I needn’t have been worried about becoming too comfortable in my surroundings, as Dorj soon woke up, and with a giggle, immediately began talking in Mongolian. Ganbold continued sleeping peacefully, emitting a snore every now and then, and I put down my pen and stared at him with irritated envy. But in that moment, I was grateful to be stuck with Dorj, for he truly was slowly driving me insane with all his whistling and whispering. As long as I had him as a cellmate, I knew I would possess a fierce urge to get as far away from Pankrác as possible as quickly as possible. I was greatly relieved when a guard came to the cell and announced that my lawyer was there to see me. Tomas had come bearing good news—two new witnesses had come forward of their own accord and had given testimony to the police. The witnesses, a couple who had been at the 2010 show, told a much different version of what had happened that night at Club Abaton from the three young men (all friends of the deceased) who had been interrogated so far. Their description, not quite as muddled and conflicting as the three testimonies already given, worked more in my favor. In addition to this surprising but welcome new development, Tomas also informed me that I would be released within a week, as my bail had made it into the Czech government’s bank account. I didn’t bother to ask why I was not being immediately released, as I had given up any hope of trying to understand the strange Czech legal system and the sluggish pace at which it seemed to resolve issues of bail and recognizance. I thanked him for bringing me the news, but took it with a grain of salt—I would believe I was to be free only when my feet no longer paced the filthy linoleum floor of my cell.
That evening though, I began to think about what my release and return to America would entail, and felt a rising tide of anxiety. Aside from the small handful of fans I had briefly met in the highly restrictive environment of Pankrác, and a single written interview that Martin had finally arranged with Blesk, I had left my life as a public person outside the prison walls. I now know that during my incarceration, a very large number of people whom I had never met were very concerned for my well being, and that my imprisonment was a daily topic of discussion for many. But in prison, I had no way of knowing these things (aside from the odd letter from my wife or bandmates)—I was a number, just another prisoner in ill-fitted rags, albeit one whose highly publicized criminal charge every other inmate was aware of. The press surrounding my case came to me only in small bits and pieces, and for the most part I was completely unaware of the outside world’s perception of my dilemma—hell, my own perception of my dilemma wasn’t exactly crystal clear. If I ever was finally released and got to go home, I knew that my relative separation from the world would very swiftly change. My family and friends would all want to see me. I would have to go on tour and make some money, and many, many people would want to talk to me about prison and my case. The music press would be ringing my manager’s phone off the hook with interview requests. Just the thought of trying to explain to all of these concerned people what prison was like, my vague understanding of my legal situation, and what I guessed the future might hold for me made me feel panicky. I became acutely nervous at the thought of walking out of the prison doors, but not for the usual reasons some inmates get apprehensive about their release; if I were released soon, I wouldn’t have been incarcerated anywhere near long enough to forget what regular society was like, and my job would still be there when I got out. But my release carried its own unique set of problems. Most regular everyday criminals don’t walk out of prison as a top news story in their profession’s personality driven media, and I decided right then to deny all requests for interviews until this thing was resolved. I had no desire to endlessly repeat the same depressing answers to the inevitable question of “What was prison like?” (And I don’t today, hence the book in your hands at this second.) I did not want to have to say “I’m sorry, I can’t discuss that at the moment” over and over when the press asked me about the incident that had landed me in jail—I had very little information, and I honestly didn’t know exactly what had happened. Plus, it’s not exactly the swiftest game plan in the old playbook to start running your mouth to media outlets before the very serious criminal charges you are facing have been resolved. Loose lips sink ships, and except for my lone Blesk interview done at the advice of my attorney, I had remained silent, and went to sleep that evening firmly resolved to continue doing so. (I had written my page and a half statement to the press, and had given it to my Czech lawyer, but Martin said it was too long and that Blesk wouldn’t print it—this irritated me greatly, as I had chosen my words very carefully, deemed each one necessary, and hadn’t written it for Blesk in the first place. The statement had been tightly structured, said all that I wished to say at the time. I had penned it primarily for the English-speaking press to begin with, and I considered the fact that my voice was only allowed to be heard through a goddamned tabloid, that daily printed T&A photos, as a profound insult to my intellect.)
The next day, despite my anxiety from the night before, I awoke with a song on my lips, and I couldn’t wait to sing it to my Czech bride. My Pankrác manželka (“Pankrác wife,” as Dorj and Ganbold referred to her) was the Beach Boys–loving nurse from my long, arduous visit to the ancient prison doctor. Each morning she rapped on the cell door briefly, opened the hatch, and chirped “Oh, Blight! The music man! Goot morning!” as she handed me my antidepressant pill. She seemed extraordinarily happy to see me every single time she came by, and her kind smile was truly a bright spot in my day. Dorj and Ganbold would immediately begin snickering the second she was gone, then start ribbing me, laughing and saying that once I was released, this woman would surely follow me to America to break up my marriage.
