact same thing in his day.
I’m shaking my head, looking up at Petöfi, still very aware of the man’s eyes on us. Could that be the problem? Does he think we’re pissing on the Magyars for sitting and drinking on the statue of Hungary’s most famous poet? Petöfi was supposedly the model Hungarian; no one could beat his patriotism. But I can’t believe that. This is Hungary. I’ve drank, pissed and thrown up over these streets, and nothing has come to pass. My gaze returns to the Korzó. The man still stares, with his little smile, and eyes like a vulture’s. Except his boy companion has been replaced by another boy, younger this time, who does the same as the other: watch people walk by like a hawk.
What the fuck is going on Jaro?
I don’t know. I don’t even care. Just ignore him. He’ll get tired of whatever he’s doing…. Jaro trails off. Or he won’t, he finishes.
I look at him. Uh huh.
So what about that story idea?
We continue to talk about ridiculous juxtapositions in our city, and all the while the man with his boys stares at us. He rarely takes his eyes off of us. We don’t ignore him. We stare back at him, but later it would become clear that was not the thing to do. It probably wouldn’t have mattered. This guy was on a mission. We just didn’t know it yet.
After twenty minutes of talking about our new idea and writing it all down, Jaro finally stops, and says, Maybe this is something else. Maybe we’re not seeing the whole picture.
Yeah genius, it obviously isn’t about the statue, or else he would have just yelled at us to get the hell off his precious hero.
Jaro’s phone rings. He picks up. I’m trying to listen to who it is. Szilvi? I can’t be sure. I look back at the guy, and he’s talking on his cell too. But. Wait. No he’s not.
Shit. Jaro. I jab him, and motion to our admirer. Watch.
Jaro is still talking on the phone, but now he can see it too. The guy is playing copycat. The guy is twenty meters away but I can see his eyes. They’re afire.
Oh no. It’s not the statue. It’s something else. A game.
Jaro is now obviously talking into his phone and staring right at the guy, gesturing like, Yeah we know you’re fucking watching us dick head! The guy’s eyebrows jerk up. The signal. He looks like Sarkozy on crack. He gets up.
Oh crap.
Oh, now you did it, you fucking idiot. I’m shaking my head at Jaro. Why the hell did you have to do that?!
I don’t know!
The guy is walking up the steps, but stops, looks beyond us for a second, and then continues towards us. I look on my right, where our creepy friend has just observed, and I see an older man sitting with his son. But… His son. He looks familiar. Wait, I’m saying. But I don’t have time to finish.
Our stalker is upon us.
Where are you from? He asks in fluent English.
Where are you from?! Jaro shoots back.
God damnit Jaro.
Here, he says.
California, Jaro says. What’s your problem?
You like boys?
Oh. No. I hate these situations.
Jaro must be drunk. Oooh so that’s what you are about! It all makes sense now!
The guy looks excited. Yeah? He asks.
No! We both say at once. We’re not into that, I finally pipe up. God damnit.
No? He’s asking us. What are you into?
We both have girlfriends!
So?
So? So… We don’t like men!
Boys. He corrects us.
Ugh.
Fine. Whatever. We have girlfriends and we are very set thank you.
He nods his head, views the scene for a second, then starts back on us. You know where you are? He asks.
The Duna?
Sex Row.
What… Here?
Yeah. This is where I work. Everyone comes here for sex. And I give it to them.
Fantastic. We’ve just entered a conversation with a fucking Hungarian pimp.
We don’t like what you have to offer, Jaro is saying.
I’m looking back at the old man I saw earlier. His son… He picked him up. Christ. I grind my teeth and look at this guy. He makes me sick. Jaro is egging the pimp on, possibly not aware of the situation to our right.
We’re not interested, I finally say. And that’s it.
Oh, ok. He looks slightly hurt, but his grin returns almost immediately. Well good luck, is his finishing line. At least I think it is.
Jaro is yelling after him, Yeah good luck to you too!
Dude, do you know whats going on around us right now? He shakes his head. What, you mean the crazy gay pimp? No, not him. Well, ok yeah, that was weird. But look over there. I point and he looks.
Now its his eyebrows that arch. Oh…
Yeah. Oh.
The ‘son’ is now sitting closer to his ‘old man’, laughing and giving his older companion a look.
