Gone Bezeq

If his name is George, I’ll call him Peter.


There are only a few more things that must go wrong, between now, and the time we leave, for our time here to be complete. Getting run over, or losing some crack are still up for grabs. So here we are: Artless. Onion-eyed. Spawned. All international students — thou crusty batch of nature. Welcomed each year, YEAR ON END, we smile & take, selfie and bake, saucy minions, we perish, the memories they’ll cherish.

They said it would happen. Everyone did. Everyone said it. Peter. George..- Everyone did. Such was the creed, they-said-it-re-said it. Laughed. Mocked and pledged it – they said it would happen, and Lo they were they right.

Oh, these deliberate fools.

And now, I’ve sat on this bench for six hours. This bench knows me well. And I do too – know it well. Copiously well. I pray that we be better strangers. But for the love of mockery, let us observe this!

Bezeq – You are rough and hairy, a full dish of fool. You’ve strangled our assets, fisted and drained us. Splayed out our guts and pounded our brain-stuffs. In their defense, “we hadn’t paid”. So the Lord gazed down and muttered to Moshe: “Thou shalt speak; I will be with thy mouth and will teach you what ye shall do.” Pay. Paying is usually a good idea. When in doubt, pay. The currency is optional? Lo. But for goodness sake pay.

How unsavory.

We had paid, Mr. Bezeq. So do your job, and let us meet as little as we can. Preferably never.

At this point I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. That droning, flap-mouthed malt-worm. Away with his giglets! How deep? How hollow? How treacherous… And full of guile! That goatish, ill-nurtured harpy.


Bezeq, you tottering fen-sucked varlet, I promise thee, I do not like your look. I’ve sat on this bench talking to you, wasting my time, loosing my charm. You pottle-deep clown! This bench had enough. Such beef, such peeve, have mercy. Now cut the bluff. Why so tough? Oh young voice across the wire: Do. your. work. and don’t be dire




(A woman reeking of desperation and enthused with a sort of cry-laughing mania cradles her phone. Evidently distraught, she grapples a fence shaking it like a caged animal. Pacing, she proceeds to kick a bench nearby. A hobo kitten scuffles and runs. The local passersby look on curiously. Mildly entertained, they stop their children from pointing. One thing was clear: This woman was angry. This woman went berserk.)


Our internet provider took our internet. I got upset. It was all quite the show. I won right? Yes Ma’aam, that is correct.

“You’ve let it go?”

Yes boss,


I’ve let it go.


I’m over it.

About the Author
Anna Wozniak lives in Tel Aviv. Sometimes, she goes outside. Sometimes, she writes about it. Some. Times.
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