Orange Shirt

The coffee is cold. “Great,” Zsolt mutters under his breath.  The day hasn’t even started and already things are not going according to plan. All he wanted to do was grab the newspaper from the mailbox. Yes, it took a bit longer because he couldn’t find his slippers but it couldn’t have been longer than two minutes. 120 seconds. That’s it. Now the coffee is cold.

Zsolt leaves the untouched cup on the counter, puts on his orange shirt, and grabs the keys. His body is desperate for a smoke. Maria doesn’t want him smoking inside the house. She doesn’t like the smell. He is also forbidden from smoking outside the house. She doesn’t like the look. For this reason, he leaves 10 minutes early so he can enjoy his cigarette on the walk to work. It’s the second-most magnificent part of the day. The cold wind in his face, the sweet puffs of tobacco filling his lungs, the smell of freshly-baked bread streaming through the doors of the bakery he passes on his way. Almost as good as his second cigarette of the day. The one he has on the way back home. But after 10 minutes, the magnificence evaporates. Time for his shift.

 Zsolt steps inside the thermal bath. The receptionist waves. He nods. His job isn’t hard. It consists of scanning entry tickets and making sure visitors don’t get lost on their way to the changing room. Most days are calm although some are busier than others.

Days like today are his least favorite. It’s Monday. Armistice Day. The day World War I ended back in 1918. He never was much of a history buff or a student keen of dates but he remembers this day. Armistice Day is a Serbian Holiday and this means that the thermal bath will be filled with Serbians. Zsolt doesn’t like Serbs. Each year, more and more Serbs are moving into his town which lies just on the border of Hungary and Serbia. He dislikes Serbs more than the Muslims the radio always goes on about. People tell him to watch out for migrants stealing his things but he knows the truth. The Serbs are the real culprits. Come to think of it, the Hungarians are as well. The government denies it but Hungary has changed. Today’s generation wants everything to be placed into the palm of its hand. If it doesn’t receive, it steals. Migrants and Serbs aren’t the only things tarnishing the Hungary his father worked so hard to defend in ’56

“Here they come,” he thinks as the door opens and droves of people walk to the ticket counter. He listens for confirmation. Zdravo’s and Hvala’s pollute the air. Even the words for Hello and Thank you turn his stomach.

Zsolt probably should be happy they are coming. It is business after all and paying customers afford him his paycheck. He has been working at the thermal bath for 14 years now and, even though the managers keep quarterly earnings private, he is aware that without Serbian customers, the place would have shut down a long time ago. A small part of him hopes for a shutdown. He’s sick of standing by the entry gates and scanning tickets just so Serbs can bathe. Back when he worked at the town’s car plant, he felt useful. His body ached and his hands were numb by the end of the shift but he had purpose. Now, ticket scanners could replace his job. He is doing something a machine can do. How can people respect that? How can he respect himself for that?

“Those damn Serbs,” he thinks again.

 As Zsolt scans tickets, he thinks back to the sweet smell of pörkölt his mother would make every Sunday while he played chess with his brother and father. Or more accurately, while he watched chess being played. He never was the one to actually play. His aptitude revolved around spectating more than strategizing. “Both equally important,” his father used to say. Even in his daydreams, Zsolt forces himself to believe that statement to be true. His mind can’t drift for too long though. If it does, it wanders to his father’s admiring look at his brother whenever he made a clever chess move. A look Zsolt never once was gifted. To avoid the thought, Zsolt turns off his daydreaming intermittently to return back to the blank stares of Serbs looking for the changing rooms.

From daydreams to Serbs and back to daydreams. “It’s probably the only thing Serbs are good for,” Zsolt sighs.