I wonder how old he is? I ask.
Umm.
I look back at the guy, but my eyes are drawn to three girls walking by. They look Swedish. Wow. Ok, that’s nice. I forget about the fucked up shit happening around this venerable hot spot of Budapest, and watch the three blonde hotties walk past. As their flip flops slap past our statue, the pimp catches wind of our search, and as they pass by his position, he looks at us with big crazy eyes and does a motion with his tongue. I don’t have to tell you what he was implying. It was sick enough. I have to look away, but all I can see is the old man and his own catch. Christ.
I glance back and now he’s coming back.
Oh shit, he’s coming back! I hiss. Jaro looks back, and sure enough, he’s walking up. But he doesn’t say anything, just looks at us and sits on the other side of Petöfi’s statue.
Ok… Dude. Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough of this situation.
Yeah, is all Jaro can say.
We get up, pack our things and go. We say good bye to the pimp. He sits, legs spread, watching us with eyes filled with light. Im just glad he doesn’t wear a kilt. He doesn’t say anything at first, just stares and watches us go.
Good luck! He screams after us.
Yeah good luck my ass, I’m saying. That guy was a fucking creep.
Dude I know. I have to piss so bad though. Oh here’s a bathroom!
Jaro goes in. It’s one of those bathrooms available to the public, for a price. Always some small amount of change that really shouldn’t matter, because c’mon, I just have to piss and really do you need to charge me the equivalent of a quarter to get in? But yes, they really do, and they’re usually underground – so European – and have not been cleaned in years.
I have to go too, but I wait. I hate those places.
I stand, leaning against the railing above the river, watching it pass underneath Erzsébet Hid. I’m still comprehending what just happened. I look up, and gulp.
He’s standing in front of me.
Shit.
Oh, hi, he says, and walks past, looking at my ass as he goes by.
God DAMNIT!
I see Jaro coming up, and make a beeline for him.
Let’s fucking go, Jaro.
Um, ok. Jeez, what happened?
Our friend is following us. Now lets get more beer and forget about this horrible experience.
We walk three blocks up and find a CBA, which is basically the Hungarian version of 7-11, except better (no slurpies though). I look behind us before entering, but the street is empty. Ok, good. That guy was fucking weird, I’m saying. Yeah no shit.
The aisles are narrow but we finally find the beer section. Hmm. What should we get? Well, do you want to go cheap or get something else? I don’t know. We’re leaning over looking at our choices and someone brushes past me, but a little roughly, and fuck I hate these Hungarians, can’t they see where they’re going? I shake my head, neglecting to look at the moron who whipped past me, and grab some new bottles.
We saunter up to the register like we own the place, and then I stop. I think Jaro stumbles, but I can’t be sure. There he is. The guy. The pimp, in front of the register, looking at us with that same smile.
And then I know who bumped into me while I was bent over. Christ. That fucker.
Now I’m pissed. What are you doing? Im asking, acid slurring my words.
He doesn’t answer, and the check-out lady is looking between us and him, alarmed.
Jaro is silent, and I collapse in silence, because I know what is going to happen if we don’t get away. We’re going to kill this guy if he keeps following us. And both of us know it.
We’ve had enough of this guy.
We walk out the door, and the guy is still inside, watching us. I take a deep breath. Jaro and I look at each other. Lets. Get. Out. Of. Here.
Yes, lets.
We left, but not before checking behind us for some time. He was gone, at least in the now.
But I can’t shake his face. The grin. The eyes.
The sick pimp.
All can be easily accessible in this beautiful city.
The Danube is on our right, with foreigners and Magyars alike walking up and down the strip next to the river, called the ‘Korzó.’ This is prime real estate in Budapest: major hotels like the Marriot and InterContinental are based side-by-side on this strip of riverfront, giving guests unparalleled views of the Danube and the hills of Buda.
What we didn’t know was that it was home to something much uglier.
Jaro is talking 100 miles a minute, writing about what shitty juxtaposition we should show next, and I’m taking a drag of my cigarette, not really thinking about anything, letting my eyes wander across the faces passing by, looking at the river, looking up at the statue, talking to their friends or families, and…. I stop. My mind is trying to comprehend something but it takes a second. That guy. He wasn’t looking up at the statue.
He was looking at me.
