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From Bad to Worse

Sat, 21 Mar 2009 20:02:01 +0100

From Bad to Worse
(De Guatemala a Guatepeor)

It was summer of 1988 - the break before my senior year. I devised a plan wherein I could work on my Spanish and do some archival research in Guatemala and then visit El Salvador. Although I had spent six months in the region just two years earlier, the Salvadoran government was not issuing visas to North Americans at that time. In addition to wanting to get some first hand experience in the country on which I planned to focus my senior thesis, I hoped to check on the family of a Salvadoran co-worker. I was fully aware that both Guatemala and El Salvador were in the midst of ongoing insurgencies and that Americans were viewed suspiciously by both governments, but I had traveled extensively through the conflict-torn region before and since then had gained a lot of knowledge concerning where actual dangers may lie. I left California feeling really excited about improving my language skills in Guatemala and finally getting to see El Salvador.
Flying into Guatemala City felt like a luxury. The last time I arrived in the city it was after a grueling twelve hour bus trip from the jungles of the northeastern part of the country aboard the traditional inter-city Guatemalan transport; a second hand American school bus. As an elementary school student I usually biked or got a ride to class, so I can say with confidence that I have spent way more time in those boxy yellow busses in Guatemala than I ever did in Long Beach. Bus trips in the country could always be counted on for unplanned entertainment. Bodies were packed so tightly that when a fellow passenger dropped an orange none of us who were squished into a seat away from the aisle could move our arms enough to reach down to retrieve it. Instead we all took part in a sort of impromptu seated soccer match in an attempt to return the fruit, while the bus rocked and swayed with the curves of the mountainous roads.
This time I was treated to an aerial view of the metropolis that I would call home for the next month. From this vantage point I was able to see the miles of shantytowns that spread from the downtown core and blanketed the steep canyons with corrugated tin and plastic tarps. Having previously become familiar with the city’s center, and even having developed a fondness of certain haunts, I had considered myself a sort of insider in Guatemala City. This panorama of ramshackle tenements as far as the eye could see forced a realization that I knew little of this town. I would gain some more humility when I discovered that my host family’s residence was a ninety minute series of bus rides from the centro and the school.
The language school was no ordinary institute for wayward gringos. Named after the assassinated archbishop of San Salvador, Monseñor Óscar Arnulfo Romero, the school employed relatives of displaced and disappeared persons and placed students in the homes of members of the Mutual Support Group (GAM), a grassroots organization begun by family members of the disappeared. At the time it was relatively new to use the verb “to disappear” in a transitive form, but it was already common in the Spanish dialects of Guatemala, El Salvador, Chile and Argentina. The family with whom I lived while in Guatemala (Ernesto and Mónica and their children Beatríz and Tomás) had lost two family members. Mónica’s two brothers, one a lawyer and the other a university professor, had been taken from their places of employment by men in uniform and never seen again. As was typical neither the army nor the police admitted to having records of their arrest and claimed to have no knowledge of their whereabouts. The families were left to mourn without any real knowledge of what happened to them and whether or not they were alive.
I took me a while to find this out. I had been staying with the family for about two weeks when I went into the center of the city one Saturday to watch a scheduled protest march organized by GAM and other activist groups. I was surprised by the number of marchers - men and women of all ages, including children - and the protest’s solemn progress through the streets of downtown under the watchful eyes of the very army that most Guatemalans believed to be responsible for the disappearances. I followed the protest as the marchers, many carrying signs with pictures of their missing family members and the words “¿Donde está?” made their way past quiet crowds of onlookers. I took photos with the camera I had borrowed from a friend in California. It was the first time in a long while that I had used a real 35mm camera with a telephoto lens. I imagined myself a photojournalist bringing to light the suffering caused by Reagan’s client governments in Central America. I even got a shot of a man I recognized - the father of a disappeared woman who was featured on an anti-war poster which hung in my host family’s home. I got nervous when I zoomed in on the government soldiers as the march passed by the central army barracks. Real journalists got shot down here.
On my bus ride back to the house I was surprised to see Mónica waving to me from a few seats up. I waved back and then began to stress about the third beer I had drunk before getting on the bus. So far I had been careful not to be noticeably inebriated around my hosts. It wasn’t so much out of fear of appearing drunk as it was me feeling uncomfortable at being able to squander the equivalent of several days’ wages on beer. As I approached Mónica waiting for me after stepping down from the bus, I focused on appearing as sober as possible. We said hello and I asked where she was coming from. “The protest, same as you,” she replied. On one hand I was embarrassed that I hadn’t noticed her there, but I was also ashamed that after two weeks of living under her roof I was just now getting around to asking her about her connection with the school and the families of the disappeared.
Under a light rain we shared my umbrella as we walked the muddy road to the house and she told me the story of her brothers’ disappearances. First her oldest brother, the professor, disappeared after several arrests. The army had accused him of having ties to an indigenous armed opposition movement - an accusation leveled at almost anyone teaching at the university. Her younger brother, the lawyer, began looking into the case. Not long after he was taken from his office and had not been seen since. As we walked I thought not only of the terror that this sort of oppression sows amongst the people of a country, but also of the way in which Mónica and thousands of others like her continued to carry on with life never knowing the fate of their loved ones and never receiving recognition from the government.
Two weeks later I was still thinking about these families as I prepared to leave for El Salvador. From a human rights perspective the situation in Guatemala was bad and seemingly getting worse - de Guatemala a Guatepeor as they say - but much of the violence went unseen. In the parlance of the pentagon, the Guatemalan situation qualified as a “low intensity conflict,” meaning that only one side was actually armed.
In Guatemala the conflict stemmed from the CIA-directed coup against democratically elected president Jacobo Árbenz in 1954. Leftist intellectuals and activists had gone underground to avoid imprisonment and execution, while indigenous groups continued to agitate for the agrarian reform initiated by the Árbenz government. Eventually the military perceived anyone left of Hitler or any indigenous activist as a threat and a legitimate target for repression. This had continued for over thirty years and had claimed the lives of tens of thousands, but the victims were often invisible.
The conflict in El Salvador, on the other hand, could not be overlooked. When, in 1979 and 1980, all democratic political space was closed by a well funded Salvadoran military which supported the small ruling class, the political opposition armed itself and began organizing the rural folk and poor urban workers. By the end of 1980 the armed faction of the opposition political parties, known as the FMLN (Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional) came close to overwhelming the army before the US frantically delivered military hardware and supplies - in violation of a congressional ban - and since then the conflict continued as an all-out civil war. Heavily funded by the United States (only Israel received more military aid during the Reagan administration), the Salvadoran army employed the most gruesome of methods in their fight against the rebels. A common tactic was “draining the sea” in which local populations were decimated in an attempt to rob the FMLN of its supporters. In ten years the war had claimed the lives of 70,000 people, most of them civilians. (It’s helpful to draw a comparison to the US; the equivalent would be 3 million Americans - everyone in San Diego and San Francisco combined.)
So although I knew I was sort of traveling from the frying pan into the fire, I also knew that things were relatively quiet in El Salvador. The FMLN had gained control of certain sections of the countryside and the army worked to keep urban elites safe in the cities. The borders were open and busses were running. Besides, it was only for a week or two.
I was immediately impressed by the bus company which ran the route from Guatemala City to San Salvador, the capital. The bus looked pretty similar to an actual Greyhound in the States and had a just-washed sparkle. The message painted on the door noted that the company was proudly Salvadoran. The twisting ride through jungle, then over green mountains and down through the important trading towns of northern El Salvador was a comfortable one, with only a few bags thoroughly searched at the border. As we neared the capital a steady rain began to fall. By the time we arrived at the station just off the central square the rain had become a heavy downpour and the streets were frothy creeks. Although the walk to my destination hotel wasn’t long, my rain jacket was soaked through within minutes, as the black sheets of rain continued to pour down. I paused at the far corner of the square when another traveler stopped me to ask for help with a map. The man, holding a limp umbrella in one hand and a sodden tour book printed in Japanese in the other, asked which corner of the square we were on while pointing at the map in his book. The Japanese characters through me off, but I took a guess and pointed. When we turned and walked off on our separate paths I was unaware that I wouldn’t see another traveler for the next week.
My plan was to poke around San Salvador for a few days before going up to Sensuntepeque (usually referred to as just Sensunte) in the mountains near the Honduran border. I worked with a Salvadoran man, Alfredo, at a restaurant in Santa Cruz. A short, stocky thirty year old with a wide Indian face, he was the hardest working dishwasher I knew, working two other jobs and sending money to his family near Sensunte. It had been four years since he left El Salvador and he asked me to check on his mother and son daughter. They lived in a small village called Victoria, high in the mountains and not connected by phone. Not only did it seem to be a nice thing to do, but it offered the excitement of a trip to what was pretty much guerrilla territory. Realizing this was a little dodgy I figured a couple days in the capital to settle in would be a good idea.
The next morning I set out with camera in hand to find the puerta del diablo, a viewpoint from which one could see the surrounding valleys. It was also notorious for being a dumping ground for the victims of death squads, but I was by no means interested in any gruesome finds. I never made it there. I hadn’t walked far from the central plaza when I was stopped by a man in uniform - National Guard I think - who asked me where I was going. I nervously explained that I was going for the view. This was of no interest to him; he wanted to see some ID. I had purposely left my passport in my hotel room for safekeeping. Apparently this was not a wise decision, as I was angrily told to retrieve it before I did any sightseeing in his city. My next move was simple - go back to the hotel and maybe stay there. Something in his demeanor suggested I was safer off the street.
Just a few blocks away I was greeted with a bizarre sight as a short parade of cars and floats - even a couple beauty queens - passed through the muddy streets. From aggressive cops to a parade and everyone I passed looking at me funny, I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable. I was only a few blocks from the hotel when I ran into a full fledged protest march headed up by a cadre from the state employees union. I decided to let the passport wait and get some pictures - again truly just imaging myself a photographer. Looking back I think that as much as anything I was really using the camera as an implied boundary between myself and others, a way to avoid real contact while creating an excuse for me to be there.
