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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 28 | volume V | September-October, 2002



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 28September-October, 2002
Prose

If I would fly to New York...

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p. 1
Robert Mlinarec

     If I would fly to New York, I wouldn't do it by my own Learjet, but probably by some chartered flight (payable by six post-dated Zagrebacka banka checks), a ten days round trip. Ten days is enough time for an agile man to find some vantage points in an alien town. The first thing to do is try to sell the return ticket, paint the town red, and after that, make sure that you are left with at least a quarter. Why? To enter a phone booth and call Mile Rupčić in New York. Our man would surely find me a job to start.
     In two or three months, I would earn some dough, quit the job, and be ready to start looking for a chick. I reckon that some nice and fine Puerto Rican girl from a moderately suspicious neighborhood would appear. I've been fond of Spanish for a long time, and my less than perfect English wouldn't be so conspicuous in her company. Not much time would pass, and we would arrange a modest ceremony in Puerto Rico.
     (In the meantime, some checks would be due, but nobody can find me here – Jerzy Kosinsky wouldn't devise a better plan. I still live on my Master card and I never intend to pay the bills.)
     My mother-in-law cares only for me being a Catholic, although I haven't been visiting Pope's building for years, except to satisfy my artistic urges. By way of marriage ceremony I take my wife's last name – say, Morales – and I add an 'o' to my first name, to make it sound Spanish; that is, Roberto Morales. Of course, Puerto Rico is a land of great opportunities, so I immediately ask for my new papers. For a reasonable sum that ends in a pocket of a local clerk, I suddenly find myself born in Cayey, Puerto Rico, a town well-known by its tobacco industry. This accomplished, any trace of my previous life is eradicated.
     Now, with all the papers, we return to New York and provisionally move to the apartment that my wife had rented before our marital bliss. I apply for my place in the welfare system.
     In a local store that I usually visit, they kindly warn me that the computer says my “European” credit card is no longer valid. I utter some words of bewilderment, and I say to


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