“Bahahaha, Doctor Pankrác! You go to America, Pankrác manželka come, too—find your home! Knock on door in morning! ‘Ahhh, Blight, my music man! I love you!’ Bahahaha! American manželka sooooooo angry! Big fighting! Bahahahahahaha, Pankrác manželka in love with you, hahahahaha! Big troubles for you—two manželka now, bahahahahaha! Doctor Pankrác, you fucked!!!”
It was pretty darn funny in that grim place to have this cheery woman so happy to see me (and a nice feeling to boot), so in honor of my Pankrác manželka, I had begun composing a brief song to serenade her with. I had arranged the lyrics to the tune of Elvis Presley’s “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”, practiced it a few times for Dorj and Ganbold to check my Czech pronunciation, who were certain she would immediately kick down the cell door and attempt to rape me as soon as I let my serviceable baritone loose. I hadn’t performed for an audience in a while, and was actually looking forward to singing for this woman. The Mongols sat on their bunks expectantly, waiting for the show to begin, and shortly before breakfast came the familiar rap on our cell door. The nurse greeted me in her usual cheery manner, and as she handed me my 10 mg Lexapro tablet, I began to sing.
“Dobré ráno / miláček (trans: “good morning, sweetheart”) / good morning / my looove / how are youuuu? / It’s so goooood, to see you agaaaaain / I must thank you, my loooov-” WHAM! I was heading into the second half of the first verse when the nurse’s face abruptly twisted into a dark frown and she unceremoniously slammed the cell door hatch shut right in my grill. Well, damn. Maybe she hated Elvis? I should have recycled a Beach Boys tune, maybe “Surfer Girl.” Behind me I heard the Mongols explode into laughter.
“BAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Doctor Pankrác, she no like your song! Pankrác manželka, hate your song! Pankrác manželka, shut door in face, wham, fuck you! You need new job! You terrible singer, Doctor Pankrác, bahahahahahaha!!!”
The Mongols continued to make fun of my morning’s melodic malfunction up until Bradley came to take us out for walk, and after the relentless joking, I desired some peace and quiet. So for the first and only occasion during my time in prison, I decided to stay inside and not go out for walk. Besides not having to hear about what an awful singer I was for an hour, I would possibly be able to get some writing done in peace.
The hour alone went by all too swiftly, but Ga
nbold returned bearing good news about my case. Apparently the news of my imminent release was in the Czech papers, and the men were all talking about it at walk. From what Ganbold had gathered, the prison was required to release me within forty-eight hours of a judge signing some sort of paper, which he was supposedly going to do any day now.
“These men were upset you not come out for walk today; they say that you go to America soon. These men say you must come tomorrow, so they can say goodbye. And they all talking about this man, Ozzy Osbourne. They have picture of him in paper with your name under. Do you know this Ozzy Osbourne man? He is very famous, and says good things for you in paper! You go home soon!”
Wow. Although I tried not to let myself get excited or develop any expectations with the arrival of this seemingly definitive good news, it was difficult not to smile. I wished I had been at walk, to try and get Ollie to explain exactly what the paper said—surely we could have piecemealed it together between a bit of French, a dash of English, and the tiny smattering of Czech I had learned. I also wondered what Ozzy had had to say—what guy in a metal band wouldn’t? The communication barrier that was currently one of the most maddening aspects of my life was firmly in place though; and as Ganbold’s English (although far superior to my Czech) wasn’t the greatest, I could glean no more than a few sketchy details from his account. I hoped one of the men would bring the newspaper article to walk tomorrow so that I could try and make some sense of it.
The next morning, my nurse returned and was as pleasant as ever—of course, I wasn’t singing any Elvis to her either. This morning she didn’t even say hello, just handed me my pill, winked at me, and said “Aaaaaaah yo!” in a disturbingly erotic high-pitched purr. My Mongols burst into laughter as usual as soon as she was gone.
“Okay, dudes, what the fuck does ‘Aaaaaaah yo’ mean?” I asked.
“It mean ‘Ooooooooh yes!’, bahahahaha! You Pankrác manželka, is sexy babika (grandmother)! Bahahahahaha! ‘Aaaaaaaah yo, I love you Doctor Pankrác, I am sexy babička for youuuu, aaaaaaah yooo!’ Bahahahaha!!!” Dorj said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. The jokes never seemed to stop in those days.
Ganbold had told me that at walk the day before, the men had been talking about a rumor of a “special breakfast” we were to be served the next day, some sort of uniquely Czech delicacy that some of the men were excited about. By the time Uncle Fester came around with the breakfast cart on this particular morning, I was quite curious as to what that “special breakfast” would be. I would have loved some waffles, but as we weren’t in Belgium I didn’t bother to get my hopes up. Ganbold and Dorj were discussing how nice it would be to have some horse milk, according to them a common breakfast item in Mongolia. Horse milk didn’t sound too appetizing to me, but I would rather drink a five-gallon bucket of it straight from the mare than take one bite of what arrived on our food trays on that morning. As we took out trays and sat down at the table to eat, I saw an apple, the white bread roll we were given, and what looked like an entire stick of butter in a foil wrapper. A quarter pound of butter was the Czech idea of a good breakfast?
