The Mockery (Published in Stork Magazine)

A cab driver once told me a curious story on my way to London. I shall in earnest retell this story now, and to the best of my abilities, I will omit no detail and imagine only sparing exaggerations:

Here my cabbie conjured an image of a deli-shop in England, somewhere nondescript, with no particular importance whatsoever. The character of the town which hosted this deli-shop was that of a usual English borough in that it was quaint but not vacant, and to a fault one could consider the residents of the town impossibly general. They were the panoply of individuals who are wont to play cards, chat idly, and provide no more than briefly nosy interactions, all before returning to their unassuming homes. In all, the town was just that: unassuming and regular. 

Our hero, at least in this story, is a boy named Otta. His family is Turkish, though his accent is thickly that of the other residents of the town. He is, at the time of this story, no older than seventeen, and despite this, he has already been working in his father’s deli-shop for some years. His father, a hard-working gentleman who understood business far better than he let on, was an unrelenting sort. When the deli-shop was dormant and without customers, it would not be uncommon for Otta’s father to conjure up some chore for him to do. It was very much as though Otta’s father could not handle idleness and instead would rather have his son haul oats or reorganize shelves than allow for any one moment of respite. 

Included in the ongoing list of chores he was made to perform on any given day, Otta was most accustomed to hauling the weekly shipment of kebab meats. These arrived on Monday mornings, on time, by way of an old truck. In the time that Otta had gone about with this chore, the truck had not changed, and Otta felt that if he were to return to this deli-shop in fifty years' time, well into the shimmering future, that truck would still be quite rusted, and quite loud, and resolutely quite old. From this truck the kebab meats would be unloaded and set upon Otta’s shoulders, whereupon he would be made to carry these meats to the freezer for the week’s storage. 

It is worth noting here, for the uninitiated, that kebab meats of this sort were tremendous things. As we made our way to London, my cab driver likened it to a side of beef– cumbersome weighty slabs, often weighing somewhere over one hundred and thirty kilograms. 

 It was even required that our Otta be the only one to carry the kebabs, as putting any paid worker up to this task would risk his father’s business practices being questioned by the labour unions. Alas, as Otta was unpaid and certainly not a member of any union, his services were ideally suited. He was not a large boy, not built up, nor did he possess the thews of adulthood. He was, in fact, reasonably thin despite being made to eat a great deal by his father, who insisted that he would soon sprout healthy muscles. 

Despite his slender frame, Otta was dutiful in his chores and carried the kebab meat from the old truck to the freezer every  Monday. He did this without question or protest as his father was not a man who would hear a word of discontent. 

It was the case that one day, whilst Otta was performing his usual tasks and straining himself beneath a rather large side of beef, he was spotted by a foreign fellow. This fellow was a German, and it appeared he lived up to his title aptly. This is not meant in any way other than to say that the German was a muscular gentleman with a perfect section of blonde hair, high cheekbones, a prominent jaw, and a set of terribly icy eyes. To speak only briefly on his build, the German was not a usual sort of muscular in that he was very nearly hulking. His body was stretched far beyond average proportions, and even a generally hale fellow who routinely exercised would have found themselves dwarfed by this German in comparison. In the nature of good examples, the German’s forearms were nearly the size of barrels, or perhaps his chest was a barrel, and his arms larger still. He had come with friends to the deli-shop, and they were watching Otta with some intrigue. 

Loudly, the German was speaking;

“ Look there! See the little junge go! It seems nearly impossible that such a scrawny youth should carry something so terrific.  I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a thing like it. Here now, boy! Come over. How much does a piece like that weigh?”

Here Otta turned, with the kebab meat still squarely resting on his shoulders putting a tremendous weight upon his back. In truth, he did not entirely know how heavy this particular kebab was, as the deli-shop rarely ever weighed the meat before or even after its delivery. But as Otta was also made to haul smaller, twenty-kilogram bags when there was no kebab delivery, he offered that this particular cut couldn’t be anywhere under one hundred and twenty kilograms.

