I think I voted twice in my life and I’ll be damned if I remember what, where, and why I voted. My opinion in the matter is as valuable as a frozen onion hence I will write a story about a simple man, his peasant life and the elections. This is not an epic or cautionary tale. It’s an unimpressive slice of life and nothing more.
Elections are a fun event for everyone. It provides a subject of discussion in taverns. It means you might finally get to bend the bones of your irritating neighbor when you had two too many pints of beer. You feel knowledgeable because you are watching derogatory TV shows filled with very “opinionated” nobodies suddenly promoted to the high ranks of political experts. And, most importantly, you get free “mici” and beer. This is the Romanian electoral tradition: feed the population! Gain the votes one beer at the time! Just like in old Roman days: “panem et circenses”. We are proud of our ancient roots.
Our man Mitica lives in Cacaleti, a small, picturesque village, right in the middle of the country. And then a bit to the right. Move down slightly. I said slightly! There it is! His house, hidden between the hills, is surrounded by green fields, and orchards where trees are bending under the weight of the ripen fruits, and cows are grazing graciously. No cars can reach here, just horses and carts. Corporate slaves chained to their desks in steel and glass buildings surrounded by concrete from all sides fantasize about such places. If it wasn’t for the lack of current water, gas and sometimes electricity, these places would sell like hot buns straight from the oven, even during credit crunch. Fortunately the winds do not carry thus far the intricate scent of fresh manure with heavy wood-fire base notes which graces the nostrils of almost half the population.
Mitica is a 40-something man; the lines on his face are 20 years deeper. He spends all day outside, in the fields. The orchards are not his. He only scythes the grass twice every summer. His wife, once a gentle and naive creature, has been twisted by the hardship of a poor life and lost all love and respect for him. Now she has many others who place the food on her table. She is always picking a fight with poor Mitica. People in the village say that’s how he lost his front teeth.
No matter how poor he was, and how many beatings he got from his wife, Mitica always found money for beer. He owes everything he has twice to the village tavern. The only precious thing for him is, however, his TV. It’s his peace haven and his source of political entertainment. He likes it when these big guys throw filth at each other. Mitica’s rough nature rejoices when he smells blood. And elections are a field day for Mitica.
Luckily for him, it is elections time again. Mitica descends every night, religiously, into the village for research at the tavern. His main source of information is Costica. He snuck into the warm embrace of a party. Mitica can never keep up with the changes in titles and movements between parties. It’s all the same to him. Costica is good at providing dirt about all candidates. How many houses that one has, and how many factories the other one pocketed through privatization. Mitica knows that word well, though he doesn’t understand the meaning. He is proudly and loudly using it, like he knows what he’s uttering.
Today he sees a bit of commotion. There is a group of youngsters sloshing out on beer and pigging out on the “mici”. He approaches the table and recognizes the son on one of his cousins. All the boys of the village were congregated around him while the owner was rushing down pint after pint and plate after plate. Where was the pot of gold?
“Vasile, what are you doing here boy?” tries Mitica in a friendly voice. Vasile was his favorite relative. He was a funny and handsome young man who had all the village girls tied up in barns and where not. Vasile was getting his vote of approval.
“A pint of beer for my uncle here!” he shouts. “We had a tough day, uncle. We put up posters for the party. We’ve been all the way to the city. We had to cut a police man some meat because we were placing the posters on the walls of the mayor’s manor. Do you know the mayor has a golden Jesus on a cross planted in his yard? You can stare directly at the sun, but not at the mayor’s new gilded toy. I say boo! Down with his party! Our party is the best.”
“What is your party, Vasile?”
“It’s a new alliance, uncle. And Bacanu is for president!!” Hurray everybody!”
“Hurray!” chanted the others, on command, spitting out the beer they haven’t had time to swallow.
“Bacanu? Wasn’t he with the mayor’s party at the last elections?” asked Mitica puzzled.
“Trans-politician” muttered Costica, who was obviously upset about all the commotion Vasile and his crew was causing.
It was an old concept with a new label in the political scene of the village. None of this mattered to Mitica. His subconscious quest was to find a scapegoat - the best possible clown to entertain him during the cold, lonely nights in front of his TV. He did not like Bacanu that much. He seemed a bit of a soft dick. Clearly sold out to the Russians, and Americans, and all the rest, he will not make a good president, thought Mitica while pouring down the cold beer and swallowing the tasty meat at the same time. It was the best meal he had in months.
“And we still have a top of posters for each of us left to bring home” continued Vasile. “Here, grab one, uncle. You can use it for starting the fire or something”.
He reluctantly picked up the heavy package full of posters with Bacanu smiling and gazing confidently into the future. A future Mitica did not feel comfortable with. He walked back to his house together with Costica, trying to voice his concern.
“Not to worry Mitica, you know how these elections go. There is a lot of barking from all sides. Everyone votes with whomever they want and from the polls wins who must win”, Costica tried to soothe him.
That night was restless for Mitica. In the morning he went outside to the toilet to do what nature intended for a human to do and found himself out of toilet paper. Instead he found a pile of last night’s posters. He picked one and tried to soften it. After using it, a sick curiosity made him hold on and look at it…Bacanu had his face full of Mitica’s freshly produced shit….it looked like a mustache has grown there.