Unlike the march in Guatemala, there were no quiet onlookers or solemnity among the marchers. Men with hoods and masks, protected by guys armed with two-by-fours, ran along side the fast moving march gluing posters to walls and windows while others used spray paint to demand an end to the repression and violence. Meanwhile I seemed to be one of very few non-participants following the march as most passersby avoided any outward sign of either support or opposition. They would walk by, eyes pointed directly in front of them, as if nothing was happening. From the large crowd of union activists leading the march came a voice amplified by a bull horn demanding freedom for union leaders as the others chanted, “El pueblo unido jamás será vencido.”
I was shooting photos of protesters affixing posters to a broad green wall when two men approached me and asked me what I was doing there. Obviously part of the march, they asked for the passport I had yet to retrieve, grimaced at my reply, and told me to stop taking pictures. Regardless of my support for the cause, they said, I could never be sure who might end up with my film. I complied until minutes later, when I came upon a group of men with spray cans in action. I could not pass up the opportunity. This time the security detail came with two-by-fours in hand and angrily repeated their opposition to any close-up photos. Now frightened and convinced, I put the camera in my shoulder bag and continued following alongside the march.
I would be lying to say I stayed with them only to demonstrate my support for the group, as several others were now doing. The truth is that after being seen with the protest I worried for my safety walking alone to the hotel. An hour later, as the protest became a mild-mannered sit-in at the federal government building, I changed out the telephoto lens for a wide angle one and took a few distant shots before finally walking back to the hotel - occasionally looking over my shoulder, just in case.
Later, the roll of film hidden amongst socks in my pack and passport securely on my person, I calmed my nerves over beers at a local cantina. I was really enjoying the Salvadoran tradition of complementary snacks - bocaditos - served with each beer. Some places even had several options to choose from. I found that if I drank enough beer there was no need for an actual meal. Around beer number seven, nerves now quieted, I finished the plan for leaving the capital the next day. I was spooked and figured the sooner I got away the better. The next morning I was on a bus to Sensunte.
Going anywhere in El Salvador requires going up or down. Smaller than the state of Massachusetts, the elevation climbs from sea level on the coast to 9,000 feet in its sixty-mile width. In my case the bus made a long winding ascent through the verdant hills and lush forests of the country and in less than four hours I was deposited just off the shady central plaza of the town. After the noisy capital, the quiet narrow streets and mellow square fronted by a colonial church were welcome changes. I settled into a small hotel off the square, and then went in search of Alfredo’s brother, Raúl. As the Catholic priest of the town, he wasn’t difficult to find. We made plans to drive up to Victoria to see Alfredo’s family the next day. As night fell, the cool mountain air was a calming change and the white cotton sheets of the hotel bed - hand washed and line dried - were a welcome sight.
After a peaceful night it wasn’t long before I was again in a state of panic. And once again the camera invited the trouble. While waiting on the square for Raúl, I started taking photos of an army squad practicing marching routines. I felt like the imposing image of the soldiers with the backdrop of a shady central plaza would make for a good composition. Within minutes I was confronted by a rifle-toting soldier and his commander telling me that photography was not allowed. I wasn’t about to argue, but the commander didn’t leave it at that. He wanted my film so he could develop it and examine the photos. This was a fresh roll of film - not the one from the San Salvador protest march - but there were some shots other than these soldiers marching in formation. Earlier in the morning I’d noticed American-made attack helicopters flying in and out of a base behind a nearby mountain. Again I was thinking about militarism in a tranquil setting when I shot the photos. With the commander staring me in the face I was imagining his interpretation of those photos as something completely different. Maybe intelligence for the guerrillas? It was like an involuntary reaction to pop open the camera back and expose the entire roll to the light. The commander realized that I had ruined the film, but he took the roll anyway. I decided to wait for Raúl at his office.
The trip up to up to the village of Victoria helped calm my nerves - true even traveling on a road essentially controlled by the FMLN. The army wouldn’t admit that, but Raúl noted that it had been months since the military had ventured east of town. In Victoria we spent some time with Alfredo’s mother and his children, took some family photos and started back for Sensunte. When I told Raúl I was planning on leaving town the next day he frowned. Then he told me that he’d heard there was a paro planned for the next few days.
Paro was a term used for transportation stoppages that were occasionally called by the FMLN as a means to sabotage the economy and also to demonstrate popular support for the guerrillas. Practically speaking, driving during a paro implied support for the military in their brutal campaign against the FMLN. In most areas outside of the capital and the beaches nothing moved for days that wasn’t painted olive drab. There was also an understanding that any vehicle on the road was a legitimate target for the guerrillas. It didn’t happen often, but semi trucks and military convoys had been attacked in the past. Buses were stopped, their passengers removed, and the busses burned. By conviction I was not going to travel during a paro, but those attacks helped ensure I wouldn’t change my mind. I resigned myself to a few extra days in Sensunte.
Later that night, back at my hotel, the idea of staying in town for a few days became a lot less comfortable. Another hotel guest, a Salvadoran man, started up a conversation with me as we watched the sky darken from the hotel’s balcony. “You’re American, yes?” he asked. When I agreed he continued, “I’ve been to the United States. Georgia. Fort Benning.” My heart sank. It had been rumored that covert training of Salvadoran intelligence officers was taking place in the US, but this was for real. It got worse. “I work for army intelligence; I was assigned to you when you entered the country.” I suddenly felt like I was watching our conversation from afar; a witness to the surreal. He told me that he his training taught him to trust no one and that he didn’t trust me. For some reason I just continued to carry on a pleasant conversation with the man, changing the subject to his feelings about Georgia (he didn’t have many - he was forced to stay on base) and asking him about the paro (it had officially been called at six that afternoon). I didn’t really hear a thing he said for the next few minutes and I was happy when the conversation just faded to nothing and I could comfortably excuse myself.
The next morning I awoke to the sound of a chopper circling close by. I didn’t get out of bed as it continued to circle, but I could see its shadow glide across the yellow curtains. That’s fucking low, what are they trying to do, scare me? I fought the paranoia that said this was all about me. After all, choppers hover like this over parts of LA. And there isn’t a war going on there - at least not this kind. Shakily, I got dressed and ready to leave my room. I fully expected uniforms to be waiting outside. This wasn’t the case, but my friend, the intelligence officer, stopped me on the way out of the hotel to say hi and remind me that he was keeping an eye on me. If so, he watched me walk directly to the corner cantina and order a beer, the first of many.
I was sort of becoming a regular there so it wasn’t unusual to strike up a conversation with the owner’s son, a young, round, jovial man about my age. Never bringing up the nine a.m. beer, he asked about my trip to Victoria. He mentioned the danger that road could pose. He mentioned that only a few people were guaranteed safety up there. People like Raúl, the local doctor, himself. I shot him a questioning glance. “Yeah, I arranged a deal with the guerrillas.” Except he didn’t use arreglar, to arrange, but colaborar, a word I’d never heard used in Spanish, but one I easily understood. And three months ago, anticipating this trip in the comfort of Santa Cruz, this would have been a dream conversation - an opening to a contact with an FMLN source. The kind of thing that makes a thesis publishable. As it was it felt like a trap. I tried my best to appear as if I didn’t understand the comment - or care to.
Later that day I walked the half mile to a smaller church where Raúl was giving a service. I sort of had this idea to tell him about the situation, see what he had to say. I sat down on the steps in front of the bright yellow chapel and waited for the service to end. I watched as a chopper flew down from the mountains, bank right towards the church and pass in front of me, then circle around behind the building and slow to a hover as it came into view directly in front of me. There was a machine gun mounted in the doorway and a helmeted soldier behind it. The barrel of the gun was pointed down to the side, but the soldier turned his head towards me, lifted his face shield and smiled. After what seemed like hours the chopper ascended, swung around to the left and soon disappeared over the hills.
Again I tried to calmly analyze what had just happened, but there was no use. Frightened of remaining out in the open and not sure that it was a good idea to bring Raúl into what could be a paranoid delusion, I headed to the hotel, stopping for a bottle of rum on the way. If you’ve ever been so anxious that a fair bit of hard alcohol provides not even a mild buzz, then you know how I felt. I sat on the old wooden chair in my room, feet on the bed and a tin cup full of rum in my hand and weighed my options. There weren’t many. Subconsciously it occurred to me that I felt safest when drunk, and subconsciously a decision was made. I spent the next few hours at the cantina, passed some time playing lotería on the square and called it a night.
I awoke the next morning to find the paro still in effect and my friend the intelligence officer eyeing me from across the hotel’s patio. I still couldn’t say that any of the threats I felt were real. The chopper pilots could just be having fun, the collaborator just being friendly, the intelligence guy just doing his job. But I couldn’t buy everything just being a coincidence. I passed the day drinking beer and making trips to the telephone office to check for an open international line. Sometime after dark the operator was able to get a line to the US. I didn’t want to sound hysterical or frightened, I just wanted someone to know where I was in case I didn’t make it out. I reached my girlfriend, Denise, in Santa Cruz and told her about seeing Alfredo’s family, about the protest in San Salvador, about the paro and being stuck in Sensunte. The connection didn’t last long, but I said what I needed to. A sort of inner peace came over me as I stepped into the lotería tent.
I was able to leave the next morning - the paro was called off at midnight - and got on the first bus to San Salvador and from there caught a bus to Guatemala. There’s a scene in the Oliver Stone film, Salvador, where the journalist character, played by James Woods, improbably makes it to the Guatemalan border while in San Salvador a general signs his death warrant. At the border he is beaten and turns over coveted rolls of 35mm film to his tormentors before his life is saved by a last minute call from the ambassador. Although that scene played in my mind as we were ordered off the bus on the Salvadoran side and searched before entering Guatemala, the crossing was uneventful. Five hours later I was having a beer at my favorite Guatemala City bar and telling a friend about my experience.
Amy wasn’t just a friend, but also a colleague - if you can have colleagues as an undergraduate. She and I were both studying Latin American political economy at UC Santa Cruz, but we often had different takes on things. I found her pushing the limits of structural analysis when we discussed Central American politics, while I wanted to focus on glaring injustices and popular responses that were succeeding. This conversation, however, found us in agreement. She had recently had a near-miss situation while working with a UC professor in the highlands. We talked about the overwhelming fear and complete panic we experienced - the realization that we may not be getting out of this alive. We talked about being able to meet for draft beer at El Portal after having walked away unharmed. We talked about our return tickets that would take us back to the activist intelligentsia of Santa Cruz. We talked about the fact that all these things - except for the fear and panic - were not available to the people of Central America. That we had experienced this thing like tourists of misery; white kids with liberal guilt weighing heavy enough to lead us willingly into war zones. Ultimately we agreed that even with our harrowing experiences, we would never know the reality of life here and that in learning more we came to know less.