“One hundred and twenty kilograms! Well, that explains it. Looks are deceiving things, you know. Ah well, one hundred and twenty kilograms is a light sum, a perfect amount for a boy your size. On the bench, I’ve been known to lift one hundred and eighty kilograms without so much as blinking. These fellows have seen it: without fail I can set about even one hundred and ninety with minimal strain. Let me have a try at it then; I’ll make short work of it. ”

The German then flexed his muscles as if to further insist upon his own readiness. Otta was astounded then that somehow the barrelled biceps nearly doubled in size, a feat that seemed nearly inhuman. The German was a regular about town, and so Otta also knew that he was a weightlifter by profession. Indeed, he had even accrued some success in his time traveling about Europe, where he had received many golden medals for his strength. The German’s friends were also weightlifters, though certainly less successful than he. They had jeered eagerly as the German had spoken, hanging about him as hyenas might, practically drooling as the German boasted. And when it came time for the German to demand he carry the kebab, his words were practically echoed on their breaths, hungrily insisting that Otta do as the German said. 

Otta was not of the mind that the German was necessarily a malicious fellow, but surely he could now sense some contention. As intimidating as the German may have been, Otta quickly made up an impromptu excuse, something to the effect of store policy prohibiting him. 

At this, the German gave a laugh, and Otta detected a note of asperity therein. 

“Store policy, eh? A likely thing indeed. And I can’t even have one go? ”

Uncharacteristically thinking on his feet, Otta declared that he’d happily give the German an attempt. He went on, explaining that although he could not allow the German to handle the present cut of kebab, if he were to return on the following Monday and, in so doing, meet Otta around the back of the deli-shop, where his father would not observe such activities, he could then have the first attempt at lifting the new kebab. 

This pleased the German who sat back appraising the boy who had surely called his bluff. The German’s friends feasted on even this silence, looking from him to Otta, waiting earnestly for the next escalation. It came sooner than they deserved, as the German recomposed himself easily. 

“So, Kleinbraten, you believe I won’t be able to? Let me try then, next week at this exact time. In fact, if it won’t add any sweat to your brow I propose a wager. A klein wette: that if I should lift the kebab, I’ll eat for free at this deli-shop from now until whenever it is that your father ceases to operate this business.”

Here I will interject that this seemed to me a rather excessive wager. But again, I can only relay what I was told.

Our Otta was struck by this proposition and considered momentarily the consequences of gambling on such an outrageous thing. He then looked at the German’s build, allowing himself a moment of doubt. He certainly seemed confident enough, and this struck Otta as worrisome. But as is often the case in these curious situations where a fellow’s dignity is challenged, there was no other avenue for Otta to take than to accept the German’s terms. With all his remaining courage, meagre as it was, Otta gestured to the German’s healthy meal and expressed that if the German should fail in lifting the kebab then he would be made to pay three times the meal’s original cost. 

“You have a deal! A good and fair deal. I’ll be back in a week’s time. And I will not forget to be sure. I might even fast before I return, to maximize my appetite.”

With this, the German then left the deli-shop, and Otta thought that it was curious how the onlooking men went about scurrying behind the receding goliath. They looked not unlike little birds. Little vicious birds with too-large torsos and altogether smaller legs. It was a comical thing to see in one light. All the same, Otta only found himself in a deep exhale, finally being rid of the present conflict. 

In the following days Otta resumed his attentions to work, and only when the weekend arrived did he begin to fret earnestly. In being honest with himself, Otta did not know why he had accepted the bet to begin with. He had known then that it was a stupid thing to agree to, but of course, he had forgotten this under the German's gaze. It would seem that in endeavoring to talk himself out of a small problem, he had deftly stumbled into a larger one.

As we neared the streets of the city, my cab driver glanced at me in the mirror. Over his broad shoulder, I recall a mischief in his eyes. He went on to tell me how Otta, having resigned himself to his misstep, began conspiring various ways to tip the proverbial scales. Evidently, the fellow in charge of ordering the meats was a strange woman with whom Otta occasionally struck up conversation. Ela, as she was known, seemed always to dislike Otta on principle. Otta, knowing where he stood within the backhouse, approached all discourse with discretion. 