With a smirk on his face, Mitica let out a sigh of relief: “He might be president material after all.”
Elections are a fun event for everyone. It provides a subject of discussion in taverns. It means you might finally get to bend the bones of your irritating neighbor when you had two too many pints of beer. You feel knowledgeable because you are watching derogatory TV shows filled with very “opinionated” nobodies suddenly promoted to the high ranks of political experts. And, most importantly, you get free “mici” and beer. This is the Romanian electoral tradition: feed the population! Gain the votes one beer at the time! Just like in old Roman days: “panem et circenses”. We are proud of our ancient roots.
Our man Mitica lives in Cacaleti, a small, picturesque village, right in the middle of the country. And then a bit to the right. Move down slightly. I said slightly! There it is! His house, hidden between the hills, is surrounded by green fields, and orchards where trees are bending under the weight of the ripen fruits, and cows are grazing graciously. No cars can reach here, just horses and carts. Corporate slaves chained to their desks in steel and glass buildings surrounded by concrete from all sides fantasize about such places. If it wasn’t for the lack of current water, gas and sometimes electricity, these places would sell like hot buns straight from the oven, even during credit crunch. Fortunately the winds do not carry thus far the intricate scent of fresh manure with heavy wood-fire base notes which graces the nostrils of almost half the population.
Mitica is a 40-something man; the lines on his face are 20 years deeper. He spends all day outside, in the fields. The orchards are not his. He only scythes the grass twice every summer. His wife, once a gentle and naive creature, has been twisted by the hardship of a poor life and lost all love and respect for him. Now she has many others who place the food on her table. She is always picking a fight with poor Mitica. People in the village say that’s how he lost his front teeth.
No matter how poor he was, and how many beatings he got from his wife, Mitica always found money for beer. He owes everything he has twice to the village tavern. The only precious thing for him is, however, his TV. It’s his peace haven and his source of political entertainment. He likes it when these big guys throw filth at each other. Mitica’s rough nature rejoices when he smells blood. And elections are a field day for Mitica.
Luckily for him, it is elections time again. Mitica descends every night, religiously, into the village for research at the tavern. His main source of information is Costica. He snuck into the warm embrace of a party. Mitica can never keep up with the changes in titles and movements between parties. It’s all the same to him. Costica is good at providing dirt about all candidates. How many houses that one has, and how many factories the other one pocketed through privatization. Mitica knows that word well, though he doesn’t understand the meaning. He is proudly and loudly using it, like he knows what he’s uttering.
Today he sees a bit of commotion. There is a group of youngsters sloshing out on beer and pigging out on the “mici”. He approaches the table and recognizes the son on one of his cousins. All the boys of the village were congregated around him while the owner was rushing down pint after pint and plate after plate. Where was the pot of gold?
“Vasile, what are you doing here boy?” tries Mitica in a friendly voice. Vasile was his favorite relative. He was a funny and handsome young man who had all the village girls tied up in barns and where not. Vasile was getting his vote of approval.
“A pint of beer for my uncle here!” he shouts. “We had a tough day, uncle. We put up posters for the party. We’ve been all the way to the city. We had to cut a police man some meat because we were placing the posters on the walls of the mayor’s manor. Do you know the mayor has a golden Jesus on a cross planted in his yard? You can stare directly at the sun, but not at the mayor’s new gilded toy. I say boo! Down with his party! Our party is the best.”
“What is your party, Vasile?”
“It’s a new alliance, uncle. And Bacanu is for president!!” Hurray everybody!”
“Hurray!” chanted the others, on command, spitting out the beer they haven’t had time to swallow.
“Bacanu? Wasn’t he with the mayor’s party at the last elections?” asked Mitica puzzled.
“Trans-politician” muttered Costica, who was obviously upset about all the commotion Vasile and his crew was causing.
It was an old concept with a new label in the political scene of the village. None of this mattered to Mitica. His subconscious quest was to find a scapegoat - the best possible clown to entertain him during the cold, lonely nights in front of his TV. He did not like Bacanu that much. He seemed a bit of a soft dick. Clearly sold out to the Russians, and Americans, and all the rest, he will not make a good president, thought Mitica while pouring down the cold beer and swallowing the tasty meat at the same time. It was the best meal he had in months.
“And we still have a top of posters for each of us left to bring home” continued Vasile. “Here, grab one, uncle. You can use it for starting the fire or something”.
He reluctantly picked up the heavy package full of posters with Bacanu smiling and gazing confidently into the future. A future Mitica did not feel comfortable with. He walked back to his house together with Costica, trying to voice his concern.
“Not to worry Mitica, you know how these elections go. There is a lot of barking from all sides. Everyone votes with whomever they want and from the polls wins who must win”, Costica tried to soothe him.
That night was restless for Mitica. In the morning he went outside to the toilet to do what nature intended for a human to do and found himself out of toilet paper. Instead he found a pile of last night’s posters. He picked one and tried to soften it. After using it, a sick curiosity made him hold on and look at it…Bacanu had his face full of Mitica’s freshly produced shit….it looked like a mustache has grown there.
With a smirk on his face, Mitica let out a sigh of relief: “He might be president material after all.”
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