“What is it? A stick of butter? That sucks,” I said.
“No, no—it is special syr (cheese) from Moravia in Eastern Czech. It is good!” Ganbold said, and began to peel the foil away from his cheese stick. The cheese was a pale yellow, and seemed to be . . . slimy. Slimy cheese? It didn’t look too appetizing to me, and I began to have my doubts about this “special syr.” I noticed that even Dorj (who normally finished his breakfast in two or three slurps while I was just starting in on my morning coffee) looked a little apprehensive and hadn’t touched the foil on his cheese stick. Ganbold held the cheese up to his nose, took a whiff, winced, then shrugged and took a healthy bite off the end of the stick. Right at the very second his lips closed around the slimy yellow bar, the odor hit me, and instantaneously, with great heaving violence, I began to gag.
Olomoucké tvaržky, as the cheese is known to the Czechs, is produced in the small town of Lotice in the Moravia region of the Czech Republic. Renowned for being a particularly pungent product, the cheese is always accompanied by breath mints when served in restaurants. The malodorous nature of the cheese is perhaps not surprising, as according to some accounts, it is fermented under hunks of rotting meat (I can’t say for sure if this is true, but I wouldn’t doubt it). In the humble opinion of this writer, it is the worst smelling food on the face of the planet (far worse than the fabled durian fruit); in fact, it is one of the worst smelling things on this planet period. I have eaten some downright weird shit in my day, and I like to think of myself as a man of adventure when it comes to traveling and food (although lamb of god’s guitarist Mark refers to my dietary habits abroad slightly less nobly as “sport eating”). I am lucky enough to traverse the globe singing for my supper, and I feel that it is my duty as a privileged citizen of the world to sample the local cuisine wherever I go, to eat what the locals eat, with the locals, in the local spot where the locals eat it. To know a country’s food is to know what fuels its people’s very lives, and I have witnessed my open-minded attitude towards eating abroad grant me an immediate measure of both trust and respect from previously suspicious locals. It has also granted me several miserable hours immobilized on the local toilet, but that’s beside the point. In my travels, I have consumed with great gusto a huge and varied number of very strange looking, smelling, and tasting things (often cooked on a dirty street corner in a make-shift mobile kitchen that would cause an American health inspector to instantly drop dead from shock right on the spot)—I come, I eat, I conquer the brutish and xenophobic stereotype of the ugly American abroad. Furthermore, I have enjoyed many, many amazing meals this way. If you work for a promoter or venue and I am coming to your town, take me to the dirtiest, least glamorous, hole-in-the-wall restaurant where men with mud still caked on their boots from work wolf down hot plates of whatever the local specialty is. Order me some of that, the good stuff you grew up eating. Feed me your food, and I will love you for it.
Unless you happen to be a local cheese lover from Lotice, Moravia, in the Czech Republic—in that case, I will never, ever, ever join you on a culinary adventure in your town, and I will not care one bit if you think I am a close-minded American cheese-bigoted pig. The smell of the olomoucké tvaržky was so mind-and-nostril-blowingly repugnant that just the thought of being anywhere near the Lotice factory where it is produced in large quantities sends a shiver down my spine. I am surprised that anyone can actually breathe the air of Lotice for longer than five minutes and survive (for surely it must carry the lethal, fetid aroma of the tvaržky upon its winds), much less actually reside there. Olomoucké tvaržky smells like a place where sewers go to die; it is a crime against God, nature, and the human race, and as the product of Ganbold’s moment of temporary olfactory insanity hit his tastebuds, he turned green (yes, Mongols can turn green), bolted from his chair, and began loudly trying to puke up the cheese into the toilet.
After he was done, Ganbold staggered back over to the table, saying, “I think this syr is maybe badly old. It is not tasting like that when I eat before.”
“Does it always smell that bad?” I asked, holding my t-shirt up over my nose for lack of a gas mask, still gagging.
“Oh yes. Very strong,” he said, picking up the cheese and moving to throw it into our trash bucket. I stopped him, grabbed an empty plastic grocery bag my groceries had come in, and tied all three sticks of the olomoucké tvaržky up in it, triple knotting the bag to make sure it was completely airtight. I was putting the bag into the garbage when Dorj told me to save it.
“Why, for fuck’s sake?” I asked, pausing above the bucket. “What will we use it for? A biological weapon?”
“No. You give to begging Chimpo man. He no ask you for nothing after he eating syr, hahaha,” Dorj said with a giggle.
After lunch Bradley came to get us for walk, and I smuggled the bag of evil out in the waistband of my pants. The men were all happ
y to see me, and although no one had brought the previous day’s article about my release with them, Rene seemed particularly impressed by it, clapping me on my shoulder several times and saying, “Ozzy Osbourne says good things for you. Yeeeeah, rock-n-roll baby! Randy, go home!” I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, and sure enough, Chimpo Weaselman began making his unctuous way towards me, his dirty hands already clasped together in supplication.
Dark Days: A Memoir Page 33