To most, Ela was scrutinous and sharply toned, and this was enough to establish a sense of authority. As this was Ela’s general effect, Otta was understandably apprehensive in approaching her on the Saturday preceding his bet. She regarded him without much expression and listened as he explained the circumstances. He was sure to preemptively note his own foolishness and it seemed she appreciated this courtesy. While the German wouldn't be any less muscled, Otta could, with Ela as co-conspirator, make certain that the cut of meat delivered would be larger than it usually was. Despite her objection to Otta as a person, she was not above the allure of settling matters with the German. She confirmed, by way of grunt, that Otta’s request would be fulfilled, leaving Otta feeling cautiously hopeful. 

It was the case that Otta had been concealing a rather notable factor in his bet with the German. Though he had seen Otta struggling beneath the weight of the kebab, the German had not actually seen Otta originally hoist the thing. This was not without reason, as it was truthfully impossible to lift the massive side from the ground without the aid of at least two workers. By some strange physics, once the weight was equally disbursed upon the shoulders, any man could carry the kebab, but from a fixed position on the ground, it existed as decidedly immovable. Otta knew this and had clung to the fact as it was the only thing that salved his many worries. Perhaps some part of himself was sure enough in this knowledge, and perhaps this was the only reason he had accepted the bet to begin with.

True as it was that Otta had never seen a man lift the kebab from a resting state, he was willing to take no chances, and on the Monday of the bet, he was heartened to inspect the delivery truck on its arrival. Ela too stood watch and nodded with some content at the week’s cut of meat as it was unloaded. It was,  as requested, a larger side than usual, and without becoming overly eager, Otta thought it was a bit more lopsided as well. 

The German arrived not a minute late and came accompanied by the little bird men who twittered at his heels. It seemed that Otta was not the only one who had made an effort to improve his odds, as the German came with a support belt, gloves, and had even applied a sleeve to his left arm, presumably for furthered strength. Otta thought that the belt made the fellow look grotesque, as it was the case that his arms now protruded some distance beyond a cinched torso. In all, the German’s upper body had taken on the distinct appearance of a triangle, from which there came two stalkish legs. The chalk, concealed in a carrying pouch, swung at his side, presenting the scene with a drumbeat, and Otta wondered for a moment if he had made a mistake. 

“Guten morgen! You should know, mein dunkler prinz, that I am famished! I am looking forward to a good meal when all this is settled. I think I will start with a doner, or perhaps a roll, or maybe a shish. Maybe I will have all three.”

From here, the German went over to inspect the cut. He circled the thing twice, eyeing it and feigning lifts here and there so as to make it clear that he was not some amateur. In fact, it seemed that these theatrics were even working on Ela, who shot Otta several looks that read more as warnings than sympathy. Otta then considered that there was the heretofore unthinkable prospect that Ela did feel something more than harshness towards him. 

Before he could consider this further, the German loudly proclaimed that he was ready. The little birdmen nodded eagerly, exchanging looks of mutual glee. They were all quite stocky men, and so it was an altogether strange thing to witness them in this state. They were like hens, Otta decided finally. Hens, pecking about and squabbling over nothing in particular. 

The German, in turn, had gloved his hands and stretched himself thoroughly. Now, with a steely look and a quick wink towards Ela, the German squatted low to the ground and wrapped his arms widely around the base of the kebab meat. He made a brief noise, something to the effect of a grunt, and then began to strain. He did so only momentarily, and Otta was pleased to see an expression of confusion come over the man’s face. In fact, the German stopped lifting altogether mere seconds after his first attempt and looked fleetingly about. Having then quickly regained his composure, he stooped down again and readjusted his grip. Once more, he went about straining, and for a moment, Otta believed he saw the kebab shift upwards. But this did not last for a second longer, and the German retreated once more. A newly marbled complexion had traced itself across his flinty face, and the hens were chittering excitedly, presuming that the German was merely playing some sort of joke. Otta, and perhaps Ela, were the only ones who suspected this might not be the case. 

