A Day in the City

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mikko Soiniemi, born 1982 in Stuttgart, studied German and English at the University of Stuttgart. He is an avid traveler and cites his experiences on all continents, especially in the USA, as inspiration for his work. His interests are widespread and so are the topics of his stories. He enjoys all types of narrative media, from movies to video games. This is his first publication.

Mikko Soiniemi

A Day in the City

A Day in the City © 2013 Mikko Soiniemi

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
Cover idea by Mikko Soiniemi. Design by Florian Mouret.
Font: GNU FreeFont

Imprint
A Day in the City
published by: epubli GmbH, Berlin,
www.epubli.de
Copyright: © 2013 Mikko Soiniemi
ISBN 978-3-8442-6207-0

Introduction

Dear Reader,

What you are holding in your hands right now is the portrait of a city, my city, your city, the city. The concept of the city has always fascinated me.

It seems to be the place where humans can be whatever they want to be, yet fail miserably at it. It is a place that is buzzing and humming with life and yet there are times when it looks like the deadest place on earth. What exactly is a city? It is a place in which many people have come together to live there, yet there is no place on this earth where you could be more alone than there. What fascinates writers about the city is not just only the fact that it is a place of contradictions, but also that it is so richly filled with stories. The more people there are the more stories need to be told.

So the book that you are holding is exactly that, it tries to be a picture of a place that has a million faces, something that eludes all description. The city can never be represented in one story. This book is a Panopticon, it is your way to look into the minds of people that make up the city they live in, it is your way of putting together fragments in order to grasp the city as it lives and breathes. Imagine yourself floating over the heads of people and randomly join them for a little while.

Something like the city cannot be portrayed, but in every story there is also a part of the place where it takes place. Places form people and people form places. So maybe the cities we have in this world tell us a little about how and who we are.

Contents

MORNING

The Dutchman

What am I doing here?

Home

The man who didn't believe

The Mirror

AFTERNOON

For a yardful of ****

Swinging Curtains

Dust

The noble man or beautiful nature

Train Ride

Modern War

Hail to thee, oh dark lord

Home is where the heart is

The River that was

NIGHT

Triumph of Evil

Speechless

Paper Slip

Meeting someone

Nighttime

Ball of lonely Hearts

Love

This book is dedicated to Nicole, who made me finish it, Florian who helped me finish it, and my mother, who I always have to thank.

MORNING

The Dutchman

He had always wondered how hell would be like. They told him a lot of things when he was a kid, about flames and screaming and torture and the devil. It used to make him very afraid. Soon he would find out what it was like, they were coming for him. He knew it, he knew it the whole last week. Ever since they told him he was thinking about it. He was pretty sure he would end up in hell, he was not the worst person on this planet, but there had been enough things that he had done to send a whole group of Mormons to hell. For a whole week now he was sitting there and kept thinking about when it all went wrong. He just couldn't tell. In fact there was not one particular point when it all went wrong, he never made that decision. Everything he did came naturally to him. There were chances and he just took them. It was like that when he took the first bribe, as it was when he shot his first person, as it was when he stole that apple, as it was when he kicked that cat.

The bottle was almost empty again. He was thinking about everything he had done and he didn't regret any of it. There was this one girl back in the day, with beautiful blond hair and eyes as clear and blue as the ocean, she was well worth forgetting about his wife, many times. There were also his friends, he was never lonely when he wanted a drink and he never had to sit alone at a bar as long as he paid for a drink. What were their names, he didn't know. He never met any of them again. How did his father say? “Life is like a restaurant and friends are like guests, they come and they go.” His restaurant went out of business a long time ago. He was a good entertainer, he liked jokes and knew many of them. The one about the Jew was his favorite. That never failed. Except the one time with that idiot Goldberg. He just didn't have any humor, but he smacked him good. That was a laugh. He would probably meet him down there again, along with his old pa. He was never shy of using the belt, he could remember the belt better than his father. That was one of the memories he shared with his mother. His childhood hadn't been bad, he had been going to school for quite a while and even after that it was okay. He could still remember the one time when they got Kowalski, that geek from school, man these firecrackers must have hurt. Funny, a firecracker for a wise-cracker.

