The mesecnik files

A Nalepka Noir Novelette

Chapter 3: The Mesecniks In Their Summer Dresses

                                                        A mesecnik without a jacket is no mesecnik.
                                                     -- Rules of Mesecniking #12

Hvala bogu for the Klub Nalepka. I always say this at around five-thirty p.m., after my last ride, on that first day of every month, when Tjasa, Veronika, Natasa and I head down the stairs to the blessed cellar dive on the corner of Dalmatinova and Cigaletova. By day, the Klub Nalepka (per the motto,“Where mesecniks go to unwind and tell fellow travelers where to stick it!”) is known as the Bife V Redu, where the Lasko flows from 8 to 3:30 (a.m. to p.m., of course) and the only time any patron lifts his fat rit from his stool is to pay his respects to gospod pisoar. But after dark, on the first five days (well, nights) of any month, it’s another story. No mesecnik jacket, no cap, no service.

After my eyes get accustomed to the gloom, I belly up to the tocilni pult and zivijo Bojan the bartender. I hope my secret crush on him isn’t too obvious. He’s a gorgeous third-year engineering student who’s been working at the Klub about a year; tall, very dark hair that spills over his brow, blue eyes, throaty voice and musical Primorska accent, an irresistible combination. I order what I always do, a Zadnji Avtobus do Crnuc (Last Bus to Crnuce), which is plum brandy, orange juice and Cockta cola, with a sparkling red strawberry artfully perched on the rim. My nightly salvation. Bojan mixes ‘em like a dream. The other girls favor a plain Zadnji Avtobus, which is the same drink, only with Radenska water instead of Cockta; in her giddier moods Tjasa sometimes opts for a Bella Yablana, which is a concoction involving coconut cream and viljamovka. Not for me.

Samo, the stocky gent with a gray crew cut who owns the Klub, is Tjasa’s dad, which explains a lot. Not only had he adopted us as his own, he’s probably the biggest mesecnikophile -- hell, mesecnik wannabe -- in LJ. Don’t look so surprised, they do exist; some are quite successful in other fields. Grown men, for the most part, who fantasize about donning a fuzzy purple jacket and riding buses all day, selling nalepke to the introverted carless hordes of LJ town. The Klub is also occasionally infiltrated by a few intrepid laymen interested in our happy tribe, all in their own curious fashion. There was that deputy editor at Mladina who was obsessed with following me and the gang down to the Ambasada Gavioli last August to catch us in action on the floor. And that creepy sociology prof at the Filozofska fakulteta, the one who used to hang out at punk clubs in the late ‘80s (so I’ve heard); he cornered me one night at the Klub N a couple of months ago, bought me a soda and gave me some doubtful story about wanting an in-depth interview for a scholarly paper he was scribbling for Nova revija. “The mesecnik subculture: A snapshot at the Millennium,” is what he called it. I think he just wanted to get into my change purse, saj ves? I showed him where the exit was and told him to keep moving forward. The weirdest one was the 28-year-old woman from Domzale who was arrested for impersonating a mesecnik. She had apparently sewn her own uniform and sold counterfeit nalepke, and would have gotten away with it except that she had the wrong background color for the logo, and the font was way off. But the hat was perfect, I’ll give her that.

So it’s junij, finally, again. Krasno. I love this month. I can smell release in the air. I also love the new summer L2T mesecnik outfit: those vests, what Americani call navy blue, a really dark blue, and canary-yellow pocket flaps. And best of all, a cool denim cap. Wonder of wonders, the getup doesn’t make the guy M’s look like dorks (I even think Tomaz looks kinda hot in it, imagine)...

“A weird thing happened to me on the 7 this morning,” I told Tjasa after we'd gotten settled in the corner. “Some guy speaking English told me he loved me.”

“Ffffaaaahhhhkk! Daj no! And?”

“And nothing. He was the same guy from February, remember I told you?”

"Oh, yeeeaaahhh! Again! Was he English or Australian?"

"American, I think."

"What would an American be doing living here? Cudno."

"Oh, you have to hear what he told me. After he blurted out in English that he loved me, he tried to speak Slovene, I memorized it word for word: 'Please, me to do listen. I be interested in you since February the last. I hope me you will soon like. Agree, do you, so I hope. My name is Dave."

"Baaaa haaaa haaa! That's so CUTE!"

My pal Barbara joins us. I like her even though she eschews the regulation hat, even the summer model, for an Union Olimpija basketball cap (she doesn’t even care; very un-M as far as I’m concerned). Although it’s not against the regs, she flaunts stylish eyeglasses too, with expensive-looking squared-oval thin black metal frames she must have gotten down Trst way. Behind the lenses her eyes flash with sardonic intelligence (you can see it from across the room, even in the Klub’s lighting). Like she’s entitled to it or something. Barbara gets away with a lot, but she’s one of those people who seem born to it. I think she’s only a mesecnik for the laughs. And let’s face it, in the nalepka game attitude is a definite asset. I've even seen drivers give her the eye a split-second longer than necessary when she mounts the front steps. Maybe even heard a 'zivijo' once, though I can't be sure...that would be a precedent.