Otta, gaining some confidence, then told the German that the ensuing attempt would have to be his last and that his father expected the meats to be stored as quickly as possible following their delivery. The German regarded Otta carefully, then looked to the meat. With a slower movement than before, the German bent down and assumed a new grip. Resolving his visage to something resembling chilled courage, the German gave a final,  valiant attempt. He laboured much longer on this attempt as he might force the thing upward if he only tried long enough. This could not be, and so Otta smiled as the German fell away, breathing low. 

The little hens quieted some and received the German into their midst without a word. They had not yet determined that all was lost. Still, dumbly, they were under the impression that this was still some part of the German’s plan. 

The German, himself, had not yet looked at Otta and instead had paced some distance from the group, massaging at his biceps and shaking his head. As he had turned and was showing no signs of further bravado, the hens went to him, confused and upset. 

It was in this instant that Otta found himself briefly unwatched. The German and his men were turned  away and could not seem to face him. And here, before him, was the cut of meat. Otta looked now to Ela, who, it appeared, could already sense what it was that Otta required. Without a word, she gestured to a fellow worker, and swiftly, without making any betrayful noise, the two hoisted the meat upward and rested it upon Otta’s back. The two then drew back, and Ela bid the other worker away. 

It should be noted that this affair all occurred in a matter of seconds, and so when the German turned round, his face became quite pale. In fact, it was as though the man had been drained of his colour entirely, and so his fair skin was now pocky and sour. Otta, bent under the weight, grinned brightly and shrugged what he could of his shoulders. This was the only expression he could afford, and it seemed to do its job aptly. The German went to speak, did not, moved to inspect that which he was witnessing, and only in finally resigning himself did he raise a hand to cover his mouth, agape. 

“Mein Gott! You are inhuman. Superhuman, I should say. Mein Gott. Oh my…”

Such were the sorts of floundering words that emerged from the German, who had still yet to regain his flush. If he were not a prideful man or perhaps was not being watched by the hens, Otta imagined that the fellow might have dropped to his knees and keeled into a prayer. Otta saw now a man who was upset and confused, but more to the point, a man who was bested. This loss, apparent in the lines that newly formed across the German’s brow, seemed to weigh on the man. It pulled at him, such that his once wide frame slumped and even his jaw softened into a frown as he collapsed inwards and was a hollowed figure. 

Otta, as it happened, did not make the German pay his side of the bet. He felt quite bad for the man and was certain he had already paid quite enough in the manner of abject humiliation. The German was a decent fellow in handling his loss and, before quitting the scene of his disgrace, offered a weak smile in Otta’s direction. 

In the following years, the German would return to the deli-shop as a regular. Here, he would bring his friends and family members and would point at Otta, loudly proclaiming that they would never see such a strong young fellow. 

“He can carry an inhuman sum, I say! An inhuman sum. Kilograms upon kilograms! He is a god. A kinder god. A prodigy, more like. You won’t believe your eyes! Look there.”

The German would, in these later years, often challenge Otta to bouts of arm wrestling. He would implore Otta to show his prowess, and in these times, Otta would always manage to produce an excuse that would keep the German at bay. He was, after all, a jovial fellow, and Otta felt that it would be a shame to destroy his curious delusion. 

This was a particular story, and it struck me plainly so in the taxi cab to London. I received from the driver no conclusion to the story other than the vague news that the deli-shop had closed many years ago when Otta’s father grew too old to run the place. At that time, Otta had finally disclosed his secret to the German who had, even in his older age, flushed red with embarrassment and then laughed to himself privately.

I found this all to be a trifle odd, and in stepping from the cab, I firstly wondered if I might take this story for later use.

“I never did catch your name,” I remarked, hoping to secure the driver’s blessing for future retellings.  

Only then did my cab driver grin broadly, and while shaking my hand, he replied, “Otta.”