His ma was fine too, she drank a little, but who didn't. The one time he went to church they talked about Jesus and how he turned water into wine. And after all, she was not unbearable before her fifth drink, only after that it was better to be somewhere else.

And his car had been great too, what a beauty. He could see how jealous everybody was when he drove by. The color so bright and red, the engine running so smoothly. He had listened to all the great songs on the radio, he really shouldn't have driven the car after the party.

It had been a good life, not outstanding, but acceptable. He had been thinking about this for a whole week now, which was more thinking than he had ever done before in his life. It was not surprising that they would come, he expected that a long time ago.

He never had a nickname, one thing that he really regretted. No one ever gave him one and it was like he never had a name. But what can you do? He had been called many things instead.

His wife had done so often enough, as if he cared. She was gone anyway, no one ever saw her again. They still think she went away with the mechanic. Let them think so.

One week of thinking and he had decided many things. He wanted to write a will but to whom and for what? It was hard nowadays to find decent people. They were coming for him and he knew he deserved it. He thought about what they would put in the paper, but who would read it?

He thought about calling someone, but who, he didn't even have a phone anymore. It was just too bothersome. He stopped going to the mail box a week ago, not that it mattered, he never received mail anyway.

The bottle was empty again. He put back the hammer and pulled the trigger. He had always wondered how hell would be like. They told him a lot of things when he was a kid, about flames and screaming and torture and the devil. It used to make him very afraid. Soon he would find out what it was like, they were coming for him.

What am I doing here?

I am pretty sure that most men do this. It must be normal. I mean everybody takes a peek from time to time. It is not really looking, it is more just a little glance at what the others have. It is just the situation, you stand there and then it happens. Who doesn't do that? Even if you tried to, you could not avoid it. You face the wall, you don't have anywhere to look at and then somebody comes in. It is a reasonable thing to look over into that person's direction. There is nothing about it, after all it would actually be very impolite not to look over. Ignoring someone cannot be considered well mannered. And then of course you will look there, it is just logical, you never know how big a person is. So you start from the bottom and move up and somewhere there in the middle there is the zone. As I said, it is just normal, well, correct social behavior after all. The strange ones would not look, that's it, it is strange not to look. You can believe me, I never look longer than necessary. I never did, I make sure that it cannot be misunderstood. I use my neutral but still welcoming face and I carefully prevent this embarrassing moment in which your eyes meet and you shy away as if doing something inappropriate. So you can see, there is no room for misinterpretation. I behave like any other decent person would do.

But why then is this guy next to me smiling in that fashion. I don't like it. It is like a joke that I don't understand, I feel left out and at the center of attention at the same time. He is smiling a little too much for my taste. I swear I only looked for a short second. Now he nods in my direction. What am I supposed to do? Do I know him? But if that was the case, he would have said something, wouldn't he? But would you say something to somebody here? I nod back, trying my best to smile a little, that should do it. What was that, he raised his eyebrows, what is that supposed to mean? I saw it, he raised his eyebrow and then grinned. That sicko, as if there was something to laugh about.

It's been minutes since anything came and I feel even worse now, he will have noticed it by now. He might already suspect I have some kind of problem. I feel so uncomfortable that any chance of success is long gone. Relief is far out of reach. It is all because of him, standing there staring, grinning. What a sick guy. Oh no, not this too now. I feel it coming, why does it all have to happen at once. He could have just waited a little longer outside, all would have been fine, but instead he had to come now. It is like he planned it, I am sure he was just standing outside waiting for this. This creeper, he thinks he is funny, that is sick, really he has a problem. What kind of man does something like that? I can feel it racing through my bowels, but what can I do? It is getting hard to breathe, I switched to something that is more gasping than breathing. That son of a... Look at him, he is just standing there playing all innocent. What impudence, how he turns his head and fakes this questioning look. This is so low. I am sure this gets him going, he enjoys this, that's his obsession. Like a little worm I lay in front of him and he just stands there and smiles. That pervert.

