parting
05:00 am. Hands pushing against heavy swing doors. The metal is sticky from the touch of many hands, beer, sweat, condensating humidity. The doors are heavy and the gush of fresh, cold air hits my face like a tidal wave. I didn't notice just how bad the air inside had been. Though it's been a lot better since smoking in bars and restaurants had been prohibited - not that people would really stop smoking all kinds of things in here - but it has perceptably lessened. They make it up with more artificial smoke, though.
I take a deep breath, I don't think the air has ever felt as clean in my lungs. Washing away the dirt of the building right behind me. I feel my face twist into a loopsided half-smile at the thought of the waste disposal site right up the hill behind this place and the waste incineration plant across the street. The smoking chimneys of the harbour district and the ribbed roof of the sewage works. This isn't the place where you find anything clean, let alone air. This is one of the two darker sides of the city, the other being the wasteland behind the old freight yard.
Only a few cars are still in the parking lot - if you dare to call the space in front of me one. It's rather a diposal site for gravel, greenery and the legacy of the decadence of youth. You still can park your car here, if you're either brave or insane. I'm probably both and so my little pile of junk on wheels is sitting there, waiting for me patiently. On the concrete pedestal of The Statue are two punks sleeping in their vomit, a stray dog sniffing on their dirty clothes. The Statue is the landmark of this area, of this place. Four meters high, proudly showing off it's crown of mostly broken lightbulbs. It's the Dancing Devil, made of all sorts of scrap metal and junk.
The sun's already creeping over the horizon, incinerating the clouds and tinting the world in an eerily red-ish light, early morning. The sun is still weak at this time, it can't chase the twilight away just yet. I walk towards my car, the coldness biting into my damp skin. I don't know if this will be the last time I went here - this chapter is done and over - but it's still hard to finally close the book case. One last time I turn around and take it all in, the octogonal shape of the building, the one million layers of spray paint all over it.
Goodbye, I think, goodbye Park. In a way it's like saying, goodbye, youth. I spent so many nights here, some of my happiest and some of my saddest memories were made here, some of the funniest, some of the most boring. This is one of those place you have to leave behind at some point because if you don't you'll never go forward, it chains you to the nothingness of yesterday. Tonight I've been here alone, on my own. To say goodbye, to dance on my own. I hardly recognized any faces anymore, even though, I used to know almost every frequent there. But that's over and most of then have long since moved on. It's not really surprising - they were practically all way older than I.
I've been coming here since I've been 14. Way too early, way too late. My parents never really bothered, in a weird way this place is safe. My dad went here when he was younger and he let me go, even when my mom didn't want me to. I've never started telling my parents where I went and when, so they never started asking. I'm one of those who never gets in trouble. I hardly ever drink - I say it's because I can't hold my liquor, but actually it's because I can drink tequila like others drink tea. It's better not to do that. I don't do drugs or even smoke either. It's weird how I've made it through my past without ever even touching a cigarette. I know I didn't do it because I know myself. I wouldn't have stopped. I don't know any limits. Especially not my own.
Max's face flashes before my eyes, blurry and almost forgotten, I'm bad at remembering faces. He didn't make it out of here. His names on one of the many stones on the graveyard for the poor, right next to the Autobahn. We all lost a friend to this place. It's like some sort of sick tribute you pay - you either lose a friend or you lose yourself. The unspoken rule of the Dancing Devil.
I get into the car and drive away. Goodbye, I think again. It's weird to think in words, I almost never do it, if I'm not thinking what I want to say and don't say. I don't have a language in my dreams, I just know. It's all dancing people and fake realities, all in my head.
The only people out are the prostitutes, done for the night. One particularly fragile looking girl catches my eye, she's limping badly. Most of them are ugly as hell, that's what this job does to you. The whore pit in this part of the town is the worst, most of the girls here are illigally immigrated from Lithuania or Belarus. A lone police car is appearing in my rear mirror, driving by the park, the prostitutes. They know what's going on around here, but there's nothing much they can do. All they can do, is secretly protecting the weed scene, hoping having their weed in peace they'll stay away from the harder stuff. They only do razzias if they got word of harder stuff claiming more victims than usual. And the prostitutes? Prostitution is legal here, and even if they're minors or illegally immigrated - they can't do more than take them back to the station and make sure they get something to eat and some time to rest in peace for once. Sometimes they even pay them, because their pimps would make sure they remembered to stay away from the police next time.
These guys are about to end their shift at the next McDonald's, though. That's a way to solve things, too, I guess.
There's a lone guy, who looks slightly familiar, walking with his arm out and thump up. Usually I don't pick up hitchhikers but tonight it's a night for last times and I bring my car to a halt next to him. I think I've seen him before, I'm not sure, though, I'm bad with faces. He's clearly on whatever it is he took, but not in a way that he can't control himself. Or maybe he's just a little overly happy to have someone drive him home. I learn he's working at the playhouse, sewing costumes, he's 23, on his way home, huh, who would've guessed. He tells me his name and writes his cell phone number across the dashboard with some kohl pen he found in the depth of my glove box. I'm not really listing but his voice is pleasant in my ears, like a steady rivulet. I find myself smiling.
Finally he crosses his arms, looks at me and says "So, who're you and what're you doing"
"Drinving you home." I grin. I'm a sucker for these games and he's just the right person to keep this entertaining.
And I'm right, he puffs his cheeks and starts a fervent monologue about the philosophy of answering questions and avoiding questions. He's fun and I wouldn't mind spending more time with him but we've reached our destination. "Call me" he says, waving. I smile and drive away. No answer, no goodnight, I know I won't call him, he knows, I won't call him and I know he knows I won't call him, but it's still nice.