I size this guy up pretty quick. He’s just standing there, looking at us. A younger guy, a boy almost, stands next to him, looking at us but looking away every few seconds to follow the steps of passer-bys. This guy staring at us, he looks like Nicholas Sarkozy. Except really tan. Brown almost. He’s smiling too, but I can’t tell what its about. Something is wrong. A chill goes up my spine. I nudge Jaro.
Umm. What the fuck is up with this guy?
Which guy?
That one. The one staring at us.
Oh. Ummm… I don’t know.
I’m looking behind me, to make sure he might not be looking at someone else. The only thing behind me is the base of Petöfi’s statue. There’s nothing else behind me, but…
Jesus, do you think it’s the statue?
Jaro looks up. What?
The statue! He might think its sacrilegious or something to drink beer on this thing. Or something.
I doubt it. I bet Sándor was doing the exact same thing in his day.
I’m shaking my head, looking up at Petöfi, still very aware of the man’s eyes on us. Could that be the problem? Does he think we’re pissing on the Magyars for sitting and drinking on the statue of Hungary’s most famous poet? Petöfi was supposedly the model Hungarian; no one could beat his patriotism. But I can’t believe that. This is Hungary. I’ve drank, pissed and thrown up over these streets, and nothing has come to pass. My gaze returns to the Korzó. The man still stares, with his little smile, and eyes like a vulture’s. Except his boy companion has been replaced by another boy, younger this time, who does the same as the other: watch people walk by like a hawk.
What the fuck is going on Jaro?
I don’t know. I don’t even care. Just ignore him. He’ll get tired of whatever he’s doing…. Jaro trails off. Or he won’t, he finishes.
I look at him. Uh huh.
So what about that story idea?
We continue to talk about ridiculous juxtapositions in our city, and all the while the man with his boys stares at us. He rarely takes his eyes off of us. We don’t ignore him. We stare back at him, but later it would become clear that was not the thing to do. It probably wouldn’t have mattered. This guy was on a mission. We just didn’t know it yet.
After twenty minutes of talking about our new idea and writing it all down, Jaro finally stops, and says, Maybe this is something else. Maybe we’re not seeing the whole picture.
Yeah genius, it obviously isn’t about the statue, or else he would have just yelled at us to get the hell off his precious hero.
Jaro’s phone rings. He picks up. I’m trying to listen to who it is. Szilvi? I can’t be sure. I look back at the guy, and he’s talking on his cell too. But. Wait. No he’s not.
Shit. Jaro. I jab him, and motion to our admirer. Watch.
Jaro is still talking on the phone, but now he can see it too. The guy is playing copycat. The guy is twenty meters away but I can see his eyes. They’re afire.
Oh no. It’s not the statue. It’s something else. A game.
Jaro is now obviously talking into his phone and staring right at the guy, gesturing like, Yeah we know you’re fucking watching us dick head! The guy’s eyebrows jerk up. The signal. He looks like Sarkozy on crack. He gets up.
Oh crap.
Oh, now you did it, you fucking idiot. I’m shaking my head at Jaro. Why the hell did you have to do that?!
I don’t know!
The guy is walking up the steps, but stops, looks beyond us for a second, and then continues towards us. I look on my right, where our creepy friend has just observed, and I see an older man sitting with his son. But… His son. He looks familiar. Wait, I’m saying. But I don’t have time to finish.
Our stalker is upon us.
Where are you from? He asks in fluent English.
Where are you from?! Jaro shoots back.
God damnit Jaro.
Here, he says.
California, Jaro says. What’s your problem?
You like boys?
Oh. No. I hate these situations.
Jaro must be drunk. Oooh so that’s what you are about! It all makes sense now!
The guy looks excited. Yeah? He asks.
No! We both say at once. We’re not into that, I finally pipe up. God damnit.
No? He’s asking us. What are you into?
We both have girlfriends!
So?
So? So… We don’t like men!
Boys. He corrects us.
Ugh.
Fine. Whatever. We have girlfriends and we are very set thank you.
He nods his head, views the scene for a second, then starts back on us. You know where you are? He asks.
The Duna?
Sex Row.
What… Here?
Yeah. This is where I work. Everyone comes here for sex. And I give it to them.
Fantastic. We’ve just entered a conversation with a fucking Hungarian pimp.
We don’t like what you have to offer, Jaro is saying.