Finally, he zips up, turns around and leaves. What a change, I feel free. Free of this maniac, I am in a flow and one with myself, a deep breath, more a sigh comes across my lips. It is from way deep down and feels fantastic. I have to smile, he wasn't that big anyway.

Home

In my life I have heard so many things about what home is. The warm feelings, childhood, your mother country, your home town. No one could ever explain to me, what home means, what is your home. Some people say it is a feeling rather than a place. And I must admit, they are right. At least they are closer to the truth than most people are. It is a feeling, but it is not just a feeling. It is many feelings at the same time, it is a place and the feelings and the people. That is what home is, a moment. It is a moment which you see and feel as home.

Let me tell you what home is for me, it is not a country, it is not a continent. It is far from the city or street I live in. My home is a room, it is not my room. It is a room that belongs to my family, it is in our apartment. It is the living room of our apartment, in which I spent countless hours. It is the place where all the family comes together, after school, university and work. It is where our lives take place. Everything else is unimportant, it is this one room in which we are a family, in which we are more than just solitary creatures living a plain existence. This place is, where we meet, where we share and hate each other – sometimes. The place that I call home is this living room, it has a TV that is always running, it also has a computer which is online permanently. But that is the magic of this room and place and moment, both of them are unimportant. What counts is us, the other things don't even distract us. They are there, but not more. My home is the moment in which I am sitting at the endlessly running computer peeking at the TV and I know everyone is there and will be there forever. My brother is sitting on the sofa after school, which he considers to suck. My sister is reading something and complaining about something. My dad is at work but the phone is ringing, it is him, we all know that. He wants to know what happened today, any news? We all know there are no news, it is all the same, it is perfect. My mother is in the kitchen preparing lunch, she is almost done and tells us to get ready for lunch. We argue what to watch on TV while eating lunch, but it doesn't matter after all, as we will be louder than the TV anyway. I can smell the food, I can hear my brother, the dog is begging for some attention, the sun outside is shining in our not really taken-care-of-yard. It is very warm and we switch on the fan, before we get the ice cubes for our drinks. No one thinks of tomorrow, we are just together, there is no doubt, there is no fear. We will be together like this forever. Many things changed since then, but this will always be home.

The man who didn't believe

Once upon a time there was a man who said he didn't believe in anything he could not prove to exist. He lived his life being happy because everything he ever saw he knew was really there. When he walked down the street, he knew that the people in the street really existed, that the concrete he was walking on was really there, that the sky and the clouds above him were there and you could prove it. His whole life was centered on the idea that he knew what exists and why and how, because in the end everything was perfectly logical and all a matter of science. His life was well-ordered, because whatever happened to him had an explanation, everything had its sense. Even the bad things that he encountered in his life were always just the result of something that made sense. If somebody he was close to left him, it was just logical because people go their own way. If somebody did not like him, it was logical because they did not match up in their personality and their pheromone smell did not mix well. If somebody died, it was logical because humans have a limited life span, their functions cease, their life ends. They turn into compost and become part of the cycle again. He acknowledged the fact that there was no higher power in this world, that the world itself was the power. The system was the only thing that existed and it only existed because of the people in it. Everything had its place and purpose, not in a moral but logical sense. Action and reaction, life was nothing but a constant scientific experiment.

And when the day came that he was about to die, he thought about his life. He thought about the things that made him happy, he thought about the things that made him sad. He remembered the women he loved, the people he cheated. The people he helped and the people he didn't even notice.

And when he closed his eyes for the last time and knew that this was also just part of the equation, that it was nothing but a biological reaction that would end his existence he was not sad, just empty.

