@selfcoherence plotted
Frankie Dane’s mother, young son and two girlfriends are meeting for the first time. They are taking turns telling each drunk stationed at the bar how much their son, father and boyfriend is a bastard, but only only man is nodding and replying. What his replies are are anyone’s business, but involve words like multitude... probability distribution... camel...
Slouched over from a day of sticky grief, Mlad starts rapping his knuckles against the counter to the beat of the stretched-out syllables, getting harder, louder, more urgent. “Doris. Doooooooris. I’m driving tonight, Doris.” She’s given him beer. Not root beer. “Dooooooooooris--” Doris, rightly, doesn’t like being summoned with that zombie voice.
So now, on top of this old man’s big words and the testimonies of Frankie Dane’s character, are two rapid-speaking Serbs beating their chests over matters of respect: the man dangling over the counter, stretching out to retrieve the right brand of root beer and the woman picking it up and holding it over her head.