I’m looking back at the old man I saw earlier. His son… He picked him up. Christ. I grind my teeth and look at this guy. He makes me sick. Jaro is egging the pimp on, possibly not aware of the situation to our right.
We’re not interested, I finally say. And that’s it.
Oh, ok. He looks slightly hurt, but his grin returns almost immediately. Well good luck, is his finishing line. At least I think it is.
Jaro is yelling after him, Yeah good luck to you too!
Dude, do you know whats going on around us right now? He shakes his head. What, you mean the crazy gay pimp? No, not him. Well, ok yeah, that was weird. But look over there. I point and he looks.
Now its his eyebrows that arch. Oh…
Yeah. Oh.
The ‘son’ is now sitting closer to his ‘old man’, laughing and giving his older companion a look.
I wonder how old he is? I ask.
Umm.
I look back at the guy, but my eyes are drawn to three girls walking by. They look Swedish. Wow. Ok, that’s nice. I forget about the fucked up shit happening around this venerable hot spot of Budapest, and watch the three blonde hotties walk past. As their flip flops slap past our statue, the pimp catches wind of our search, and as they pass by his position, he looks at us with big crazy eyes and does a motion with his tongue. I don’t have to tell you what he was implying. It was sick enough. I have to look away, but all I can see is the old man and his own catch. Christ.
I glance back and now he’s coming back.
Oh shit, he’s coming back! I hiss. Jaro looks back, and sure enough, he’s walking up. But he doesn’t say anything, just looks at us and sits on the other side of Petöfi’s statue.
Ok… Dude. Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough of this situation.
Yeah, is all Jaro can say.
We get up, pack our things and go. We say good bye to the pimp. He sits, legs spread, watching us with eyes filled with light. Im just glad he doesn’t wear a kilt. He doesn’t say anything at first, just stares and watches us go.
Good luck! He screams after us.
Yeah good luck my ass, I’m saying. That guy was a fucking creep.
Dude I know. I have to piss so bad though. Oh here’s a bathroom!
Jaro goes in. It’s one of those bathrooms available to the public, for a price. Always some small amount of change that really shouldn’t matter, because c’mon, I just have to piss and really do you need to charge me the equivalent of a quarter to get in? But yes, they really do, and they’re usually underground – so European – and have not been cleaned in years.
I have to go too, but I wait. I hate those places.
I stand, leaning against the railing above the river, watching it pass underneath Erzsébet Hid. I’m still comprehending what just happened. I look up, and gulp.
He’s standing in front of me.
Shit.
Oh, hi, he says, and walks past, looking at my ass as he goes by.
God DAMNIT!
I see Jaro coming up, and make a beeline for him.
Let’s fucking go, Jaro.
Um, ok. Jeez, what happened?
Our friend is following us. Now lets get more beer and forget about this horrible experience.
We walk three blocks up and find a CBA, which is basically the Hungarian version of 7-11, except better (no slurpies though). I look behind us before entering, but the street is empty. Ok, good. That guy was fucking weird, I’m saying. Yeah no shit.
The aisles are narrow but we finally find the beer section. Hmm. What should we get? Well, do you want to go cheap or get something else? I don’t know. We’re leaning over looking at our choices and someone brushes past me, but a little roughly, and fuck I hate these Hungarians, can’t they see where they’re going? I shake my head, neglecting to look at the moron who whipped past me, and grab some new bottles.
We saunter up to the register like we own the place, and then I stop. I think Jaro stumbles, but I can’t be sure. There he is. The guy. The pimp, in front of the register, looking at us with that same smile.
And then I know who bumped into me while I was bent over. Christ. That fucker.
Now I’m pissed. What are you doing? Im asking, acid slurring my words.
He doesn’t answer, and the check-out lady is looking between us and him, alarmed.
Jaro is silent, and I collapse in silence, because I know what is going to happen if we don’t get away. We’re going to kill this guy if he keeps following us. And both of us know it.
We’ve had enough of this guy.
We walk out the door, and the guy is still inside, watching us. I take a deep breath. Jaro and I look at each other. Lets. Get. Out. Of. Here.
Yes, lets.
We left, but not before checking behind us for some time. He was gone, at least in the now.
But I can’t shake his face. The grin. The eyes.
The sick pimp.
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