The Mirror

She had already forgotten how long she had been standing in front of that mirror. But this was important. “There are enough people out there who obsess over trivialities”, she thought. But this, this was something entirely else. All these girls she knew who stared into the mirror because of nothing, because there was a zit somewhere, maybe. Or who had ridiculous thoughts about their hair, breasts, butts, weight, eyebrows or anything like that. They would go on and on about such unimportant things. Who cared if you weighed a little bit too much, if there were some love handles to be found. Oh, how she hated that term. It was sick and wrong to always search for your own faults, little shortcomings or things that you don’t like about yourself. Why always focus on the negative? Why did people waste their time and energy with complaining and thinking about things that shouldn’t really bother them? All the teenage girls trying to look like the stars on TV, buying the magazine and starving themselves for just a little less weight. All the girls thinking about plastic surgery for their lips, boobs, asses, maybe all of it together. Taken from one place and put into the other. All of this seemed not only utterly ridiculous, it was actually more. It was disturbing and in the end probably bad for anyone involved in it. This here was something else entirely. She was not a little overweight, she didn’t have just some love handles (there it was again…). She was an ugly giant of a woman, she was obese beyond any imagination. And she had tried everything already, sports and diets, saunas and enemas, plastic foil and pills. None of it had made any difference. She was just the blob. Years ago she had already given up hope to ever be normal, to ever be thin and attractive. Yet she still endured the same procedure every single day of her life, most days several times. She would get out an old shirt of hers and put it on in front of the huge mirror in her room. And then look at it, how she filled it out, how it was nearly exploding, how it was unable to keep back her belly, how it made her breasts appear like the flabby pieces of fat they were. How none of it fit into it. And this shirt was only a couple of years still pretty presentable. What had happened to her, how could she have gained so much weight, what did she do to deserve these enormous proportions. It disgusted her to look at herself, yet it was like watching a deadly car crash: one could simply not look away. With morbid fascination she scrutinized every inch of her body, searching for more of the terrible flaws that others didn’t have to suffer from. She put away the shirt and started again to look at her body. Now naked, she realized that her belly was way too big, it was not like the flat piece it should be, but it looked more like she was pregnant, somewhere under the million layers of fat. She turned around and inspected her back, it didn’t look much better. She grabbed at her shoulder and could hold the skin and flesh between her fingers. She moved it between them. It almost made her puke. Underneath her back she didn’t even dare to look at her saggy ass, hanging down there, being of monstrous size. It just hung there, moving on its own she felt, making her nothing but an enormous clown. A caricature of a woman. What are you supposed to do? She watched everything she ate, she counted calories, she went running after each meal, she drank gallons of water. A while ago she was fed up with how all of this was evolving, so she came up with the idea to keep book on her meals and how much of it was left in her body. The fat had to come from somewhere, there had to be a reason why she was like a hot air balloon. Calorie counting had proven to be useless and in fact it was probably just a lie by the big companies anyway, to trick people into eating unhealthy, fatty food. So she came up with a much better method of checking her nutrition. That was when she found out that something was wrong with her. It took her years to see it, but just after a couple of days of keeping record she had the undisputable evidence. Her body was not right, it didn’t function properly. Nature had cheated her, it had given her a broken body that instead of using up the food inserted into it, just grew and grew. Her body was like cancer, it couldn’t be stopped, not contained not even speaking of healed. How could you otherwise explain the discrepancies she found? Not once, not twice, but every single day. She weighed every last piece of her food, every drop of water she drank. All of it. On a very, very precise scale in her kitchen. The result was always the exact same one. When she weighed what came out again, on an equally exact scale in her bathroom, it was always less. Not by much, but it never was the same. So her body was against her, it was playing tricks on her. It just kept a tiny portion of everything for itself to grow. It might not have been much, but it was enough. Every day it did that, think about all the years she had been eating and drinking, it was no wonder she was grotesque like that. Why did the world treat her that unfairly? How can it be that you are cursed with a heinous, treacherous and evidently broken body like that? Others lived happily for 80 years and never had issues with their body, she just turned fourteen and was already a fat wreck. For the fifth time that day, she lifted her enormous body on the scale. Nothing had changed, still the same. She would never be perfect, never be at least acceptable. The scale was proof enough, all her trying, all her fighting, all her discipline, it was for nothing. She still weighed almost 75 pounds.