skyhigh

Wed, 04 Mar 2009 08:44:18 +0100

General idea
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>> we follow the main character (name?), while he informs us that he killed an asshole, who really deserved to be killed. main character gets convicted of murder, is sent to prison and World War III breaks out. Everybody is sooo exited about the war and convinced that its really the right thing to do. Last scene should be something like: Francis visits main character in prison. Francis complains about the draft and that he will have to go to war. main characters ends conversation with something like: "Francis I'll leave you right here, because I don't talk to murderers!"

You get the idea? What happens if somebody kills an asshole, gets send to prison, while the world is about the slaughter itsself. Do we consider this person a wise man? Who is the murderer? - the main character or his friend francis (placeholder for all men going to war)? By public definition the main character is a murderer, but Francis is not considered a murderer, because he is "authorized" to kill hundreds or more "enemies" in combat.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***** 1. Illusions *****

(elaborate a bit more about the guy that has been killed by the main character. the "victim" was a real asshole and deserved to die. everybody would agree on this)

"Tensions are getting higher and the stakes on both side are stretched to the max. The americans are not gonna sit still and watch while some fucked up emerging, asian nations conglomerate is sucking the world dry of petrol!" Francis was angry. I could tell. His head was red and started turning purple. I smiled and watched a woman in a fancy working dress pass by.
"Hey, Francis! Listen! The political situation is of no importance to me. Its gonna get solved somehow, anyhow." I said, preparing my real statement, which was the reason we were sitting in this cafe. "I killed this guy. We both know he was a fucking idiot. Nobody liked him. Everybody hated him. Even his own mother. He sold drugs, he cut women. He was a lunatic. His dayjob was just a deceptive facade!" I started to get into this. "What I really need right now is some help." looking deeply into his eyes, hoping for some remorse. He turned his head, teeth grinding. I could tell he was considering the situation. He fumbled for a cigarette, ignition, taking a deep breath. "Look dude, the world is going to hell. That's a fact. People in charge are way to busy to lock you up for this!" he was trying to be cool. Obviously it was my ass hanging out of the window, not his. This was a waste of time. Francis used to be a good one, but he must have been manipulated years ago by common sense. I tossed five bugs on the table and got up. Wrapping my hand around the exit door knob, I turned around: "You know, what works best in wartimes? Its bureaucracy!"

***** 2. xxx *****

(A SIDE STORY EXPLAINING HOW THE WAR STARTED)

Hopped up and sweaty, Paddy McCoughlin tripped on a cable on his way to the podium. He farted. Normally he moved with that strange grace that large men seem to have. But today, with waddles of fat jiggling like petulant children that grace was nowhere to be seen. "Doesn't matter," said Hank. "He'll have their panties wet by the end." The room full of equally sweaty middle managers seemed eager to forgive the mans crudeness, averting their eyes doveishly: Paddy McCoughlin was still who they wanted to be.