I reach my home and I decide to wait with cleaning my dashboard until tomorrow.
I'm home.
Hyde_Park
Hyde_Park
Hyde_Park
I take a deep breath, I don't think the air has ever felt as clean in my lungs. Washing away the dirt of the building right behind me. I feel my face twist into a loopsided half-smile at the thought of the waste disposal site right up the hill behind this place and the waste incineration plant across the street. The smoking chimneys of the harbour district and the ribbed roof of the sewage works. This isn't the place where you find anything clean, let alone air. This is one of the two darker sides of the city, the other being the wasteland behind the old freight yard.
Only a few cars are still in the parking lot - if you dare to call the space in front of me one. It's rather a diposal site for gravel, greenery and the legacy of the decadence of youth. You still can park your car here, if you're either brave or insane. I'm probably both and so my little pile of junk on wheels is sitting there, waiting for me patiently. On the concrete pedestal of The Statue are two punks sleeping in their vomit, a stray dog sniffing on their dirty clothes. The Statue is the landmark of this area, of this place. Four meters high, proudly showing off it's crown of mostly broken lightbulbs. It's the Dancing Devil, made of all sorts of scrap metal and junk.
The sun's already creeping over the horizon, incinerating the clouds and tinting the world in an eerily red-ish light, early morning. The sun is still weak at this time, it can't chase the twilight away just yet. I walk towards my car, the coldness biting into my damp skin. I don't know if this will be the last time I went here - this chapter is done and over - but it's still hard to finally close the book case. One last time I turn around and take it all in, the octogonal shape of the building, the one million layers of spray paint all over it.
Goodbye, I think, goodbye Park. In a way it's like saying, goodbye, youth. I spent so many nights here, some of my happiest and some of my saddest memories were made here, some of the funniest, some of the most boring. This is one of those place you have to leave behind at some point because if you don't you'll never go forward, it chains you to the nothingness of yesterday. Tonight I've been here alone, on my own. To say goodbye, to dance on my own. I hardly recognized any faces anymore, even though, I used to know almost every frequent there. But that's over and most of then have long since moved on. It's not really surprising - they were practically all way older than I.
I've been coming here since I've been 14. Way too early, way too late. My parents never really bothered, in a weird way this place is safe. My dad went here when he was younger and he let me go, even when my mom didn't want me to. I've never started telling my parents where I went and when, so they never started asking. I'm one of those who never gets in trouble. I hardly ever drink - I say it's because I can't hold my liquor, but actually it's because I can drink tequila like others drink tea. It's better not to do that. I don't do drugs or even smoke either. It's weird how I've made it through my past without ever even touching a cigarette. I know I didn't do it because I know myself. I wouldn't have stopped. I don't know any limits. Especially not my own.
Max's face flashes before my eyes, blurry and almost forgotten, I'm bad at remembering faces. He didn't make it out of here. His names on one of the many stones on the graveyard for the poor, right next to the Autobahn. We all lost a friend to this place. It's like some sort of sick tribute you pay - you either lose a friend or you lose yourself. The unspoken rule of the Dancing Devil.
I get into the car and drive away. Goodbye, I think again. It's weird to think in words, I almost never do it, if I'm not thinking what I want to say and don't say. I don't have a language in my dreams, I just know. It's all dancing people and fake realities, all in my head.
The only people out are the prostitutes, done for the night. One particularly fragile looking girl catches my eye, she's limping badly. Most of them are ugly as hell, that's what this job does to you. The whore pit in this part of the town is the worst, most of the girls here are illigally immigrated from Lithuania or Belarus. A lone police car is appearing in my rear mirror, driving by the park, the prostitutes. They know what's going on around here, but there's nothing much they can do. All they can do, is secretly protecting the weed scene, hoping having their weed in peace they'll stay away from the harder stuff. They only do razzias if they got word of harder stuff claiming more victims than usual. And the prostitutes? Prostitution is legal here, and even if they're minors or illegally immigrated - they can't do more than take them back to the station and make sure they get something to eat and some time to rest in peace for once. Sometimes they even pay them, because their pimps would make sure they remembered to stay away from the police next time.
These guys are about to end their shift at the next McDonald's, though. That's a way to solve things, too, I guess.
There's a lone guy, who looks slightly familiar, walking with his arm out and thump up. Usually I don't pick up hitchhikers but tonight it's a night for last times and I bring my car to a halt next to him. I think I've seen him before, I'm not sure, though, I'm bad with faces. He's clearly on whatever it is he took, but not in a way that he can't control himself. Or maybe he's just a little overly happy to have someone drive him home. I learn he's working at the playhouse, sewing costumes, he's 23, on his way home, huh, who would've guessed. He tells me his name and writes his cell phone number across the dashboard with some kohl pen he found in the depth of my glove box. I'm not really listing but his voice is pleasant in my ears, like a steady rivulet. I find myself smiling.
Finally he crosses his arms, looks at me and says "So, who're you and what're you doing"
"Drinving you home." I grin. I'm a sucker for these games and he's just the right person to keep this entertaining.
And I'm right, he puffs his cheeks and starts a fervent monologue about the philosophy of answering questions and avoiding questions. He's fun and I wouldn't mind spending more time with him but we've reached our destination. "Call me" he says, waving. I smile and drive away. No answer, no goodnight, I know I won't call him, he knows, I won't call him and I know he knows I won't call him, but it's still nice.
I reach my home and I decide to wait with cleaning my dashboard until tomorrow.
I'm home.
Hyde_Park
Hyde_Park
Hyde_Park