Personal Writing: Road To Calgary
JC
Each year I’m here the Russian drones get 100 kilometers closer to where my family lives. The most recent one hit a village where I spent my summers as a kid. Fear gasses every conversation with those who stayed. I saw my grandfather afraid for the first time. And he’s already seen some stuff. On his second birthday a German bomb exploded in his house. Twenty minutes away from where the drone hit. Both parents died. My great grandmother covered his cradle with a pillow the moment she heard the planes coming. I think this was the first time he was afraid. Under the rubble in 44’ and now in the overambitious cafe I took him to. I looked at his face. At the two valleys on his forehead, each fossilized by silent fear. And I wondered how can I come back to Berlin after seeing this. To the whining about not making life happen quick enough. To the sweat of pursuit that dries up before anyone sees. I guess I always wanted to say I stopped giving a damn about back home. But turning the news off can only work until the news hits your roof. Three years ago, on the day of my departure my father freezed. He said “You going to the West is an investment for us all. If shit goes down, we’re all joining you. Even me and your mother. Call me when you get there.”
I came back after this short visit in Poland. Spirits aren’t high. Berlin Ostbahnhof at 10am on a Saturday. Leathery figures continue their journeys from one nest to another. Meaningless faces meander around me. Empty Soviet Secretaries path the way towards the exit. Yesterday’s saxophonist keeps playing. I have to admit I also joined the hedonism for a while. Sun was out and the city sucked me in despite my moderate efforts. But now the leaves are a brown mush again and some American wanker got shot in the neck. Life’s calling me back. The middle class comfort I built for myself. In a city cemented by rejection of norm I had to stand out somehow. I rejected the rejection and found a boring job. And I toil from 9-5, and go on vacation 3 times a year, and I buy the monthly ticket. The first two years weren't like that. There was more urgency. But I’ve had enough. Maybe that’s what a life of chaos does to you. Maybe you rebel against it by wearing blazers. But, now the chaos seems to be catching up to me.
I live on the street where everyone wants to live. Especially those who say material things don’t matter to them. I used to live there just by myself, but my girlfriend moved in with her fat cat in May. It’s September now. The cat hates me. She waits by the door for my girlfriend, and meows in disappointment when it’s just me. Usually I sit on the floor with my shoes still on and we look at each other. An interspecies staring contest. My girlfriend was not home when I got back today. The cat ran to our walk-in closet at the end of the corridor, eyeing me from there. She chooses the tempo of our interactions.
“Us three barely fit in this flat. The place already feels crowded. How could a five-person divorced family squeeze in here? Plus two if my dad would be insane enough to take his mistress and their kid. He probably would.” I liked to lay on the cold panel floor. Iris thinks it's weird. Now I only do it when she’s not here. I suspect the cat is snitching to her.
“Did you know that this flat is only 3m2 above the government minimum for a cat to live in? How big is the human minimum? When I was moving in, no one measured me.” The black, fat fur ball went into the bedroom. I made some pasta and poured a glass of red.
The tree touching our kitchen window was slowly losing leaves. Early. Being too close to anything in this city does that to you. Sun slowly let go of the brick chimneys above. I sat by my laptop writing articles that’d never be seen by the eyes of others. Not that they were bad. News is bad. The world is falling apart and it all sounds the same. Personal opinions arranged by the stale skeleton of objectivity. I don’t know if mine are any good. Only person reading them is Iris and me. I hand them to her before bed, and by morning both she and they are gone.
I wonder how could I present to her the possibility of my entire family moving in. Our living room is divided in half. We have our important conversations there. We each designed a side. Mine is fuller, maybe because I lived here longer. Full of neon color and posters I ripped off electric boxes. Hers is quite bare, like an interim IKEA showroom. I put on some ambient light, waiting for her. Our flat looks really good from the outside. The cat was nowhere to be found. Around 3 my phone started buzzing: “ACHTUNG: 17. SEPTEMBER – BUNDESWEIT – Die Flugobjekte haben die Grenzen der Bundesrepublik Deutschland verletzt, bleiben Sie drinnen.” I went onto the balcony and sat on the only chair. People stared at their phones and looked around for reassurance. Sirens revibrated through the brick facades. The sky looked eerily dark. As if a storm had just passed and nature was just recovering. I haven’t heard anything I’ve not heard before. I stood there wondering if Iris would pick up some takeaway. We had a date planned later today.