Paddy McCoughlin was Americas most loved, feared and hated demogoge. He is the type of man who starts wars. And now, brimming with righteous indignation, and a raging hard on to destroy those fuckers who made him feel small, he has.

He tapped the microphone. And then he beamed. His smile was almost beautiful.

* * *

It wasn't a hard sell. The flyover country had always served as a deep resevoir of anger, tapped every 20 years or so by a man like McCoughlin. Most communities tell stories to themselves, more fiction than fact, but the stories represent an aspiration. For a long time, these midwestern and southern communities told tales that involved a helping hand for someone who was down. Or how everybody pitched in to sandbag the river in flood. But lately you'd hear more about the illegal immigrants stealing jobs. About the muslim kid in the next county who stabbed a teacher. Gillespie down in Alabama. Terre Haute, far across the plains in Kansas. A thousand other towns ripening. Readying to do something about the enemies in their midst. Into this picture came Coughlin, first on the radio, and then with his fraught appearances at Nascar rallies.

***** 3.xx *****

A group of five or more seven-year-olds made their way through the supermarket. Armed with plastic rifles and dressed in camouflage jackets. They reminded me of Foday Sankoh's child soldiers - no remorse, cruel and doomed for live. The perfect weapon ready to be tossed into action. I had to cover my ears when they ran by.

Dazed and confused I tried to focus on my initial task. These days it was hard to find a sixpack on the shelf, because of all the Pro-American stickers, which practically covered the whole thing. German export beer could not be found so I settled for the first sixpack I could get hold of. I paid and while driving home I thought about how pathetic I was. "I can see it coming, they wont let loose and here I am drinking this shit while I should be enjoying the fruits of live." Even drugs are not affordable. If you could get hold of some. "Seems like the dealers rather use it themselves, than share it and ease the pain."

-- warrant and arrest / forcefully by police cars

***** 4.xx *****

-- conviction

***** 5.xx *****

-- war breaks out & patriotism

-- prisons still work

-- Francis's visit in prision / he got drafted / "I'm not talking to murderers"

Broadsword calling Danny Boy

Sun, 02 Nov 2008 00:56:59 +0100

We were hanging out at Pete's place. Tom was watching some dumb ass TV show.

The fridge was stuffed with beer -- cheap american crap that tasted like water from a clogged toilet. But what the hell? I needed to get the edge off and fight back my incredible horniness. Getting a good drunk on would do the trick. That was preferable to my fall back: downing a half a six-pack and enjoying loudly a little lonely but frictional time with Mr. Right.

While checking out the sad selection of brew, I discretely checked Pete's "special" compartment in the freezer. His inventory drew an immediate reaction: my blood pressure hit the floor and my mood instantly lifted. If I could scarf a teeny bit of Pete's Harry Jones by night's end, I'd be floating for hours. Pete's shit was always that good.

I snatched a beer off the shelf with a snap to my step and cracked open the top. The whoosh of carbonation escaped. I took a swig and remembered why I was here. The exigencies of my day hadn't turn out as planned. But do they ever for addicts? The dissemination of information would be necessary, requiring the use of language, and therefore my mouth. I downed the rest of the beer and then grabbed another. I could feel my jaw losening up.

The deal turned out to be more sophisticated than we'd expected. I suppose it didn't help that I made it more complicated by trying to close it while coming down from a speedball. Or the Poppers. Maybe it was the crank.

I started to speak up but Pete burst in the apartment through the front door. Like so often, he had the common sense to show up drunk. I was jealous. He must have been four beers ahead of me. Knowing him, it wasn't on cheap American fecal water.

"I thought you were in Atlanta", Pete said, banging against the couch in a jocular way.

Tom grunted, but it was hard to tell if the genesis of the grunt was from Pete's bump or the fountain of blood erupting from the hairy samurai villian on TV.

I sat down. "Brandeis has to look at the new contract. 'Til then, I'm out."

Pete said nothing, but then again, that was his way.

Tom fell into giggling at the TV. I looked at the screen. An ashen-faced Chinese boy had tears streaming down his face.

"Why is that funny?" I asked.

"Because it's a comedy, you dumb fuck." Tom kept giggling, unable to turn away from the screen, even when the phone rang.

In an instant, Pete snatched the receiver off the hook. Pete's always been quick for a drunk. "Anti-Osmosis Corporation, this Pete speakin'. How may I direct your call?"

It always amazed me how smooth Pete could be, even tanked up. I guess that's why he was able to swing owning his house and cobbling together deals that seemed doomed from the onset but that usually played and payed out well.

"Danny? " Pete's head tracked my way and he gave me a curious smile. " Why yes ma'am, he is here. One moment please."

Pete gave me a girlish wink and handed me the phone.

"Pete knows, doesn't he?" I instantly recognized the female voice. It was Susan.

"Knows what", I asked, then looked over to Tom who was still glued to the TV. "Just a second," I said into the phone. "Tom could you get me a beer? Please?"

Tom didn't move or act as if he heard me. So I did what any abnormal person would do: I pitched my empty beer bottle at his head, hitting his noggin with major league percision. Tom fell to the floor howling. "What the fuck! Why did you do that?"

"Don't be a whiner. I said, please. Can you get me a beer please? Look: I'm on the phone."

Tom looked to Pete and Pete looked to me with the phone against my ear. "Danny's got a point," Pete said. Those simple words sealed the deal. Tom finally got off his ass and headed into the kitchen.

From the phone I heard Susan say "You can be such a sick dick."

"I know. I can't help it. It's my condition."

"Pete must know you've fucked up. If I were you, I'd get out of there and lay low the next few days."

"Would you now?" I took the beer handed to me by Tom and was surprised he even had the decency to pop the top before handing it over.

Susan droned on: "The Mexicans won't do business until the dust clears. Our window of opportunity will close within the next twenty four hours."

The melodrama was thick in her voice. But if I told her so, she'd no doubt translate "how melodrmatic" into "what a twat". That would not be a misunderstanding, but it would get me nowhere. No blowjobs, no randy, loud, wild sex in some cheap hotel room. You could even forget about boring straight sex that wouldn't even make her Priest blink or touch himself inappropriately in the confessional. I let her go on.

" If we don't find a buyer within that timespan, we should all just lie down and stop breathing."

I stiffled a laugh and pictured just that: all of us on the floor of Pete's living room with brand new tennis shoes. Pete would be passing out rubber bands, plastic shopping bags, and 10 tablets apiece of phenobarbital. Barber's famous Adagio would be on the sound system. But I couldn't quite picture the phenobarbital chaser. Brandy or Cognac might work. But something bit more celebratory would be better. Champagne, perhaps. Yes: Chapagne. After downing the 10 tabs of phenobarbital, we could have a nice glass of the Grand Dame, and then we would move on to hugging and shaking hands, saying good-bye, and covering our heads with the plastic bags, and finally fitting the rubber bands around our necks before reclining into a restful sleep. Minutes afterwards we could prove Susan right as we moved on to oblivion.

"I'm just trying to help," she said. I appreciated her concern, but there was no way she could help me. Not now. "Thanks for the heads up. I'll call you later," I said. Then I hung up and finished my beer.

"Where is the gemütlichkeit?" I said too loudly. Tom actually looked up from the TV at me. "Have you looked up your ass lately?" he asked. I guess I deserved that response. I wondered how I had gotten us into this. No one acted scared, then again, why should they? They had no idea. Unless Susan was right. Maybe Pete did know.

Tom kept giggling, watching the show. "You've gotta watch part two, I'll just tell you two things: One: testicles. Two: a piece of string!" His giggling was really getting on my nerves. He turned up the volume. Japanese synth pop with weepy strings.

