I looked into the eyes of some skinny, late 40s hobo, cycling like a dirty peasant serf that he is, with a big backpack on his shoulders, delivering food to some consoomers.
I already saw his family history.
Grandparents were new migrants into the city, themselves being descendant from former legit serfs and dirt farmers. As a kid, his grandfather was first to finish 6 grades of elementary school and learn a trade. He was subjected to beatings by his dad and master to whom he was an apprentice his entire teenage period.
Then came his dad. He was born into the post war boom years of 1960's Yugoslavia, but still poor. He remembers the happiest event of his childhood being when a local party functionary had ceremoniously given the keys to their new commie block small flat to his now elderly and ailing father. Bad back, collapsing lungs or asbestous disease. Who knows what killed him in the end.
And then came the cycling idiot, junior. Somewhere in late 1970's. Oh, how the future seemed bright for him, he would be a lawyer, doctor or an engineer. Building a higher step towards a true socialist state and a better life for his kids.
But then Tito died, war came, son dropped out of college, dad died. Only his demented mother, his heroin and alcohol addictions and he remain.
And so he pedals, pedals that bike like a good little monkey. For a better tomorrow that will never come.
Nacisti su slali ekspedicije u Tibet da mjere tamo ljudima lubanje a samo su trebali se spustiti u brda Bosne i ponuditi znojnim seljačinama čokoladu ili flašu alkohola i to su isto mogli napraviti.
