Violent Fantasies

The kids outside my flat won't shut the hell up. They also enjoy throwing things. Snowballs, stones, soccerballs, even the occassional basketball, cumbersome but heavy enough to cause significant damage when thrown or kicked properly, glance and bounce off my windows at least once a week. They put a two meter crack in one girl's window last fall.

There are two of them, brothers, nearly indistinguishable. One is slightly fatter than the other and has a high voice, as distinct as a spoon stirring a glass of tea. I can here him all the way down the street. When I leave my apartment he calls out, "Abi! Abi!" in a desperate squeel. I don't understand the point of his addressing me with the respectful Turkish designation of "sir." I know he's cursing at me after he says hello. His friend several times told me in English that he "fucked my mother." I told him that that was nice because I fucked his too. I doubt he understood.

A week ago I caught the two brothers throwing a soccer ball against my windows. I waited by the door and came out when they were right in front. They bolted like cockroaches caught in the middle of the cellar floor when the light's turned on. I followed one into the supermarket and read him the riot act in what little Turkish I knew. Two days later, as I entered my flat they kicked their basketball at me, missing by a long shot but hitting the side of the building. I didn't get a hold of the ball, but my violent fantasies began.

This is how I envision it: I will get their ball-soccerball, basketball, whatever-while they are playing with it in front of my flat. I will hold it up for them for just a few seconds, like one might hold a trophy, admiring it, making sure they take in the perfect beauty of a round, inflatable object. I will then do one of two things. I will step up to the edge of the hill, down from which cars, shrubs, winding roads and paths, and ramshakle houses stand-wonderful nooks and crannies where one would never find a lost ball-and I will boot the ball with all my might. I will toss it before me, and just pound the hell out of it with one shot of my right foot. It will travel far, bounce off a roof, deflect off a tree branch, settle beneath a car. It will be a bitch to find. Option two, the more favored of the two: the boys will be bouncing the ball off my windows again. I'll come downstairs with a pear-knife in my back pocket and five lira in small change in the front. I will ask the brothers if I can play too. They will kick me the ball. Again, I will pick it up and hold it admiringly. I will then cradle the ball between my forearm and chest, remove my pear-knife and with one strong jab I'll pierce the ball, driving the blade in as far as it will go, right in front of their eyes. I'll throw the emasculated, airless piece of leather at their feet, not saying a word, and, like Michael Corleone in The Godfather II, I'll stick my hand in my pocket and I will remove the money (not bills though). From shoulder level I'll just drop it all on the street. Every little five and ten cent piece will gracefully fall from my palm and land on the ground, rolling around at their feet like little subservient dogs. I'll then turn around and walk back to my flat. And that will be the end of my problem with the brothers.