Somehow Pete had made it to the front window and was peeking through the curtains down on the street outside: pure barrio at the intersection of crib and crap.

Pete glanced back at me and asked: "Hey, Danny boy. Shouldn't you have parked the truck somewhere else?"

I tried to move my jaw to speak, but it was still not working right. Before I could answer, Tom switched off the TV and looked up at me. "You parked it out front? Smooth move, dumb shit."

"Listen ass wipe, " I suavely responded. "If you know of a better parking spot, then have at it." I threw Tom the keys to the truck. The dim wit caught them by his forehead with a loud "ouch!"

"We've got to think about this," Pete said, turning away from the curtains and pulling out a plastic baggy from his shirt pocket. Pete moved to the coffee table and poured out a nice long line of cocaine from his baggy. He cleaned up the line with a Sears credit card, and gave me a short glance. "What did Susan say about the value of the truck load?"

Nobody of us knew excatly what was in the truck. We didn't care. We were a value team -- only caring about price points. The Mexicans wanted the truck. They told us they would pay big if we delivered -- more than our usual fee. Only this time, rather than stealing a truck and bringing it north across the border, the order was to steal a truck and take it south across the border.

We just wanted to steal one to sell it to the mexicans, who right now didn't want it anymore. Susan had informed me about the cargo. She told me what it was and that its probably tagged with a tracking device. Back then I was still calm and wondered why she knew all this stuff. I often marveled what was more worrisome -- her past or my future. Right now I know exactly which one of us is doomed. I could already hear the FEDs knocking at our door.

"She said 2 Million." Pete looked up, snorting. "Well then lets get to work." He was half down the hallway when he finished the sentence. I took a quick snort and followed him into the blinding sunlight.
_____________________________________________

The way Pete acted when leaving our house I figured that both of them would be capable of taking care of the truck. I had to see Susan. Ten minutes taxi drive, banging the bell for another five and her sister opened the door. Susan and Cherry shared the house of their grandmother. From the looks I could instantly tell that she had a long night. Her face showed a slight sign of recognition when she saw me. "Come on in." she uttered in a voice that was about to crack in the middle of the sentence. She turned around and made her way back into the house. "Susan 's not here." - that caught my attention. I was standing in the middle of the living room or what I identified as such. This place was quickly heading down the drain - getting worse every time I got here.

I tried to figure out my next step, but I was running high on cocain and the way Cherry wriggled on the sofa, only dressed in a slip and a bra, turned a knob in my head. The premordial parts of my brain took over. The way Cherry enjoyed the next half hour, told me that she felt the same. The sex was furious and out of this world. I got dressed and used the kitchen sink to splash some cold water into my face. My head started to clear a bit. Regret and pity for myself boiled up to anger and I felt the need to hurt someone. The natural choice was to leave Cherry twisted on the couch in the living room without a gesture or word of compassion. The dream of every married man - leaving home like that in the morning. The thought just made my day. She was a woman, she was ment to be hurt by that. I just couldn't figure out who felt more pain - me or her. At least she could take it, like she always did.

On my way out I checked their clipboard. A single note informed me that Susan had a meeting with some guy called Raúl in the evening. I snatched the keys for Susan's pickup truck. She wouldn't mind.

When I stepped outside I noticed that the sunshine wasn't that blinding anymore, not like an hour ago, when I left Pete's place. It took me a minute to notice that I had my sunglasses still on. "Did I even wear them, when banging Cherry?" the question spun around in my head. I got in the truck and turned on the radio. One of Susan's CDs was in. Pink Floyd's "Crazy Diamond" - I recognized the melody almows instantly. "What a way to start the day" I said to the guy in the rear mirror who drove Susan's truck down the driveway heading for down town.
_____________________________________________

My thoughts drifted away for a minute. I felt suspicious. The paranoid feeling when having consumed too much dope. A battered truck came speeding down the boulevard, honking, pedestrians screaming, police cars in pursuit. I waited dutifully in front of the red traffic light and slipped a little bit deeper to be covered by the dashboard while the parade passed by. Something hit the hood and the car went dead. Sparks where dancing around a little metallic bolt. I jumped out of the car. "What the f...?" "I've seen this before!" "Pete?"

This day was getting worse than I expected. I gave Pete a call on his mobile. He answered: "Hi this is Pete. Sorry I'm kinda busy right now! If you've got a solution for getting rid of a dozen police cars chasing my ass then go ahead, share the knowledge with me. Otherwise fuck off!" He hang up. "Well getting rid of cops, love to do that" I headed to the trunk of Susan's truck, which was now a big speed bumper that had been disabled by a misguided taser projectile. I had no idea whether the cops or Pete had been shooting these things around. I figured the cops would be more skilled and gave Tom the credit for this. The trunk sprung open. "Susan, I love you!" I took the shotgun, turned around and tried to find myself a new car.

... to be continued (hell yeah)

About Mr. Boltry

Thu, 16 Oct 2008 02:17:20 +0200

Reginald Boltry rocketed upright, straight out of sleep, with a smile on his face. He spent a few momemts catching his breath, letting the blood return to his brain, while reveling in his favorite Ethel Merman dream. For Roger, there was little else better in life than being woken up by Ethel belting out at a fortondoando level: “Butt cheese in the morning! Then just walk away!” Butt cheese! Not likely. More like squalid ooze of unkown origin that had been left out in the sun for too long. But Reginald liked grandmas. All his best lovers were older than 70.

Roger threw back the sheets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His dream was not only refreshing and exhilarating, it was downright as sexy as grandma butter. He wanted to feel just like he did now for the remainder of his day, but he knew the chances of that happening were about as good as him becoming as fat as Ethel Merman before she had her last turkey drumstick. Not that he was thin, just not fat enough. He dreamed of carrying 350 pounds [how many stone is that?], but no matter how much he ate, he never could tip the scales beyond 300.

Roger sat on the edge of the bed and thought about leaving a note for his loved ones: “If I ever get as fat as Ethel, please ensure you get insurance on me before cutting the brake lines; careening around a tight bend and tumbling off a cliff into the Atlantic might not be a bad way to go. Unfortunately, if I am fat as Ethel and I survive the impact, I’ll probably float. So, to be certain for certain, craft and install a device in the driver’s seat that deploys under high-load, high-g situations – a device that will ram five sharp, high amperage electrical suppositories deep into my rectum. If the water doesn’t get me, the zapping will. “

Not even two minutes into his day, and Roger could feel his mood shifting south. He had no loved ones -- no one to read his missive, no matter how inane.

All the bad decisions he had ever made in his life seemed to collect before him like a game of short straws. Why did he choose France? He could have gone to Riga and been free and clear, and Riga babes were hot, hungry, and eager to please older guys with rigs like his.

Mann sprich Tacheles!

Sun, 28 Sep 2008 20:20:42 +0200

Michael
-------------------------------------------------
Montag morgen. Ich betätige den Aufzug. "Einmal fünfter Stock bitte sehr!", murmel ich vor mich hin. Ich beobachte mich im Spiegel des Fahrstuhls. Der neue Anzug sieht super aus. Ich genieße noch einen Moment den Anblick meines Spiegelbilds, dann bin ich im richtigen Stockwerk angekommen. Ab jetzt beginnt meine Morgenroutine. Tür auf, Eintreten, und den langen Flur entlang zu meinem Büro. Das Ende des Gangs ist mit einem Fenster versehen, was meinen letzten Schritten etwas sakrales verleiht. Mein "Office" ist spartanisch eingerichtet. Ich mag das so! Großer Schreibtisch auf der gegenüberliegenden Seite zur Tür. Dahinter zwei große Doppelfenster, die bis zum Boden gehen. Ich lege meine Sachen ab, stecke mein Notebook in die Docking-Station und schalte es ein. Anschließend mache ich mich auf den Weg zur Kaffemaschine. Ein kurzer Blick auf die Uhr -- 9:20 Uhr. Ich hatte heute bereits einen Kaffee doch ein weiterer kann nicht schaden, denn heute habe ich großes vor. Der Vorstand hat endlich meine Präsentation zur Osteuropa-Expansion unserer Unternehmensparte zur Kenntnis genommen. Heute ist mein großer Tag!

