WITH REVERSE STEPS: FROM INDUSTRIAL JAZZ TO WALKING STICKS WITH FOUR LEGS

01.03.05


We hadn’t been driving for more than a few metres when we heard a terrible noise. It was like something was creeping behind the car, scratching the asphalt and deterring us from moving forward. At first, I thought we had dragged some garbage can, some fallen sign or something big anyway; in fact, so big that it could cause incredibly loud noise in the middle of the night. Dimitris came out to see what was happening and he it happened. He stepped slightly on the accelerator and started sliding on the street like a bruised figured out that the spare tyre had gone out of its metal position, which was almost loose and thus dragged on the street. He took his coat off, he rolled up his sleeves and started seeking in the dark under the car, until his hands were black because of the dirt. He needed just a some string in order to tie that metal thing.

I felt really bad – as I feel every time that I can’t help and just sit there like a woman in confinement in the seat next to the driver without doing absolutely anything. My friend (what a great thing to have friends!) reminded me that I could listen to the radio if I wanted to. I didn’t want to, how could I be singing while he was there struggling? The least I could do was sit quietly, not ask too many questions (like ‘What’s up there? Did you fix it? Are you close? Can I do something for you?’) and wait.

Later he came in. I suggested him to go to the central square and ask for some string from the kiosk seller (at midnight). That’s how it happened. He steped softly on the gas and started crawling on the road like a wounded and noisy snail. The noise was deafening. We were probably hard like the cleaning vehicles of the municipality. Some people welcomed us from their balconies. They wanted to know where the noise comes from. Dimitris was cool and his composure was surprising to me. He turned up the music (It was Jazz music on the ‘En Lefko’ –this means ‘In White’- Radio Station) and closed the windows.

‘I find you really cool.’
‘And what am I to do? Spend my time in misery like my mom?’
‘Do you know how I call the kind of Jazz that mixes with the noise of a metal which by the way throws out sparks while sliding?’
‘Industrial Jazz!’

The kiosk guy gave us the string. Dimitris rolled up his sleeves again, dirtied his hands again and everything was in place. We went for a drink somewhere north. Nothing ventured nothing gained. I was experiencing ultimate pleasure. The wine was tickling my throat and hit me slightly on the head. This was the perfect compensation for the temporary bad luck. I was excited anyway. Before Dimitris came at home, I had tried to stand up on my walking sticks with the four legs, the ones that I used before I was forced to buy the walking device, while I was still a kiddo and hadn’t been under any operation. I have forgotten how to use them and it’s difficult, because they require a much bigger capacity for keeping one’s balance. Despite that, I did it. I even made a few steps from the bed to the desk. This is a big achievement for me. I decided to stop –gradually- using the device. From next week onwards I will start physical therapy again. What the hell! If I am to live in New York, I must get in and out of the limos comfortably.