A Small Victory

It shouldn't bother me, but it does

SONG: A Small Victory

ARTIST: Faith No More

ALBUM: Angel Dust

YEAR: 1992

Prague has been my home for many years. It’s a great place to live because the people are chill, the crime rate is low, and beer is cheaper than bottled water. At least in the places I tend to frequent.

There’s also tons of parks, breathtaking architecture, and the nightlife here is legendary. Little wonder, then, that Prague is one of Europe’s most popular tourist destinations.

Now let’s be honest: tourists suck. They descend on your town like a horde of locusts and turn off their pea-sized brains while they’re at it. How many times have I nearly been blinded by some random jackass pointing out a landmark? How many dipshits have I nearly trampled because they stopped in the middle of the street to consult with Google Maps? And how many precious hours have I wasted waiting for couples and myriad morons to finally snap the picture they’re taking?

I usually suffer these miscreants in silence because they come with the territory. Because that’s how it goes when you live in Tourist Town. There are those rare occasions, however, when your path intersects with a turd so shameless, that your only course of action is to teach them a lesson. Which leads me to today’s entry in The Gen X Jukebox.

A Small Victory is the bouncy and halfway danceable single by not particularly danceable Faith No More. It was an instant hit when it landed on the airwaves, and reached as high as #11 on Billboard’s Modern Rock Tracks.

Singer Mike Patton has explained in various interviews that the song is about his relationship with his father:

"It’s kind of about, well my dad was a coach, so I grew up and I always wanted to win. And well, I found out that I just can’t win every game...darn it."

Mike Patton’s right. You can’t win every game. But sometimes you do win. And win I did one hot summer day while riding the subway in Prague.

I was heading downtown to meet a friend for lunch. The subway was packed with locals and tourists, all of whom were hot and sweaty. Some of whom had clearly not bathed. Two of whom sat opposite me.

They’d gotten on the subway at the previous stop: a grungy couple in their mid to late 20’s. They were sporting backpacks and identical track suits. I’ve seen this bizarre behavior before—tourists wearing matching outfits—and still can’t fathom the point or motivation. I can only imagine it’s the tragic onset of early and irreparable dementia.

The couple laid their backpacks on the floor, exchanged a few words in a language I didn’t recognize, then closed their eyes and drifted off into AirPod Land.

Seconds later, the dude who comprised one half of the couple, yawned and stretched his legs. Moments after that, two feet landed on the empty seat next to me. Bare feet. Dirty feet. Feet that smelled like what I imagine Steven Seagal must smell like.

It shouldn't bother me (no)
It shouldn't (no, no)
It shouldn't bother me
It shouldn't…but it does

Did I mention already that it was a hot summer’s day? That all you had to do to break a sweat was breathe like an ordinary mammal? That the entire subway smelled no better than the devil’s bunghole?

I shot the offender a nasty look, but he was still lost in AirPod Land. Ditto the braindead woman next to him.

I toyed with the idea of shaking him awake, of reminding the bastard that we act respectfully here in Prague, that we offer our seats to women and the elderly instead of soiling them with feet that look like they’ve been traipsing through a public toilet.

But I knew that talking to him wouldn’t help. That even if I spoke at one constant volume, at one constant pitch, at one constant rhythm, right into his ear, he still wouldn't hear, he still wouldn’t hear.

I would have to reach him another way.

I still had a few more stops to go before I met my friend for lunch. But my appetite was shaky, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat if I stuck around and continued to inhale Grungy Fuckwit’s Odor Emporium.

So I waited until the subway pulled into the next stop, then climbed over Grungy Fuckwit’s legs and exited the train. When the doors began to close, I knocked with force against the window. The grungy couple jumped in their seats. They checked to make sure their backpacks were secure, then turned their unwashed heads toward me, sleepy faces carved with confusion. I smiled and waved, then raised my other hand. In it was a smelly, well-worn Birkenstock.

The subway groaned and pulled away as Grungy Fuckwit banged on the door, inflamed with burning rage. I waved goodbye and made a show of laying the Birkenstock on the platform. If they wanted it back, I was saying, they knew where they could find it.

Yes, it was petty. Illegal, even. And I don’t fucking care.

I scored a victory, however small, for all the citizens around the world who know how to behave on public transportation. And for those of us who don’t appreciate demented couples adding to their city’s visual pollution by wearing matching outfits.