Die Kaffeemaschine ist bereits gut besucht. Zahlreiche Kollegen lungern dort herum. Als ob Karriere für die ein Fremdwort wäre! Ich tue geschäftig, lasse mir einen doppelten Espresso heraus und schwupp bin ich wieder in meinem Büro. Moment, was ist das? Am Türrahmen klebt eine Notiz: "Vorstellungsgespräch mit Peter Hainle, 9:45 Uhr! Maria" Blick auf die Uhr, "9:40 Uhr, Mist!", fluche ich leise in mich hinein. Ich lasse mich in meinen Schreibtischstuhl fallen und beginne meinen Terminkalender zu inspizieren. "Wo kommt dieser Termin her?", frage ich mich. Eingestellt am Freitag letzter Woche, von Maria Kleinbaum. Ich erwäge kurz die Alternative das Gespräch abzusagen. Dann wird mir klar, das Maria, die Klatsche vom Dienst, meinem Ruf erheblichen Schaden zu fügen könnte und finde mich mit meinem Schicksal ab. Ich stürze den Espresso herunter und verbrennen mir dabei ganz ordentlich die Zunge. Den Griff meiner Bürotür in der Hand, lasse ich den Blick aus dem Fenster in die Ferne schweifen und sinniere kurz vor mich hin: "Dabei fing der Tag so gut an!"

Florian
-------------------------------------------------
Heute ist mein großer Tag denkt sich auch Florian, als er morgens um 7:30 endlich aufstehen darf. Der erste Gedanke geht an das bevorstehende dritte Vorstellungsgespräch, welches er am späten Vormittag bei einer renomierten Medizintechnikfirma haben wird. Seit fast vier Monaten hat er auf diesen Termin hin gearbeitet. Mit einem Gefühl der Vorfreude und voller Tatendrang stapft er ins Badezimmer und wirft einen Blick in den Spiegel: "Heute wirst Du es Ihnen zeigen...Hallo der Herr, wir würden Ihnen gerne diese Stelle anbieten." Nach dem Rasieren und besonders gründlicher Körperpflege greift Florian zur Feuchtigkeitscreme. Nach 5 Jahren Studiums, zahlreichen Praktikas und mehrerer Auslandsaufenthalte soll das Gespräch heute schließlich nicht am Aussehen scheitern. Er will sich heute nochmal ganz von seiner Schokoladenseite zeigen.

Beim Frühstück merkt Florian, daß ihm die Aufregung doch ein wenig auf den Magen schlägt und er gar keinen Appetit hat. Er schaut auf seine Vorbereitungsliste und streicht die erledigten Punkte ab. Das Hemd ist gebügelt. Der Anzug samt Krawatte liegt bereit. Schwarze Socken... sogar die Schuhe sind geputzt. Der Lebenslauf ist ausgedruckt, in deutsch und in englisch, sorgfältig in durchsichtiger Folie verpackt. Auch die Firmenbrochüre hat er in Vorbereitung auf das wichtige Gespräch noch einmal gründlich studiert. Es bleibt also noch die wichtigsten Fragen aufzuschreiben, die er im Interview stellen will. Florian wird ein wenig skeptisch, als er daran denkt, sich die Firma bis jetzt sehr bedeckt gehalten hat. Er hat noch keine Informationen über die Stelle oder seine potenziellen Aufgaben. Er hatte zwar durch eine Initiativbewerbung mit dem Unternehmen Kontakt gefunden, aber es interessiert ihn brennend in welchem Bereich er beginnen könnte, falls er mit seiner Bewerbung erfolgreich ist. Florian notiert "Aufgabenbereich." Über einen möglichen Einstellungstermin weiß er nichts und die Vertragsmodalitäten wurden auch noch nicht angesprochen. Plötzlich hört Florian einen lauter werdenden Alarmton. Was ist das? Er schaut auf die Uhr und erinnert sich an den Alarm seines Handys. Es ist Zeit sich anzuziehen und langsam aufzubrechen, schließlich will er pünktlich sein. Ein letzter Blick in den Spiegel...wow, wer ist der selbstbewusste und gutaussehende Herr? Florian nimmt seine Unterlagen und macht sich auf dem Weg.

Beim Unternehmen angekommen hat er noch fünfzehn Minuten Zeit und schaut nochmal durch seinen Lebenslauf. Es ist Zeit, jetzt geht es los. (WORK IN PROGRESS)

Die Chroniken der Nacht

Thu, 25 Sep 2008 12:50:12 +0200

Ich komme zu mir und bemerke, dass mir regelrecht heiß ist. Ich werfe die Decke beiseite, stehe auf und fühle, dass ich ein paar Sekunden warten muss bis sich das Schwindelgefühl verflogen hat. Nach dem Lichtschalter tastend schiebe ich langsam einen Fuß vor den anderen. Dieses Zimmer kommt mir nicht einmal annähernd bekannt vor, denke ich. "Ah, wunderbar! Der Schalter!" freue ich mich. Ich erkenne den Raum auch im Hellen nicht. "Wo zum Henker bin ich?"
Ich kratze mich am Kopf. Meine Kehle ist trocken und ich bemerke einen widerlichen Geschmack in meinem Mund. "War wohl 'ne lange Nacht." grüble ich in mich hinein.

(to be continued ..)

Alles was zählt.

Thu, 11 Sep 2008 23:42:53 +0200

I. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sie hat ihren nebulösen Blick aufgesetzt. Er lässt Clara tiefgründig erscheinen. Sie weiß das, weil ich es ihr gesagt hatte als wir uns vor knapp drei Jahren kennenlernten. Ihre Augen funkeln mich an und ich erahne wie es in ihr kocht. Sie versucht mir auszuweichen und blickt nachdenklich an mir vorbei auf die Strasse. Ich nehme mir vor ihr einige Minuten Zeit zu geben bevor ich das Thema noch einmal aufgreifen werde. Bis dahin lasse ich meinen Blick durch das Café wandern. Eine lange Reihe großer Fenster, zur Strasse hin orientiert, durchfluteten das Cafe mit einem angenehmen weichen Licht. Die bequemen Ledersessel sind entlang der Fenster in kleinen Gruppen angeordnet. Mit ein wenig Abstand zu der Sesselreihe folgt die Bar, die sich über die komplette Länge des Cafe erstreckt. Mein Blick bleibt auf den Händen der Bedienung hängen, die mit flinken Handgriffen die riesige Espressomaschine bedient. Das laute Zischen und der Geruch frisch gemalter Bohnen lässt mich kurz mit dem Gedanken spielen einen Espresso zu bestellen. Einen Augenblick später saust die Bedienung mit einer fertigen Bestellung auf dem Tablet davon und zerstört meine Träumerei.

