Uglich had just finished his compulsory army service and was looking for a job. His beloved sister was in England. He lived at home surrounded by an alcoholic father and a superficial, phlegmatic, bordering on arrogant mother, two younger sisters, and a big black stinky dog called Timba. His room was the size of a 2nd class letter stamp. When he had the desire to stretch his body fully out, he needed to place his feet out of the window; otherwise, he’d have pushed them through the thin cardboard wall that separated him from his youngest sister.
Kopo was a divorced man, with an unfinished car mechanic apprenticeship looming on his neck and a failed salesperson venture where he tried to sell Kirby vacuum cleaners to country people. They recently fired him from his previous job as a car stereo installer. They expelled him on the grounds of interception while assembling some small bits out of the workshop into his small red Daihatsu Charade CX 1.3l. He vehemently and categorically denied the incident. He lived in a three-bedroom detached house in a small hamlet not too far from where we lived. All the bills were fully footed by an elderly married woman who was his trainee psychotherapist when he was homeless and ended up in a homeless shelter. That’s where and how they met. She paid the monthly rent of 4,000 schillings, which she obtained from her wealthy but inactive husband. Whenever she needed attention and affection in any shape or form, Kopo was there for her. I am pretty confident in saying that, from his part, there was not too much love, but her providing was extremely convenient, because he could do all day long what he wanted, mostly drinking, smoking, making music, and playing video games. She admired and loved him dearly because he was a versatile and handy man with ideas and imagination, who was willing and capable of taking one and helping her with technical things and also work-related matters which she needed to present at work and in her studies.
I went through an identical experience three years following my departure, as I subconsciously entertained a Hungarian lawyer based in Hendon Central in the Jewish quarters, 28 years my senior, as I played the call boy for food and accommodation. It was a dual-beneficial affair as far as I was concerned, and I certainly will get into it in great detail in the next part of this memoir.
To be frank, I had the most balanced life out of the three, but I was also the only one who could handle money and adapt to difficult and unexpected situations the best. As Charles Darwin, the famous neurologist, geologist, biologist, and author of “The Origins of Species,” said: “It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent, but the one that is most adaptable to change.” I was also definitely the person with the biggest portion of common sense out of the trio. I had a steady job and put a fair amount of money aside because I always refuse to splash out unnecessarily. Of course, it would be irresponsible to ignore the fact that, even at 24, I was still living at “Hotel Mama,” who’d done everything for me, including the cooking, washing, and cleaning. Yes, my income took a 5,000 schilling hit, which I was voluntarily “forced” to pay on a monthly basis, but it was fair and square, and completely understandable after my father checked out with an 11-year-old woman and left us with a mortgage worth just shy of a million schillings.
Having said all this, neither my work nor my employer really fulfilled my desires and imagination of a life worth living. My girlfriend was gone too, and after my mum got involved with a guy named Rubi, with whom I could not really find common ground, nor did we share an interest or a passion, let alone grabbing a pint. He was the only human I have ever met who did not have a hobby, nor a passion, nor was he interested in anything. He was more or less teetotal, maybe had a 1/8 wine or half a pint of beer if my mum insisted on it. My only option really was to give notice to my employees, sell my beloved vehicle, purchase an aeroplane ticket, and fade into the unknown, hoping for the best.
In hindsight, of course, I must give credit to the late farmer, because he moved in with my mum and logically and naturally released me from the cash injection, which I had to pay so my mum could keep the house. He contributed to my new life. a favour which I handsomely returned during the years. For the first time in his life, at the mature age of 60, he saw the sea as I took them down to Brighton.
Together with my mum, they visited me three times in London, and on every occasion I took them somewhere nice. We visited Paris and flew all the way to Mallorca for their 3rd visit. Before he met her, the guy didn’t even have a passport. I would say compared to what his own son and daughter gave him during his life, I was a prime example of a stepson. It really put my mother off that she did not appear on the obituary notice. Can you imagine being with a person for 25 years and after they decease, you receive a mourning card and it does not feature your name? So I believe I made a point not to show any sympathy to his family ever. I always had a kind of sixth sense for people and judged them accordingly. Admittedly, I was wrong a few times, but on most occasions, my gut feelings were spot on. I fully supported my mother’s decision not to attend his funeral, instead travelling to London to be with us and her grandchildren.