Natan Zahavi: the scientist Ma’ariv

Natan Zahavi: the scientist  Ma’ariv

I wrote the story “The Scientist” many years ago. I remembered it this week when I saw a group of teenagers, girls and boys aged 15-16, getting drunk, smoking, dirtying themselves with foul language, behaving rudely, swaying while walking like drug addicts or alcoholics. Anyone who knows the drug market Know that there are dangerous drugs on the market, mixing all kinds of chemicals that can cause loss of consciousness, cardiac arrest or severe poisoning.

Some of these drugs are sold to teenagers who think they are “playing it big”. The “cocktails” of the drugs run on the market with their prices sky high, and they offer a quick fix. The feeling at first “in heaven” and later in hell.

When I saw the young mastols and heard them (they were shouting), I remembered a story I wrote many years ago and it was about one scumbag who concocted drugs and ruined many people’s lives. “The scientist” I called the story that I wrote after using one of the powders that the scientist sold me at a bargain price and ruined my health. Here it is for you.

As the falls in the stock market begin, somewhere in the early 80s of the last century, you can see the speculators sitting in the northern cafes, connected to a glass of French cognac, encouraging themselves that on difficult days one should enjoy indulgences more than on good days.

Stocks drop, and many people’s smile drops from their face, and in its place comes an expression of Tisha Bab Mix with Yom Kippur. To be honest, I’m also taking a small dip, after some bank teller convinces me to take out a loan and invest it in shares of a new company that makes strawberry-flavored condoms.

According to the official, whose relative is married to the daughter of the CEO of the company, a huge deal is being signed with China – where, according to him, strawberries are a rare commodity, and the combination of a strawberry-flavored condom with birth restrictions is going to be the new Chinese hit The clerk is blowing my mind with hysterical enthusiasm, that if every Chinese buys one condom a year – and as we know, there are about a billion Chinese in China – the company is booming and our stocks are skyrocketing.

As the drops start, they are led by the strawberry flavored condom stock. Of the ten I borrowed from the bank, three remain, and the parachute of the condom has not yet opened, I will answer, free fall to the zero line.

What is left for a person to do in such a situation, is to throw himself on the bar of the “Judges” pub and wipe himself out with a pile of double cognacs at a rapid pace, enter a state of fog and pass out for 24 hours.

At the bar of the “Judges” I catch sight of the “scientist”, engrossed in conversation with a beer glass in the shape of a boot. The scientist is a type who has barely an urban kindergarten education, and a criminal record that fills three shelves in the police archives.

Over the years he was arrested for all types of offenses that appear in the law books. In particular, they attribute to him the production of drugs from all kinds of chemical and natural substances, which cause irreversible damage to a person, up to death in unclear circumstances.

Although the scientist’s education in matters of pharmacy is zero, he manages to gain experience and knowledge regarding the powders circulating in the market, to such an extent that he serves as a major target for undercover detectives and also for some hardened criminals who use his powders, become rags and come to him with various financial claims to compensate themselves for the damages he caused them.

The scientist accumulates wads of cash from his pharmaceutical business, and at some point invests it in shares of refrigeration and freezing companies. During the downfalls (so, at least, he claims) all the money goes to him. From what he has left, he can barely buy a popsicle.

The scientist, who is known to be fond of fine alcohol, abstains from all his powder and pill business because he is the only one who knows what crap of merchandise he is selling.

He drinks beer, which is a sign that his condition is really bad. I sit down next to him and turn on the antennas, to pick up what he is talking about to himself. These are, more or less, the things: “Wow, what a world I live in, eh? I drink alcohol – they tell me my liver will explode. Taking drugs – they tell me I will become enslaved and die. Well done Bravo. I eat persimmons – they say my intestines will rot. I eat chocolate – they say my teeth will rot. Well done Bravo. I eat red meat – they tell me cholesterol, bacteria, Amiat. Goes to fish – they say it has toxic mercury. Wow bravo”.

The scientist takes a long sip of beer, smiles to himself and continues: “I smoke a cigarette – they tell me lung cancer. Sitting in the sun – they tell me skin cancer. Sleep with a closed window – they say I will suffocate. In an open window – he will catch pneumonia. You have to be careful with food colors, be careful with cheeses, it’s forbidden to fuck without a condom because of AIDS, this is forbidden, this is forbidden, a glass of amek, this whole fucking world, a crazy world, everyone needs to be hospitalized in a closed ward.” Overlaps in the direction of the yellow Trenta, which brings me home and stays to guard the yard.

After that night, I don’t see the scientist at the bar for several days. Not that it bothers me who knows what, but just curiosity. As if in an episode of telepathy, the chirping licorice falls on the bar, a mousey creature with an annoying voice, who knows everything that happens in Gush Dance and reports within seconds to anyone who is interested or not interested in hearing.

Before I give her a little nod of the head, she starts singing to me in an armed Northern-yuppie style, full of question and answer marks: “Remember that day, when you sat next to the scientist? The day after that the stock market crashes? After that, you see the scientist in the Carmel Market, like? Sitting on a bus shirtless sunbathing in the sun? Do you eat persimmons? Do you drink cognac like that? I eat French cheeses and tuna from boxes like? After that I eat red meat and chocolate sticks? After that smelling white, smoking fun and taking ecstasy? After that, he brings her standing up to the turkey that everyone says is like she has AIDS?”

Enough, I shout to the tick, what happened at the end, without any question marks or anything.

Shush the tweeter takes a pose of being offended as if: “For the last three days he has been moving from ward to ward in Ichilov. They discovered a blockage in his stomach, fear of mercury poisoning, cholesterol, God bless you, he has signs of skin cancer, shortness of breath, his teeth fell out, he got pneumonia, and when they took him for AIDS tests in the ambulance, he tried to strangle the doctor and rape the nurse, oh well 70, because she reminded him of his mother. Out of all the mess, he was put in a lockup in Abarbanal and he committed suicide by drowning in a toilet. Ha ha ha. “Lend me like a tenner for a pina colada.”


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