DieterM
05-29-2010, 04:58 AM
The small-town street seemed strange and unfamiliar. Yet it was wearing a feel of home and well known. The bakery, the drug-store, the book-shop, the hairdresser’s. Low buildings under a low sky. Young, summer-dry trees bordering the empty sidewalks. Dust and boredom creeping into the corners of everything. A black cat, tail stiff, crossing the car-less street, in a distance. I was walking aimlessly through the day, my head in the clouds that oppressed the plain. The air was still and muggy, carrying a light, rotten scent with it, like a sensation of dead ends.
At the corner of an old, low house, the asphalt ceased. Abruptly, as if cut off with a scalpel. But I noticed a small path spiralling through the man-high corn fields. I had nothing better to do, so I followed it. Hands in my jean’s pockets, whistling a tune without a title.
The yellow of the corncobs, the luxurious green of the leaves stood out against the dark-grey sky. The field was unfathomably wide, sheer infinity. The path was capricious, turning this way, then that, all in bends and curves. There might be a thunderstorm looming. Maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe the weather would stay like this forever, cloudy, windless, murky. As if time stood still, a forgotten item in a lost landscape.
My white shirt was glued to my torso. It was hot, the suffocating heat of a closed room. My mood was nondescript. My thoughts as aimless as my wandering. The surroundings as strange as the small town I had been walking through. I didn’t count the minutes that had passed since I had left the last building behind. Minutes, hours, days didn’t matter.
Suddenly, the cornfield receded. I came across a long and high wall I had never seen before. I followed the wall for a while, I had nothing better to do. Still no end was foreseeable. Gradually, I started to wonder what could be on the other side of the wall. I wasn’t curious. But the thinking about possibilities hidden on the other side kept my mind occupied. Sometimes, the emptiness in my head got a bit hard to bear. But this had been my choice; now, I had to deal with it.
Then, I saw the hole. Something had brought part of the wall crumbling down. Behind the wall, I discovered a dump. I was utterly surprised – I had never heard about a dump around here. Or perhaps, someone had told me and I hadn’t listened properly? Never mind. Here it was. A dump.
Now my curiosity was aroused. What did people in this region throw away? I climbed over the remains of the wall, stepped on a rusted metal plaque that read ‘Danger! Do Not Enter! Trespassers will be’. The rest was unreadable. What exactly did they do to trespassers, I wondered briefly. Before deciding not to care.
The dump was nothing recent. In front of me, a hill of garbage and litter rose into the grey afternoon. Old brown television sets, fake wooden plastic tables, and chairs and sofas and beds, lamps, broken refrigerators, cast iron stoves tainted red with rust, bicycles, cupboards and wardrobes, and metal things, and ceramic things, and stone things, and paper things, and everything. Heaped here, thrown there, an original mountain range of detritus.
I knew that I shouldn’t, but I had to. I stepped on the nearest stove and climbed on it, then the next object, and the next, still going upwards and upwards. I wanted to see what lay behind the garbage hill. Another garbage hill, or something else, or nothing, or anything?
When I reached the top, I halted. There was an old man sitting on a half-rotten rocking chair, having a nap. He was bold, badly shaved, skinny. His grey trousers were stained, his shoes shoddy, his red-and-white checkered shirt open on a white, hairless, bony chest. Without any explanation, I felt a sudden anger rising in me. What did the old fool think he was doing here? He was an intruder to my story. This was my secret dump. This was my own, private adventure.
I approached carefully. ‘Yo!’ I shouted. ‘Yo man! Wake up! You have no right to be here!’
No reaction whatsoever.
I was finally standing before the sleeping dotard. I was trembling with just choler. ‘Don’t pretend you haven’t heard me!’ I yelled in his ear. ‘Hey! I’m talking to you!’
I finally grabbed the old man by the shoulder and shook him. ‘Wake! Up!’ I shrieked.
The rocking chair toppled over, the old man fell backwards. His arms were stiff, his mouth open, his eyes staring into another world’s void.
A thunder rumbled far away. The rest was silence.
The old man must have been sitting there, dead, for quite a while.
At the corner of an old, low house, the asphalt ceased. Abruptly, as if cut off with a scalpel. But I noticed a small path spiralling through the man-high corn fields. I had nothing better to do, so I followed it. Hands in my jean’s pockets, whistling a tune without a title.
The yellow of the corncobs, the luxurious green of the leaves stood out against the dark-grey sky. The field was unfathomably wide, sheer infinity. The path was capricious, turning this way, then that, all in bends and curves. There might be a thunderstorm looming. Maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe the weather would stay like this forever, cloudy, windless, murky. As if time stood still, a forgotten item in a lost landscape.
My white shirt was glued to my torso. It was hot, the suffocating heat of a closed room. My mood was nondescript. My thoughts as aimless as my wandering. The surroundings as strange as the small town I had been walking through. I didn’t count the minutes that had passed since I had left the last building behind. Minutes, hours, days didn’t matter.
Suddenly, the cornfield receded. I came across a long and high wall I had never seen before. I followed the wall for a while, I had nothing better to do. Still no end was foreseeable. Gradually, I started to wonder what could be on the other side of the wall. I wasn’t curious. But the thinking about possibilities hidden on the other side kept my mind occupied. Sometimes, the emptiness in my head got a bit hard to bear. But this had been my choice; now, I had to deal with it.
Then, I saw the hole. Something had brought part of the wall crumbling down. Behind the wall, I discovered a dump. I was utterly surprised – I had never heard about a dump around here. Or perhaps, someone had told me and I hadn’t listened properly? Never mind. Here it was. A dump.
Now my curiosity was aroused. What did people in this region throw away? I climbed over the remains of the wall, stepped on a rusted metal plaque that read ‘Danger! Do Not Enter! Trespassers will be’. The rest was unreadable. What exactly did they do to trespassers, I wondered briefly. Before deciding not to care.
The dump was nothing recent. In front of me, a hill of garbage and litter rose into the grey afternoon. Old brown television sets, fake wooden plastic tables, and chairs and sofas and beds, lamps, broken refrigerators, cast iron stoves tainted red with rust, bicycles, cupboards and wardrobes, and metal things, and ceramic things, and stone things, and paper things, and everything. Heaped here, thrown there, an original mountain range of detritus.
I knew that I shouldn’t, but I had to. I stepped on the nearest stove and climbed on it, then the next object, and the next, still going upwards and upwards. I wanted to see what lay behind the garbage hill. Another garbage hill, or something else, or nothing, or anything?
When I reached the top, I halted. There was an old man sitting on a half-rotten rocking chair, having a nap. He was bold, badly shaved, skinny. His grey trousers were stained, his shoes shoddy, his red-and-white checkered shirt open on a white, hairless, bony chest. Without any explanation, I felt a sudden anger rising in me. What did the old fool think he was doing here? He was an intruder to my story. This was my secret dump. This was my own, private adventure.
I approached carefully. ‘Yo!’ I shouted. ‘Yo man! Wake up! You have no right to be here!’
No reaction whatsoever.
I was finally standing before the sleeping dotard. I was trembling with just choler. ‘Don’t pretend you haven’t heard me!’ I yelled in his ear. ‘Hey! I’m talking to you!’
I finally grabbed the old man by the shoulder and shook him. ‘Wake! Up!’ I shrieked.
The rocking chair toppled over, the old man fell backwards. His arms were stiff, his mouth open, his eyes staring into another world’s void.
A thunder rumbled far away. The rest was silence.
The old man must have been sitting there, dead, for quite a while.