Amüsiert beobachte ich Clara wie sie kokett ihre Beine übereinanderschlägt. Warum sitze ich eigentlich hier mit Clara an diesem Tisch? Wir waren zwar mal eine zeitlang zusammen und hatten uns viel zu geben. Irgendwann aber kam der Alltag und darauf hatte ich keine Lust. Ich wollte etwas Frisches! Nur die Suche nach dem Unentdeckten hält mich auf Trab. Bei dieser Frau hatte ich das Gefühl alles erkundet und gesehen zu haben. Jetzt ging es lediglich noch darum bis wann sie mit ihren Sachen aus meiner Wohnung verschwunden war. Es war gerade Mai und der Sommer fing an durchzustarten. "Ahh Berlin im Sommer!" - das wollte ich genießen und nicht ständig über die Einrichtungsgegenstände meine Ex stolpern. Ich stellte ihr ein Ultimatum bis zum Monatsende, was in zwei Wochen war. Ihre einzige Reaktion darauf war sich eine Zigarette anzustecken. Ich wußte das dies stille Zustimmung bedeutet. Das Gespräch war hiermit offiziell beendet. Ich stand auf, überließ ihr die Rechnung, kalkulierte die Kosten der Verwüstung die sie deshalb in meiner Wohnung anrichten würde, verbuchte sie als verkraftbaren Kollateralschaden, und verließ das Café. Für einen Augenblick verharre ich und lasse den Lärm der Strasse auf mich wirken. Gedanken schiessen mir durch den Kopf und im Grunde tut es mir weh Clara so zu behandeln. Komisch. Früher kamen mir solche Gedanken nie. Ich wische den Schmerz beiseite und beschließe Clara's Auszug nicht miterleben zu wollen. Mir kommt der Gedanke Cousin Stephan zu besuchen. Für gewöhnlich bietet sein Lebenstil in solchen Sitationen emotionaler Verwirrung eine willkommene Abwechslung. Ein durchgestylter Teenager drängelt sich an mir vorbei ins Café und beendet meinen Tagtraum. Ja, Cousin Stephan ist eine gute Idee. "Auf nach Amsterdam", denke ich laut und tauche ein ins Gemenge der Passanten.

Die Nacht über hatte ich kaum ein Auge zu gemacht. Ich mußte mich natürlich auf meine mehrstündige Reise vorbereiten und hatte den Vorabend mit Freunden in diversen Clubs verbracht. Der monotone Techno-Beat hämmert noch in meinem Ohr und das leise aber konstante Pfeifgeräusch wird sich wohl auch erst in ein Paar Tagen verflüchtigen. So stehe ich ziemlich zerknittert und relativ betrunken am Bahnsteig und freue mich auf die Zugfahrt. Ich ziehe nervös an meiner Zigarette. Mein Handy summt leise vor sich hin. Ein kurzer Blick auf's Display verrät mir "Tante Petra". Ich bin nun wirklich weder in der Lage mir ihr zu sprechen noch habe ich Lust darauf. Für den Augenblick ist mir nicht nach Konversation. Mit lautem Quietschen rauscht der Zug in den Bahnhof. Wo kam der so schnell her? - meine Wahrnehmung fängt an mir Tricks zu spielen. Ich drängle mich an einigen älteren Fahrgästen vorbei, ignoriere ihr Gemecker und flätzte mich in einen der Sitze. Bevor der Zug abfährt bin ich bereits in einen unruhigen Schlummer versunken.

Völlig zerknittert komme ich einige Stunden später wieder zu mir. Ich richte meinen Kopf auf und blicke aus dem Fenster. Grüne Wiesen mit zahlreichen Kühen und so weiter rauschen still vorbei. Amsterdam ist nah! Meine Augen fühlen sich schwer an. Die Euphorie der letzten Nacht ist scheinbar auch schon verflogen. Ich durchsuche meine Tasche nach einem Kaugummi und finde einen angerissen Zettel mit Telefonnummer darauf. Unterschrieben ist er mit "Steffi - melde dich mal". Ich versuche mich an "Steffi" zu erinnern und schaffe es fast. Dann gebe ich auf, stopfe den Zettel wie ein Hamster für schlechte Zeiten wieder in meine Tasche und lasse meinen Blick ziellos in die Ferne schweifen. Meine Gedanken kreisen um meinen letzten Besuch in Amsterdam und Stephan. Wie's ihm wohl heute geht? Beim letzten Mal war er auf dem besten Weg die letzten Erinnerungen an sein bürgerliches Leben auszulöschen. Wir hatten uns einen Transporter für den Umzug organisiert und den ganzen Tag Stephan's Habsehligkeiten verladen. Begleitet wurden wir dabei von dem wilden Gemecker seiner Frau. Als wir mit dem LKW losfuhren war sie so weit in Rage das sie Hochzeitsporzellan aus dem dritten Stock auf den Gehweg schleuderte. "Wie lange war das jetzt her?", fragte ich mich. Drei, vier Jahre vielleicht.

Diese Zugfahrt scheint ewig zu dauern. An Schlaf ist nicht zu denken. Wie auch wenn man umringt ist von Rentnern, die sich stundenlang über die einfachsten Dinge unterhalten können. Mir fällt ein das der Fahrkartenverkäufer versucht hat mich vor dem Vormittagszug nach Amsterdam zu warnen. "Biste sicher? Dit Ding is voller alte Leute! Ruhe findeste da keene." war wohl seine Wortwahl. Ich spiele mit dem Gedanken Amok zu laufen. Zu mehr komme ich nicht, dann döse ich wieder vor mich dahin.

Die Ankunft in Amsterdam gestaltet sich wie immer wenig spektakulär. Sonnenbrille auf, raus aus dem Zug, die besoffenen Horden von Teenagern aus Übersee ignorieren, immer gerade aus für knapp 10 Minuten, dann ein sonniges Plätzchen in einem der vielen "Cafés" suchen, niederlassen und die lokalen Spezialitäten ausprobieren. Soweit so gut. Eine knappe halbe Stunde später habe ich Berlin, die Zugfahrt und alles was in den letzten Tagen und Wochen passiert ist, hinter mir gelassen. Aufgelöst und verschwunden im Nebel. Es wird Zeit Stephan zu kontaktieren. An seine genaue Adresse kann ich mich nicht erinnern. Das konnte ich noch nie. War bisher stets völlig unnötig in dieser Stadt und mit Stephan an meiner Seite. Kurze Nachricht an ihn und weiter geht's mit den köstlichen Angeboten. Ich habe die "Speisekarte" halb durch da trifft ein Wesen ein das ich nur noch undeutlich als meinen Cousin ausmachen kann. "Nebel muss plötzlich aufgezogen sein! Teuflisch gefährlich und unberechenbar das Zeug!" lalle ich vor mich hin. Zumindest hat man mir das später gesagt. Ich befinden mich in der Obhut von Stephan, nichts kann mehr geschehen - Willkommen in Amsterdam.

II. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Die Toilettenspülung weckt mich. Eine weibliche Gestalt schleppt sich an mir vorbei und fällt vornüber in ein Bett am anderen Ende des Raums. Schlecht sah sie nicht aus. Soviel lässt sich selbst dann noch feststellen, wenn jeder Arzt dieser Welt schon der Meinung ist dein Körper sei nicht mehr von dem Gift zu befreien, das deine Sinne vernebelt.

"Sieh mal an, wen hat's denn da wieder an's Ufer der Diesseitigen getragen!" dröhnt Stephan aus der Küche in meine Richtung und grinst verhohlen aus der Küche zu mir herüber. Ich hasse es wenn er diesen Theaterslang benutzt. Irgendwie erinnert mich das immer an Schultheater und alte, runzelige Deutsch Lehrerinnen.

"Stephan, sag mir bitte das du etwas hast um diesem müden Körper wieder auf die Beine zu helfen!" - ich stelle fest, in meinem Mund muss eine Katze wohnen. Trocken wie die Wüste Namib.

"Klar doch!" dröhnt er aus der Küche, "Doppelter Espresso mit Milchschaum. Perfekt für den organischen Start in den Morgen. Versetzt mit etwas .... naja Geheimrezeptur des Hauses. Soviel sei gesagt, ohne diesen potenten Mix hätten die englischen Banker-Milchbubies die Finanzkrise nie so hin bekommen!" Triumphierend balanciert er ein Tablet herein und landet es genau vor meinem Schlafgemach.

"Ich meinte eigentlich die Kleine da drüben." Ich versuche ein Grinsen, muss aber feststellen das Stephan das gar nicht lustig findet. "Ohh" sage ich "scheint wohl ernst zu sein!"

