A cautionary tale
The sun beams wide-eyed and warm upon the dark-tilled pastures of Diaspora Ukraine.
But the pale blue field of heaven’s dome is empty of promise. No fluffy cloud of hope hangs o’erhead. The raven caws for the Cossack, and the donkey brays for the peasant. But the din of the steppe deafens all ears on the back of a dumb wind.
Zebra Zamazda’s mother’s counsel can barely be heard.
Mother: Zebra, Zebra, must you go, must you go, and leave your old mum with a heavy heart full of fearful foreboding?
Zebra: Fear not, old woman, I’m off to the city and its leading English-language newspaper to make my way in this world.
Mother: Oh, son of Ukraine, infant traveler, fat-assed nobody, what shall you seek so far from your home?
Zebra: ‘Tis fame I lust for, mother of mine. Fame, and a place among others of my ilk, who wear embroidered smocks and sing folk songs when they are drunk in basement bars. My mouth grows dry sucking the milk from Daddy’s Diaspora rag.
Mother: Then be off with you, wayward boy! But heed my words, lest thou live to rue the day: Keep your four eyes open and your double chin firm, and never, ever, cut a deal with The Ferret.
Zebra, scratching his head and then his formidable striped rump, hoists the stick with a bag on the end of it over his stooped shoulder and heads off along the yellow-bricked road of former Kyiv Poster editors.
Soon he comes across a billy goat in saggy-assed jeans chewing on the pages of What’s Off magazine while standing on the edge of the road.
Billy Goat: (craning his neck in the way of a greeting) Howdy there, Zebra. Would you like to come work for peanuts at one of the virtual publications I’ve opened up out of spite over the past couple of years? There’s Ukrainian Busybody, Busy Ukraine, Ukrbiz and lots more where those came from. You can have your pick.
Zebra: Gee, I don’t know. I was headed off to the Kyiv Poster to find my fortune, Billy Goat…
Billy Goat: Well, you may be sorry for that decision very soon, son. Believe me when I say I’ve had my fill of all those expatriate-led extravaganzas. As a matter of fact, I’m about to vomit up a column written by one Sweaty Tank Top, but that’s neither here nor there. So off you go if that’s your poison.
Zebra: Uh, ok, thanks.
Zebra keeps walking until he runs into a pig selling ice cream on the side of the road.
Pig: Yuck, yuck. What’ll it be, Zebra? I’ve got strawberry, vanilla and choco delight and all for half price if you recite the verses of Boss Lard’s latest PR jingle.
Zebra: Huh? Uh, I don’t even know who Boss Lard is…
Pig: Don’t know who Boss Lard is, you say? Well, you aren’t going far down this road, my friend. But, I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. For just four dollars and fifty-nine cents, plus tax, I can offer you a copy of my latest book: “PR for Pigs: The Welsh Losser Story.”
Zebra: You’re a writer?
Pig: You catch on fast, friend. Must have seen my YouTube video on that stupid book I never read, much less reviewed properly.
Zebra: Nah. Uh, I guess I’d better get going, mister.
Pig: (shouting after him) I can throw in a discount for a media course at Blow Hard’s PR agency and…
Hours later, Zebra comes across a rodent in a cheap suit without a tie, who’s fixing a bicycle in the middle of the road.
Zebra: Uh, what’s wrong with your bicycle, Rodent?
Rodent: (lifting his giant head) Rodent, heh, heh. I’m not a rodent. I’m a Ukrainian nationalist. Heh, heh. I could have been a professional hockey player, but I ran away from home when I was 25 years old to avoid becoming a doctor, which I also could have become…
Zebra: Hmm, you look like a rodent, or something like that…
Rodent: Well, I’m not, so don’t go spreading rumors.
Zebra: What happened to your bike?
Rodent: Oh, heh, heh. I was pedaling along… that is, in reverse… heh, heh, and it broke. But I didn’t tell you that, because it might not have ever happened. You see? Anyway, don’t bother me. I’m in a hurry to get to town where I work at the Kyiv Poster, as a consultant… heh, heh. But actually, I’m a…
Zebra: You work for the Kyiv Poster? That’s where I want to work. You see, I have this dream of pissing off virtually everyone I work with and getting fired within months for being an arrogant fat bastard, and then I tell everyone I was chief editor to help me get another job or at least look important sitting next to Grecian Formula 44 for paparazzi photos…
Rodent: Heh, Heh. Maybe I can help you, Zebra. But I’m not promising you anything, and don’t tell anyone I told you.
Zebra: But you haven’t told me anything, accept that you were a hockey player, doctor…
Rodent: Shh! Don’t spread rumors. I don’t know what you are talking about… heh, heh. But if you want to become a journalist at the Kyiv Poster…
Zebra: Yes, uh, for sure. Can you help me?
Rodent: Sure, yeah, I think, I don’t know, but I can’t promise you anything. Would you like to be chief editor?
A car drives by at top speed, with The Half Guinea hanging out of the passenger window with a red face and shaking a clenched fist: Fuckin’ Ferret…!!!
Zebra: Hmm. You’re not The Ferret, are you?
Rodent: Dude, heh, heh. I don’t know what you are talking about. You must be paranoid or something…
Zebra: Oh. Anyway, about that job…
Rodent: What job? Oh, yeah, heh, heh. I didn’t tell you about it. Don’t go spreading rumors. I just know that there’s a vacancy, heh, heh, or soon will be. But that’s between you and Seth Sundance. I don’t have anything to do with it. You have to talk with him yourself. You know, heh, heh, negotiate. But don’t mention me. I don’t have anything to do with it. Heh, heh.
The smoke from the Rodent’s sissy cigarette curls up into the air of the late afternoon as he paces back and forth, jabbering hectically on a mobile phone along the roadside. The burnt orange sun is now setting over the dark-tilled Diasporan fields. The azure sky has faded to blue gray. Zebra Zamazda is feeling mildly sick… and sneaky… and stupid.
To be continued
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, March 20, 2013