Hardcore for a Hard Case
_ In the recesses of Holešovice, a classic tale of tragedy
and survival
By Nanci Tischler
George O’Brien isn’t Czech. He has lived in Prague 7’s grungy Holešovice district for nearly ten years, speaks four different languages and is a self-proclaimed alcoholic. He stands a lofty six-foot-five with jagged brown hair that sticks out at odd angles, as if he’s been wearing a winter hat for the past two years. His teeth have seen the wear and tear of thousands of cigarettes that he no longer smokes due to a tram accident that left him minus one lung and plus two metal kneecaps.
O’Brien’s manner is almost manic as he sits down with a beer in his personalized Batman mug, which he brings from home. He lets out a nervous guffaw before taking a swig and scratching the stubble that’s been accumulating for days. Steely blue eyes that look like they’ve seen a lifetime peer into the mug as he gulps down the last bit of his Pilsner and holds up his thumb to signal the bartender for another.
O’Brien is only 28 years old, but from the gaunt angles of his hollowed cheeks and decayed state of his fingernails, you would think he was past 40. He keeps one eye on you and the other on the door at all times. “I suffer from a case of mild paranoia,” he admits. “It’s only natural for a drug dealer.”
A full-time marijuana dealer and part-time DJ, O’Brien lives alone in a one-room flat off of Dělnická where he grows his own in the confines of a closet. It’s one block from a virtually unknown pub called Bondy Bar – which for O’Brien is an extension of his home.
Bondy is an exclusively local bar, easy to pass by unless you already know it. Those who do find solace in a hazy, brick-lined basement that houses nothing but a jukebox, bar and stools and a worn-down foosball table that is almost always in use. O’Brien is a constant fixture at Bondy, where he knows everyone on a first-name basis and treats the bartender like an old friend, because he is one.
Jakub, the bartender and owner of Bondy Bar, chuckles when he reminisces about O’Brien’s numerous drunken episodes over the years. “I used to leave the key for George to lock up, because he’d fall asleep on a bench some nights,” Jakub recalls. “We’d just leave him where he was until the morning.”
O’Brien showed up on Bondy’s doorstep in April of 2002, when he first moved to Prague from the Netherlands. He is a nomad by birth, an orphan from Ireland who grew up in Inistioge, a tiny riverfront village in County Kilkenny. He passed through the foster care system for years until a young couple took him in at the age of 15. “My foster mum was the kindest French woman who couldn’t have babies of her own,” he says. “So I stayed with them until I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
Family life didn’t sit well with O’Brien, who skipped school frequently, started drinking at the age of 12 and started smoking cigarettes even earlier. He dropped out of school for good in 1998and never told his fosterparents, John and Marie, spending his time busing tables at a restaurant just outside of town instead. But small-town life held no lasting pull.
“I was more of a drinker than a thinker,” he admits. “I learned everything from the old guys I used to drink with at the bar after work. I’ll never forget what old Tommy said one day: ‘Work hard, make money and run.’ And that’s just what I did.”
O’Brien left for the Netherlands without a plan or a goodbye, and never looked back. “Yeah, they’d miss me for a day or two, but I knew they’d understand.” he says of his adoptive parents. “I just never fit in.”
The Netherlands taught O’Brien all he needed to know for a future career in growing weed. He remained in Rotterdam for three years, learning pot-growing and living day-to-day on meager rations. He made connections, learned the language and slowly networked his way into the weed-selling circles that Rotterdam offered.
It wasn’t until the spring of ’02, when a Czech woman by the name of Isa stole his heart, that he saw beyond the magic of Holland and left its graces to follow the girl of his dreams. “Isa. Just saying her name makes my heart beat faster,” O’Brien mutters almost inaudibly under his breath. He becomes subdued for several minutes, taking another shot of Stroh (his fourth) and chasing it with a beer out of his frothy Batman mug.
Warmed by the shot, he continues, “Isa’s a whole ’nother story. Let’s just say, I lost my lung right after I lost the love of my life.”
It happened on June 8, 2003, a year after he moved to Prague. He was hit by a tram after walking out of a Billa near náměstí Republiky. “Imagine this,” he recounts. “One minute you’re carrying some groceries across the tracks, and the next you’re smashed to a pulp by the number 3.”
O’Brien was rushed to the hospital, but it was too late to save his punctured lung, which collapsed on the ride to the ER. He suffered from two shattered kneecaps and a broken shoulder as well, all of which have been replaced by metal plates under his skin.
“Hey, I’m still alive. That’s all I could ask for,” says O’Brien with the optimistic attitude that has gotten him through life thus far. “If it wasn’t for the tram accident, I never would have found a reason to use my skills as a grower.” With hospital bills so staggering they could have collapsed his other lung, O’Brien stuck out his green thumb and got back to growing the one woman that would never let him down: Maryjane.
His drinking pal Honza, who frequents Bondy almost as much as O’Brien, stands at the foosball table fiercely spinning the illuminated men until his opponent is inevitably beaten while O’Brien rolls a joint on the table next to him. Honza is a local foosball legend who never fails at demolishing any challenger. Between points, he slips in an admiring, “George has the best homegrown around.”
The two men troop outside to smoke the J after Honza’s final victory. After only four exchanges, George bows out humbly. “One lung, ya’ know?”
O’Brien is a Prague classic: He lost love, a lung and his knees, but never his dignity and drive to survive in a world that abandoned him at birth. Jakub, Honza and other locals are his family now. As long as there’s an ice-cold Pilsner on tap, O’Brien is at peace.
