Freedom? – Switzerland

By: Michael Millhouse

Freedom?
Switzerland

This is Switzerland. Last night I went to the Manhattan bar in the hamlet of Le Chable, nestled in the valley below the Verbier ski resort. I got stung 33 fucking francs for three bourbon and cokes. I could live for a week in some parts of the world for what I had paid for that. Sure, I had met some wonderful locals, but now I was skint. That was the beauty of poorer countries; you could fool yourself into feeling rich with massages on the beach and an orgy of seafood platters. If you avoided the mutated strains of tinea and the off chance of food poisoning, the ‘brown-water world’ was a blast. But somehow I had ended up here, in an economy with all the trimmings, and I was paying for it through the nose. Make sure you control your flatulence in this Confederation of Helvetica, or the emissions council will either block passage or tax it.

What an economic conundrum, and amidst it all is this ‘need to work’. Some souls are well on their way to realizing their dreams, able to feed themselves and put a roof over head, maybe they even do something they tolerate, like accounting or managing a shift at Dunkin Donuts. Then there are the ones I really despise, those who have found their true calling and are raking in the moola at the same time. Bastards. In my life I have either been a slave to Roger or a bum to the world. Roger, being the institution that air conditions us, the one who says you have to get up and go to work even if it’s dark in the morning, when you would prefer to be slowing your metabolism and starting to hibernate. That would be the natural thing to do, sleep more in winter, and drink more wine on summer evenings. Us bums of the modern day, we try to fool ourselves into believing we are free. We are the tribe of the disillusioned wanderer and work place drop out, and believe me, our numbers are growing. We both pity and envy the ‘full timers,’ those who are somehow able to marry escape with routine. We often end up in angry conversations with credit card companies.

“Yeah, hi, my name is Pete, I’ve been re-issued a new card because someone stole my last one in Malaysia and went on a bit of a spree in Paris, they bought a lot of cosmetics, apparently. Anyway, I haven’t quite maxed out the card I have with you guys and there is a Halloween party that I have been invited to tonight, and I need to buy a few things. I was just wondering if you could issue me with my new PIN?”

“Before I answer your query, can I please have your full name, sir?”
“Peter James Blumson”
“And, what is your card number, sir?”
“2563 8900 8765 2323″
“What’s your mothers’ maiden name?”
“Brooks”
“What is your home address?”
“I don’t have one, I’ve been dossing on couches.”
“Ok, what address might we have on record as being your home address?”
“Probably my parents’ home, all my shit ends up there. Excuse me.”
“What is that address, sir?”
“58 Klemp Road, Bullengarook, Victoria”
“What company do you work for?”
“Uh. Good question, probably Countrywide Tolstrup.”
“Sorry sir, that’s not what we have on record.”
“Uh. Ba ba ba ba ba ba… uhh, Vickery Galvin?”
“Yes, that’s fine sir, and finally, your date of birth?”
“October 6, ‘76.”
“Please hold the line.”
“What for?…”

If hell released a ‘best of’ compilation, this track would be on it. I wonder how long this time. Last time it was about six minutes before they cut me off, unanswered.

“Mr. Bumsen?”
“That was quick.”
“A pin has been re-issued and will be sent to your home address within seven working days.”
“Ok. Could I ask for your name, please?”
“You are speaking with Leah?”
“Where are you, Leah?”
“You have reached the Asia Pacific Regional Call Centre.”
“Where is that exactly?”
“It’s in the Asia Pacific Region.”
“OK. Uh, Leah?”
“Yes, Mr. Bumsen?”
“What city are you in?”
“I am in Manila.”

“Oh, Manila! Ok. Well, Leah, I am in a lovely, little town named Martigny at the moment and my other credit card is, well, I can’t use it, and, to be brutally honest, I have no access to any cash, so, is there any way you can issue me a number now?”
“I can not do that, Mr. Bumsen.”
“Look, I only have a few francs on me, sure I have some salami and cheese in my back pack I can eat tonight, but I need to get back to Le Chable…”
“I can not issue you that number, Mr. Bumsen.”
“But I need to buy a pumpkin!”
“I can’t do that for you sir.”
“And some candles!”
“Once again, I can’t do that for you, Mr. Bumsen.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to buy a pumpkin, or candles, I just need the number, four teeny, weeny digits. It will be our little secret, I promise.”
“No sir, I can’t do that.”
“This isn’t a test call, it’s not your supervisor putting on a funny voice or anything like that, it’s a man, begging you, giving you the chance to shine, the chance to help out a fellow soul in need, you know, a man in despair, in a phone booth, wearing only thin socks and a skivy, and pants, I am wearing pants, and I beg of you, help your fellow man. Please!?”
“Mr Bumsen, we do not have that information on the system, so even if I wanted to, I can’t do anything more for you.”
“Ok then, well, Leah, thanks for your help. I suppose it’s quite fitting really, what a god awful Halloween this has truly become.”
“Thank you for banking with Citibank.” Clink.

I ended the call strangely again and I know it, but it was better than last time; poor ‘Fiona’ is probably still spinning. I would hate to be on the end of that. It would be so draining to have to sit and listen to arse holes whinge about why they can’t get to money that’s not even theirs. Those poor university-educated saps, drinking chilled water from plastic cups, their supple, Filipino skin dying to feel the natural sunlight, yearning to farm feudal crops or make tables from teak. But, uh no, they are stuck in their fluorescent confines, wondering what on earth they are doing talking to a freak with a pumpkin problem in the Alps. Yes, those poor people, they were copping a good, hard fisting from Roger, that’s for sure.

I wonder where I am going to sleep tonight, I am glad the snow has not started to fall, though the sky is an ominous shade of grey. I suppose I can hitch a ride back to Le Chable and I still have some food, maybe I’ll crash with my new mate Nikko. Perhaps the person who picks me up will know someone that needs a helper to milk cows or make cheese. My October of picking grapes in the alpine sun, it was a nice memory. The vine leaves had started to turn a million shades of yellow by the time the last bins were carted off to be bottled. Those fine reds and whites would be sure to give a lovely mellow to many full-timers and bums of the world. But that work was over now, so I suppose I’ll just keep on wandering.