I ran into Heimgetränke, the corner store. Windows were covered by cosmic blue wallpaper and pixelated beer bottles. A loud bell sounded as I entered. Everything looked normal. Six fridges of alcohol and a single ice cream freezer. I went up to the cashier gripping a singular Snickers in hand. Plexi glass still divided the counter, remnant of the pandemic. Slender silhouette blurred stood there looking at me. I couldn’t see his face. He was speaking on the phone, or mumbling to himself in a language I couldn’t understand.
“I don’t even know how to ask that without sounding crazy. Was there anything weird you’ve noticed on your way to the shift today?” I saw his hand move beyond the glass. A smoked brown palm pointed towards my Snickers. I handed it over.
“I’m not insane. But, I can't leave this place. Any time I reach the end I’m in the same place I started with.” Fear slipped in some of my vowels. His silence weirdly calmed me down.
“Is that all?” His blurred words bounced on my side of the counter. I’m here every other day and I still don't know his name.
“No jokes man, I’m being serious. How do I get out of Fulda?”
Neon green screen spoke to me saying 1,49 EUR, I handed him a two and left.
A pearl white figure stared at me from a balcony on the other side of the street. I stood on the empty slice of asphalt, staring right back at it. After a closer inspection I saw it was someone’s ski suit left to dry.
I called my mother. We don’t speak much, but if there ever was a time to reach out it was now. Signals rang one after another. They kept going past the usual amount. At times I felt they changed rhythm. As if to send me a message. Each reminded me of the beating of my heart, I couldn't really feel it at that time. I sat there on the curb staring into the white letters saying “Mama.” On closer inspection the pixels moved ever so slight. It never disconnected, but it didn’t go anywhere either. So I sat there looking at the bare tree directing in and out of the intersection. Street ended and started again, arms spreading like a star. I did a few more rounds and knocked on windows. I only saw TV screens’ reflections on lace curtains. Some bombs pathing the Middle East. All the same stuff. No humans inside. I gave up around 10 PM. I had to answer a couple of emails I planned to send out in the BER Tempelhof Lufthansa Lounge. At night, thoughts found their way inside my head regardless of any attempts to spin away. At 3 AM I popped 2mg of Alprazolam. Xanax brought me a sense of calm no other endeavor could. I have a memory of laying in grass as a child, surrounded by a fortress of trees in my backyard. I stared into the sky, and all the world fit into my eyeball. That’s how Xanax made me feel.
My psychiatrist – Dr. Scratchoff – always had a light hand in the art of prescription writing. We never saw each other. He’s been with me since ‘16. Closest I’ve ever gotten to him was asking about the bookshelf behind his Zoom camera. You can barely see them, since his head eats up most of my screen, but I’ve noticed them a lot. They were all neatly organized by color from cold to warm tones. Warm on top, just like the Baikal. I imagined that's how all psychiatrists live. Like frozen lakes with a thick layer of ice needed to deal with others dropping their shit on them.
“They are industry books. Mostly for decoration. since everything’s online now. But I prefer having the real thing you know. There’s only as far as digital can get you. As per usual, your prescription code will arrive by SMS.” I fell asleep looking at figures swaying in windows opposite of my flat. Branches swayed them in and out of my view. It was hard to focus on just one. That was the first day of the Fulda prison.
It's been 160 days since. I’m starting to see some patterns, but it could also be my mind tricking me. At exactly 21:13 I hear someone locking their bike. It's an invasive metallic sound. The moment I look into the courtyard there’s no one there. Only clue is the main door closing. On some days I’ve stared into the yard like a Polish elder, waiting for the bike. As soon as I blinked, or got distracted by the tree I heard the click. Work isn’t bothering me. As long as I reply to shapeless persons’ messages in time I’m okay. My days blend into a puddle of the same. Food delivery still works. I have plenty of choices. Sometimes Uber Eats, sometimes Liferando. My groceries keep arriving, and the expiration dates on them keep changing. Life seems to move without me.