By Nanci Tischler
George O’Brien isn’t Czech. He has lived in Prague 7’s grungy Holešovice district for nearly ten years, speaks four different languages and is a self-proclaimed alcoholic. He stands a lofty six-foot-five with jagged brown hair that sticks out at odd angles, as if he’s been wearing a winter hat for the past two years. His teeth have seen the wear and tear of thousands of cigarettes that he no longer smokes due to a tram accident that left him minus one lung and plus two metal kneecaps.
O’Brien’s manner is almost manic as he sits down with a beer in his personalized Batman mug, which he brings from home. He lets out a nervous guffaw before taking a swig and scratching the stubble that’s been accumulating for days. Steely blue eyes that look like they’ve seen a lifetime peer into the mug as he gulps down the last bit of his Pilsner and holds up his thumb to signal the bartender for another.
O’Brien is only 28 years old, but from the gaunt angles of his hollowed cheeks and decayed state of his fingernails, you would think he was past 40. He keeps one eye on you and the other on the door at all times. “I suffer from a case of mild paranoia,” he admits. “It’s only natural for a drug dealer.”
A full-time marijuana dealer and part-time DJ, O’Brien lives alone in a one-room flat off of Dělnická where he grows his own in the confines of a closet. It’s one block from a virtually unknown pub called Bondy Bar – which for O’Brien is an extension of his home.
Bondy is an exclusively local bar, easy to pass by unless you already know it. Those who do find solace in a hazy, brick-lined basement that houses nothing but a jukebox, bar and stools and a worn-down foosball table that is almost always in use. O’Brien is a constant fixture at Bondy, where he knows everyone on a first-name basis and treats the bartender like an old friend, because he is one.
Jakub, the bartender and owner of Bondy Bar, chuckles when he reminisces about O’Brien’s numerous drunken episodes over the years. “I used to leave the key for George to lock up, because he’d fall asleep on a bench some nights,” Jakub recalls. “We’d just leave him where he was until the morning.”
O’Brien showed up on Bondy’s doorstep in April of 2002, when he first moved to Prague from the Netherlands. He is a nomad by birth, an orphan from Ireland who grew up in Inistioge, a tiny riverfront village in County Kilkenny. He passed through the foster care system for years until a young couple took him in at the age of 15. “My foster mum was the kindest French woman who couldn’t have babies of her own,” he says. “So I stayed with them until I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
Family life didn’t sit well with O’Brien, who skipped school frequently, started drinking at the age of 12 and started smoking cigarettes even earlier. He dropped out of school for good in 1998and never told his fosterparents, John and Marie, spending his time busing tables at a restaurant just outside of town instead. But small-town life held no lasting pull.
“I was more of a drinker than a thinker,” he admits. “I learned everything from the old guys I used to drink with at the bar after work. I’ll never forget what old Tommy said one day: ‘Work hard, make money and run.’ And that’s just what I did.”
O’Brien left for the Netherlands without a plan or a goodbye, and never looked back. “Yeah, they’d miss me for a day or two, but I knew they’d understand.” he says of his adoptive parents. “I just never fit in.”
The Netherlands taught O’Brien all he needed to know for a future career in growing weed. He remained in Rotterdam for three years, learning pot-growing and living day-to-day on meager rations. He made connections, learned the language and slowly networked his way into the weed-selling circles that Rotterdam offered.
It wasn’t until the spring of ’02, when a Czech woman by the name of Isa stole his heart, that he saw beyond the magic of Holland and left its graces to follow the girl of his dreams. “Isa. Just saying her name makes my heart beat faster,” O’Brien mutters almost inaudibly under his breath. He becomes subdued for several minutes, taking another shot of Stroh (his fourth) and chasing it with a beer out of his frothy Batman mug.
Warmed by the shot, he continues, “Isa’s a whole ’nother story. Let’s just say, I lost my lung right after I lost the love of my life.”
It happened on June 8, 2003, a year after he moved to Prague. He was hit by a tram after walking out of a Billa near náměstí Republiky. “Imagine this,” he recounts. “One minute you’re carrying some groceries across the tracks, and the next you’re smashed to a pulp by the number 3.”
O’Brien was rushed to the hospital, but it was too late to save his punctured lung, which collapsed on the ride to the ER. He suffered from two shattered kneecaps and a broken shoulder as well, all of which have been replaced by metal plates under his skin.
“Hey, I’m still alive. That’s all I could ask for,” says O’Brien with the optimistic attitude that has gotten him through life thus far. “If it wasn’t for the tram accident, I never would have found a reason to use my skills as a grower.” With hospital bills so staggering they could have collapsed his other lung, O’Brien stuck out his green thumb and got back to growing the one woman that would never let him down: Maryjane.
His drinking pal Honza, who frequents Bondy almost as much as O’Brien, stands at the foosball table fiercely spinning the illuminated men until his opponent is inevitably beaten while O’Brien rolls a joint on the table next to him. Honza is a local foosball legend who never fails at demolishing any challenger. Between points, he slips in an admiring, “George has the best homegrown around.”
The two men troop outside to smoke the J after Honza’s final victory. After only four exchanges, George bows out humbly. “One lung, ya’ know?”
O’Brien is a Prague classic: He lost love, a lung and his knees, but never his dignity and drive to survive in a world that abandoned him at birth. Jakub, Honza and other locals are his family now. As long as there’s an ice-cold Pilsner on tap, O’Brien is at peace.