The vehicle

This is another, presumably true, story that has grown into an urban legend. It reached me through its main character who told this story, strictly confidentially to my source. “The source” then told me and I then told, strictly confidentially, of course, Tunja from Đakovo, Rale from Sombor, Stipe from Makarska, Ruda from Zaprešić, Fadil from Maglaj. I also intended to tell Imra from Zmajevac, however, he’d heard it from the main character already, strictly confidentially, naturally.

In summer of 80 something, on the road from Osijek to Beli Manastir, towards the eternal land of salami and cheese, a police (militia!) stojadin (a legendary car brand from former Yugoslavia) was parked right next to the bridge on Drava with two law-enforcement officers of ex SFRJ sitting inside.
It was July, August maybe, pitch dark and around 4 o’clock in the morning. It seemed that apart from mosquitoes, two law-enforcers and sweltering heat nothing else existed in Osijek.
The blue guys had been already asleep when the engine-sound, far too delicate for a road of Baranja, lurked through the air; the sound delicate but strong. It wasn’t FAP (a legendary truck brand from former Yugoslavia), and it certainly couldn’t have come from a car.
The older cop lit a cigarette and said to his colleague:
-“Go and see what’s goin’ on.”
Young law-enforcer opened the door, came out of stojadin, took his hat and “lollypop” from the back seat and polished a red star on his hat.
He walked to the road, put on his hat, pulled his trousers and saw upcoming rectangular headlights sharply piercing the dark.
As he had adjusted his trousers, the young law-enforcer stepped in front of the vehicle and pulled the “lollypop” saying: STOP; MILICIJA firmly and decisively. Yellow light then flashed through the dark and the vehicle pulled over next to the policeman, militiaman to be precise.
Policeman walked toward the vehicle, firmly and decisively, as befits an officer of internal affairs. When he finally approached the vehicle he had plenty to see: a green limo with foreign yellow plates and on the top of the bonnet there was a chrome-plated leaping animal looking as it was just about to jump on our hero and bite off his neck. On the wing there was a chrome-plated V8 symbol.
Jaguar - something that definitely didn’t belong to the roads of our former state; something that one could have seen only in TV series like Dallas or Dynasty.
However, it was highly inappropriate for a young law-enforcer to show amazement for a western novelty, even though he definitely was amazed and paid respect to the vehicle.
As he reached the door, he knocked on the window and the window glass came down in a somehow weird way. Before he could even be surprised by the electric window that Zastava definitely didn’t install in its models, he was dizzied by the reek of alcohol emanating from inside. The reek consisted of the indistinguishable components like šljivovica (rakija made of plums), beer, vine…
The fumes stunned our militiaman so he didn’t even bother to ask for the documents as the policy required but he only bewilderedly asked:
-“How much have you drunk?”
The driver showed his head through the window and said:
-“Sir, I…I mean…a lot…fuckin’ hell…”-he stopped in the middle of the sentence and puked all over the door so it also reached otherwise impeccably clean officer’s uniform.
-“Why did you drink so much and then sat in a car?” – the officer asked more out of fear than of professional reasons.
-“Bloody hell…I was…I didn’t…I mean…I…I didn’t go for a Sunday service…I was on the wedding…fuckin’ hell…!” -he barely said that when the policeman tightened up and said:
-“Your ID and a driving license please”
-“Hey pal, I don’t have one! I’ve never had one. Once I tried to…well, get a license, however, they flunked me at the start.”
-“Commrad, you’ve got no identification! You’re stewed to the gills! How do you operate this vehicle?!”- raged the policeman.
-“I don’t!”- said the man using all his strength and then collapsed onto the leather seat.
-“You think you can fuck around with me?”- said the policeman and grabbing his baton stack his head inside the car. Once inside, he certainly had something to see…no steering wheel!
Then he looked towards the co driver and saw concentrated and sober man holding to the steering wheel.
-“I operate the vehicle, sir.”-said the co driver.
The law-enforcer pulled out his head and waving his baton told them to drive off.
Jaguar zoomed away, the militiaman, policeman, law-enforcer, officer, whatever I called him through this story remained standing on the road, obtusely gazing at the sticker on the Jaguar’s trunk saying GB.



First time published at Jimblog under the title "Vozilo", on 19th of January, 2006 AD

Thanks to Ana Sekulić for translation