Oh, our relationships with the drivers, you ask? Non-relationship is more like it. We’re tolerated at best. Clubby bunch, the drivers. Checkerbacks, we call ‘em, after those dorky retro jackets they have to wear. On the whole, they're not the happiest indijanci on the reservation. Well, they say the same kind of thing about us, not without justification I’m afraid. (Until you’ve taken up the purple, you just don’t understand. The pressure. The expectations.) In any event, they don’t go to our club, and we sure don’t go into theirs. Why would we want to? And I still don’t understand why, whenever I board any of the lines at all, there’s almost certainly some guy up front who spends about an hour just standing there, chewing the fat with Mr. Drive-the-bus. What is this, a volunteer “Keep the driver company so he doesn’t fall asleep” program? I think they recruit these characters right off the bar stools. Come to think of it, that's probably where they get the drivers too, judging from how they drive...maybe the Driver and his Buddy change positions on alternate days...or flip a coin...maybe that’s what all the hoop-de-doo of stopping and changing drivers at Bavarski Dvor is all about, no? The driver’s pal wants a turn at the wheel for a change. And the driver wants to stand and blow some nitrogen for a while. I don’t care if they get to turn the wheel and step on the gas, clutch and brake (and doing a damn poor job of it; they seem to get off on lurching around, spilling the standees all over the place). Sure I’m biased, but if you ask me it’s the mesecnik who’s the soul of the operation. At least we make an effort to interact with the passengers, even if it’s only the little something in the way we flip ‘em the nalepka and their change.

Here comes Sveto, who’s always trying to hit on me (you know what they say about guy M’s, those gutter dogs). His recent promotion to Assistant Chief Mesecnik Supervisor for Lines 2, 8 and 9 hasn’t significantly improved his attractiveness quotient. Same old scrawny, stringy hair, traces of a starter goatee, the whole deal. Ne hvala, stari, that seat’s taken. Naslednji, prosim! Go deliver pizza for a while, it's a booming field. Or go sell mobitels.

But he starts off by telling me some interesting things. Did I judge too harshly?

No, I didn’t.

“Zivijo, Anja. Saj ves, I thought you’d be interested. Me and a couple of the guys at Big Green (insiders’ code for LPP HQ) were kicking around an idea for a “Miss LPP” contest. Only label chicks (Sveto's personal off-putting term for female mesecniks) are eligible, and it’s strictly volunteer. The winner gets featured on posters plastered over all the system's buses for a month, and a year's supply of nalepke for her family thrown in. Interested? I think you'd have a good shot at it."

“I’ll think about it.”

“Hey, I was thinking,” he added, leaning in closer. “You know the old Slovene proverb about if you kiss a mesecnik on the first working day of the month, it ensures success in matters of the heart for the rest of that month?!”

“No.”

Hvala bogu, at that moment the bar phone rings and Bojan hands me the receiver. It was Branko, the Chief Supervisor. Of course, he knew where to find me. No rest for the weary mesecnik. But it’s good to be needed.

Don’t tell me, Branko: I’ve been promoted to Assistant Chief Mesecnik Supervisor for Lines 2, 3 and 6. I sure as svezi burek deserve it, with my drive and dedication and all the overtime and rit-kissing I’ve been putting in, not to mention the volunteer nalepke sorting at Big Green. Of course the promotion means more work, more responsibility, and a bit more money. Less time actually riding the lines, of course. But I can get used to that. It’s time to move on. Dosledno naprej and all that.

“Ja! Branko, zivijo.”

It was different news.

There had been a theft overnight at Big Green.

Eight hundred nalepke were missing.

I was the last one seen handling them.

O-pa.
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Future chapter titles: Which ones are your faves? Tell us at Pogoer Central, or suggest your own. Contributors of winning entries -- the ones that end up getting used in the Tale, that is -- will receive a postcard (specify Slovene or otherwise) from the Author’s extensive collection. Can’t do better than that. These are, however, the ones you have to beat:

Less Than Mesecnik
Mesecnik’s Revenge
Call Me Mesecnik
Mesecnikin’ Around
(Say It Loud, I’m A) Mesecnik And Proud
Up From Mesecnik
You’ve Made A Mesecnik Of Things
Mesecnik, Mesecnik
Mission: Nalepka
Mesecnik Nation
In the Life: A Mesecnik’s Tale
The Long Ride
The Making Of A Mesecnik, 2000
C’mon Everybody and Do the Mesecnik

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So what the hell is a mesecnik? A Slovene-English glossary for mystified readers and the housebound