Damien Galeone

The man in the picture on Lee’s iPad depicts a seemingly good-natured, friendly person. Otherwise, however, he doesn’t really exhibit any attributes deemed valuable by females. Honza is not an altogether unattractive man, it’s just that he seems to have gone out of his way to choose the single worst picture ever taken of himself. He is wearing a light red workout suit and he is engaged in some kind of demented dance move which makes him look like the least cool Mick Jagger impersonator on Earth. This effect is enhanced, I guess that’s the best word, by the fact that he is holding ski poles.

He has clearly aggravated his barber in some way and his mouth is held in such an unnatural contortion that he must be singing Tuvan throat music Karaoke. He has a mole on his nose, which at this point I am fairly convinced that I transplanted onto him to complete the Arc de Triomphe of his dismal appearance. I’m surprised that I haven’t given him buck teeth and hair plugs.

Lee clicks send. “Well,” he picks up his shot glass, “I have officially entered the world of match making.”

“To your match working out,” I say. He click glasses and down the Becherovka. There is not much we won’t do a shot to.

As we settle into post shot decompression mode, Lee laughs and says, “Or, to assisting the destruction of the current Czech dating scene.”

“Ooh, that’s even better.” We nod in agreement. Lee puts his finger in the air.

“Ještě dva panaky, prosím,” he says to the bartender. Two more shots, please. 

As I mentioned, there’s not much we won’t shoot to these days.

Technological woes have brought me to Lee’s village, since I’ve recently tested the age-old theory that dropping a computer to the floor is a bad thing. Theory was tested (and proven) in my flat last week when elbow met door jamb causing computer to meet floor, which in turn resulted in a death rattle and a blue screen. As I have the technological know-how of a tomato salad, a visit to Lee in the village was a necessity.

Woes of other varieties have brought us to his local pub, which has no name, but we call it The Slaughtered Lamb. When Lee tells me about his match making exploits, we have been drinking and talking for hours about life, women and the always brutal experience of being flogged at the whipping post by the relationship demons.

We get back to his match making and he shows me the picture of the female party, Kamila. In direct contrast to Honza and representative of about 97.6% of Czech couples, Kamila is very attractive. She’s vibrant and saucy and flashing a devilish smile that is evident of a woman who knows how to enjoy life and a person who does not own a Tuvan throat singing album.

Lee is excited by the prospect of creating a new relationship and we prognosticate the positive possibilities. However, it’s Tuesday night, and since nothing good ever happens on a Tuesday night, it’s not long before we switch gears to the negative probabilities.

“What if he breaks her heart?” he asks.

“Lee,” I point to their pictures, which are now side by side on the screen of his iPad.

“What if she breaks his heart?” he asks.

“Well, depending on the situation, you either bring him out drinking or you let him bring you out drinking in thanks for sex with an attractive woman far out of his league.”

And so it happens that this hypothetical couple is subjected to every hypothetical eventuality that Lee and I have saved in our relationship RAM. There are imaginary violent arguments and accusations, hurled kitchen utensils and screaming matches in restaurants. The situation degrades from there and continues until we are exhausted and pay the check.

Lee looks at the pictures. “My God,” he says, “there’ll be a murder-suicide within the year.”

On the walk home, I knock Lee in the ribs. “Thanks for helping me with my computer.”

“No problem, man.”

“And sorry about the match maker conversation.”

“No problem, man.”

“But you’ll give me Kamila’s number if it doesn’t work out with Honza, right?”

“No problem, man.”