H8 M8

An idiot, who deprived himself of a banking career due to own personal shortcomings, began writing about banks in his blog. From French Banking system to Romanian financial sector nothing stays on his way. His credit card application is rejected? Burn them… His friend’s company couldn’t get a loan? Kill some… He couldn’t pay his leasing and didn’t obtain rescheduling? Spit on those…

Throwing accusations and generating stories, he considers himself the Braveheart, but the only part he comes close to the story of Mark Wallace is the scene when MW taps his own ass…

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A friend of mine moved to Romania and rented an apartment in a building, just on the corner of Stefan Cel Mare Blv intersection with Calea Dorobanti (a.k.a. Perla).

One Thursday afternoon he received a call, urging him to rush to the airport, to catch the evening flight to Istanbul. On his way to the airport he sent me an SMS "O., I had a leakage at home, at my kitchen sink; left the keys to the driver, could you please go and check if there is any further problems?!? Sorry.”

2 hours later the driver came back with the keys, asking whether he should go to check, instead of me. The grin on his face created flashbacks of few dirty bastards having a party in the apartment, finishing all the available booze (and me not being invited); so I decided to pass on his kind offer and go to check myself.

There is a big parking lot in front of the building, facing Stefan Cel Mare Blv. From a distant look, it seemed to be filled with cars parked by a group of anti-symmetry propagandists or by philosophy students trying to disprove the existence of parallel universes (Just for the record, I do refrain from commenting about female parking habits). Actually the small hills of sand and cement, as accessories for a pavement reconstruction, were blocking the space and offering an off-road experience to the residents.

Found a parkable place, landing my shiny black RR Supercharged through a cloud of dust. Waited a bit, until the dust was inhaled by cohabitants and jumped out of the car. Presenting the urban version of Swan Lake in the name of walking not to fall in a municipal-hole, I remembered about the bag I left in the car, the wallet in the bag and the cash & cards in the wallet. I even couldn’t recall locking the car. RR Supercharged is locked by an unusual sound of metal clinching, as a sign of prosperity of the guy holding the key (though you could push the remote button even in your pocket, the ritual of keeping it in the air makes you feel good). As I couldn’t remember any female attention for the last 2 minutes, I couldn’t have had locked the door, so I started rewinding my ballet course back to the car.

When I was approaching the car, from a distance of 15 meters, I realized that there was a guy climbing to the driver seat, holding a mobile phone on his ear and leaning towards the rear seats (where my bag was hiding as obvious as possible). The guy was dressed with Romanian National Football Team’s zipper and training trousers, the white sneakers and white baseball cap completing the car-smuggler uniform. I was, as in all panic situations, trying to process all information and possibilities without any real thinking. He could be a professional in his line of business, carrying a small cutter or knife. Also the taste for clothing indicated sportiveness which I never would trade for my belly.

I had to act fast… Like Bruce Lee…in a costume and tie…how was it? “Fly like a butterfly and bite like a bee”…Not Bruce Lee? Bruce Willis? Aha, Mohammed Ali...

I have held the half open door of the car, grabbed the dangerous criminal from his shoulder and pulled him down, out of the car, on to the sand bed. I caught him unprepared, unexpected and also he hit his head to the door while falling. That was my time for action; before he could take out any possible weapon he might be carrying. Threw consecutive punches on his face, neck and belly. Kicked his feet like a sewing machine.. Yiiieeehaaa, I am the Bruce Willis of Dorobanti (Brus de la Dorobanti?)

I grabbed his throat with a hand and showing a threatening punch with the other hand, heard him screeching. He sounded as if he just had an helium injection so decided to release my hand a bit. There were few spectators, none intending to save me from the criminal mind (his mind, not mine). Suddenly a group of shadows appeared behind me. I had to think that these dickheads never attack alone, but it was too late. My only option was to stand up, to seize the enemy and to run. Fast…

Slowly lifting myself from the patriotic thief, turned back to the group, trying to look cool. There was a guy in his 50’s, dressed in a better stitched costume as compared to mine, a similar aged-also neatly dressed lady holding his arm, and 2 more teenagers. I started shouting about catching the bastard while stealing from my car or even my car itself, attacking me and getting rid of the knife he was waving. The guy approached me and the thiefie, pulled him up. With a disproving look while cleaning his clothes by tapping with hands, he asked me “Why did you need to do this, Sir?”. His tone and words were too civilized for the mood I was in and I started shouting the story again.

Seeing his face, I also realized that the “thief” was an 15-16 years old, clean looking, baby faced, Dorobanti-type-teen guy. He was trembling and crying holding the elder lady’s arm, with his face having few fresh potatoes that I have recently cultivated .

The story turned sad; the older guy, his father, had also a black RR Supercharged, sent the guy to take the shopping bags from the car, the kiddo pushed the remote and by mistake entered my car, the car that I left open, instead of daddy-mobil while checking whether any girls are watching him.

I was sinking to zero from hero and he had a fight story to tell the next day to his friends. I still feel sorry.

And it really did happen…Thanks A., for reminding me to write it.

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Long before the webchats, we had the dealing screens in the Treasury Departments. Trying to act fast, to smack the counterpart immediately, we were using shortcuts, metaphors and amalgams of letters and numbers.

“M” and “8” stood for “Mate (Pal/Friend)"; the other one stands for you, my blogger-journalist-financial&social expert friend. Try to be someone but not everyone.