Ich richte mich auf und untersuche den Raum genauer während ich den heißen Sud in mich hinein tröpfeln lasse. Backsteinwände, ein großer Raum mit unverputzten Wänden. Viele Möbel gibt es nicht, das nötigste ist vorhanden. Ein großes Bett auf dem eine Blondine langsam zum Leben erwacht. Muss wohl am Kaffeegeruch liegen. Eine große Fensterfront schließt den Raum ab. Vor dem Fenster thront majestätisch eine Tisch mit zwei Plattenspielern. Stephan ist meinem Blick gefolgt und bemerkt: "Gottes Heim, mein Lieber! Von dort schickt der Messias seine Botschaften aus!"
Diese Form der Blasphemie muss unmittelbar bestraft werden. Ich werfe ihm die leere Espresso Tasse an den Kopf. Ein erstaunter Blick, dann hat er verstanden das die Gotik vorbei: "Schön das du hier bist!"

Screen. Mind. Both are blank ...

Thu, 11 Sep 2008 23:25:30 +0200

After hours of bending over the table, starring at the screen, the green prompt continued to demand immediate input. My fingers slowed to a stop, unable to make a decision on their own, and my mind blanked.

I stared down at my hands on the keyboard.

Have my fingers ever made a decision on their own? I thought of "Mad Love" with Peter Lorre. Now there were some fingers that acted of their own free will. I raised my hands and inspected my wrists as if expecting to find tell-tale signs of surgery. There was none.

"Mr. Twombley?"

I pretended not to hear the soft spoken voice coming from the overhead speaker. Could I be as mad as Doctor Gogol in "Mad Love"? Or was I more like one of Doctor Gogol's victims of jealousy?

"Mr. Towmbley. You've stopped typing. You know the rules."

I looked up at where the inanimate voice was coming from -- the only voice they allowed me to hear.

"You seem tense. Do you need five minutes of porno?"

"Ahh shut up!" I hissed to myself, trying to be calm, hoping the hidden microphones wouldn't pick it up.

I pushed myself back from the table, arose from my chair, crossed the room, and opened the window. Taking a deep breath, the biting, sharp cold air of late fall felt chilly against my skin, yet like fire in my lungs. I exhaled deeply. Cold steam wafted and hung in the air. The distinct sense of impending snow was all about.

I glanced back at the screen; the screensaver was already playing with the boundaries of the monitor.

"Mr. Twombley?"

I ignored the voice.

I seem to recall there was a time when I could grab my keys and jacket in such a situation and be gone in a flash. Out, out into the cold, walking briskly with a sense of purpose in my stride. Free. Instead, I felt trapped in a cage of false purpose and bound by the expectations of others. Some unknown others. Cold sweat dripped from my forehead and I felt nauseated -- as if I could throw up at any moment. I sensed tossing my cookies right then and there would have given those watching me a sense of smarmy satisfaction, so I bit back the bile. I even started to consider and feel tempted by their offer.

At least that would have eased the pressure and put me in a position from which I could operate -- a position with little duress. Or so I thought.

I whispered to myself: "I'll accept your terms, if you just let me leave."

Of course the microphones picked this up as well. Like everything said and done in this room. It seemed as if I was finally starting to play by the rules they orchestrated.

The red light above the door blinked green. I wasn't quite sure what to make out of this. We all have been trained by Hollywood movies to think a red light turning to green means "The villain has allowed the hero to leave under his terms."

I crossed the room and hit the door button. The door opened with a sliding, hissing metal-like noise. I had the odd feeling that William Shatner was going to stride into the room wearing a groovy polyester uniform. I stepped forward and the door slammed shut with explosive force, nearly tearing my leg off. I fell to the floor swearing, holding my leg, and looked up in time to see the light go red.

I kicked the door and uttered a silent curse. Up to this point I seemed to be immune to desperation, but right now this overwhelming feeling started to crawl up my back. I wish somebody would turn me into a stone right away. If it weren't for the black gaping hole called past, I would remember how I got here. There must be a purpose behind all this. So I got up, turned around and sat down again in front of the computer.

A Beginning

Mon, 08 Sep 2008 21:01:55 +0200

Touring the sewers of Paris, I came to realize that one man’s seepage is another rat’s dream – a simple dream for sure, but a dream nonetheless. Who is to say that my dreams of being the world’s best caber tosser, kilt-clad and tossing off at a frantic, frenetic, furious pace, while using an Anne Valérie Hash cummerbund as a weight belt, is any less meaningful than Jonas Salk’s quest to rid the world of polio? No one. Not even the kid down the block -- Rotisserie Mike, I call him – pinned inside his new fangled iron lung. You know: that new stainless model with the auto spin feature. If you ask me, stainless steel reeks of ostentation, not to mention pee. He should have opted for the clean simplicity of Lexan. To add a touch of glass and class, a tasteful string of Christmas tree lights, secured around the opening at his neck, would have been sufficient to show the world his true colors.

But I digress...

Sloshing my way south, the stench was incredible, and not in a good way. But what choice did I have? The long road home began with a drop down a manhole cover and was now being followed up by an inch by inch crawl against rank, slime covered walls. I can understand, in a National Geographic magainze sort of way, why French women don't always shave their armpits. But Christ! You'd think they'd flush out their sewer system once every hundred years or so.

As a dozen rats brushed passed by legs, scurrying in my same direction, I began to wonder if the job was really worth it.

Right or wrong, Reginald Boltry is no longer with Acton's.

The job came through the usual channels. A friend of a friend of a friend of some guy who was fairly pissed off about Mr. Boltry's entry into the Vespa maintenance repair market in Savigny-sur-Orge, just a bit outside of Paris.

I hate these European jobs, particularly in France. I have the usual complaints: Cramped seats on an overly long and tedious transcontinental flight, crowded airports where people refuse to speak English, and the inevitable dickering about payment that occurs over crappy French coffee with some savoir fare looking guy who smokes too much. These conversations usually take place in cafes that are owned by Frenchmen who are proud of their sophisticated tastes. How else can I explain the inevitable and never ending supply of Jerry Lewis posters that are plastered on the cafes' speckled walls?

A job is a job. Frankly, there are a lot of other jobs I'd prefer to pluck from the employment tree. I'd give my eyeteeth to work in Silicon Valley. The work is easy, the pay is great, and there is no arguing the fact that a lot of guys down there deserve what they get. After a job is done, there would be no time wasted mulling over some sloppy moral imperative. Instead of succumbing to the Frenchman's gig of "ennui", I'd be savoring the satisfaction of a job well done, and the taste of the beer I like. I'd be thinking about what I'm going to do with all that money.

But again I digress.....

By the time I checked my bags out of CDG and thence into the Paris Hilton, I was looking forward to my dealing with Mr. Boltry, even if his name didn't sound French. I freshened up a bit in my three hundred and fifty dollar a night (U.S.) tiny hotel room -- quarters that were no larger than your standard 1964 Citron. I tried taking a nap, but the Pigeons on the fire exit and the three guys in the room next door were having a raucously randy old time. Rather than suffer through the nauseating surround sound, I gave up on sleep, grabbed a taxi, and headed out of Paris.

It was time to meet Mr. Boltry.

How this works

Fri, 05 Sep 2008 10:50:14 +0200

Sometimes I tend to be confused. Ending up with a gun in my left hand pointing at the indian looking cashier, and my right hand holding a chocolate bar. Then you might notice that I've got a problem, because I'm right handed. So I'll have a hard time reaching the contents of this very delicious chocolate bar. Usually the person on the other side of the gun, the one looking down the barrel, starts to get really nervous as soon as I try to open the chocolate bar with both hands. Which causes me to point the gun in all kinds of direction.

At this point I usually call back to my mind, that this might be very confusing for the police officer, who will have to investigate the security video. So I drop the chocolate bar, cursing the producing company for not having thought of such a case , make a side note to unleash hell upon the ones responsible and finish the "job".

c'm one continue