AFTERNOON

For a yardful of ****

There they stand, two men in the glistening sun. They are ready for a duel, with long steps they approach each other. Two men in their forties, willing to do what it takes. I can hear Morricone's tunes playing along with it. The tension hangs so thick in the air that it is hard to breathe. They walk up to each other and meet in the middle, just a handful of steps from each other, far away one imagines to hear a coyote singing his lonesome and woeful song. They are surrounded by what was once living meat but now is nothing more than compost. The graves of many are flagged with little metal wires to which red ribbons are attached, the two men stand in a sea of red flags, waving in the summer's hot breeze. Their eyes filled with determination and blood lust, so they meet on this memorable day in August.

Well, one has to explain the circumstances, why in a suburb of an ordinary town in Germany two men are about to duel. It is a matter of life and death and one of the combatants is my own father. The bravest man there is, all day long this memorable Sunday his family was by his side and briefed him for the confrontation, sometimes openly asking if it is worth it. But a man has to stand by his word. And so they face, both of them bound to meet by fate, not challenging their destiny but accepting it. High noon, it is time. The place for the duel is our front yard, covered in said flags. The men will battle it out, they are ready. Right before the duel I can see my father's right hand, it is shaking, he is nervous, but does he back down? Hell no.

The red flags wave gently in the wind, as if they did not know that they are the reason why these two dare devils have to face. They act innocent, claiming to not know that they will alter two families' lives. They look harmless, but they smell. They send their little venomous stench out into the warm summer air. Poo, dog poo, our dog's poo, there it sits and waits patiently for an unsuspecting foot.

And so they meet, my father and the neighbor, hero and villain.

Like ballerinas they curve around the ferocious mines that cover the yard.

In the setting sun - yes it took them that long - they face each other and the duel is faster than our eyes and ears can follow it.

“We will need a fence”

“Well, then build one”

“No one wants a fence”

“Yes, no one”

“So we drop it”

“Yes, we drop it”

The heroes return to their families and celebrate their victory. Was it really worth it?

Swinging Curtains

You know this, everybody knows it. You walk down the street and you just can't get rid of the feeling that somebody is watching you, you turn around and try to locate the person, but there is no one. This happens at day-time, night-time, it doesn't matter. You can be drunk, you can be sober, you are never alone. What you do is of no importance, they will always see you, always follow you. Eyes are glued on you, witness every single step. Judge you, think in their dark corners about what you are up to. An armada of spies, unknown to you, they see every step, every move. They carefully hide their face from you, it is a one-sided affair. They see you, think about you, know everything and you don't even know their face. They are shadows behind windows, specters in the dark. Disappearing when you look up to them, just to come back as soon as you turn your head back. They are not like humans, they are like mountains, always there and after a while you don't notice them anymore. You let them watch you and you try not to care. They are anonymous and observe you with the patience of a hunter watching his prey. Their eyes pierce you and they see every flaw, every single misstep you take. They will punish you with even more staring, their morality is dripping over their window ledges. It drowns you and makes you feel guilty for just being there. Something must be wrong with you, why would the guards of righteousness watch you like this if you were innocent? They pass judgment on you and they don't hold back. They know right from wrong and they know that you are not meant to be in their street. Why do you bother them here, this is a good neighborhood. It doesn't need something like this, something like you. These are good people living here - normal - they just want their peace and don't do harm to anyone. You didn't have to disturb them, these poor souls. Now they have to stand guard and protect their homes. I see them behind their curtains, I know that they are there, faceless and silent. They are just like you and me. Each of these windows has at least one pair of eyes and they all are watching. They mind their own business, they don't want to be involved. It is very unfair of us to just show up here and cause trouble, we are bad guests. After all it was our choice to come here, they didn't invite us. We were never asked to be here. And nobody can claim that it is their fault, they are good people. They take care of their neighborhood. You have to admit, that it was his own fault. He should just have paid a little more attention when crossing the road. They saw the car coming, no one can expect them to call the police just because my friend is lying here in his blood. It is not their fault, they were just watching.

Dust

I can smell the dust. I can see it flowing through the air, I feel myself cutting through it as if it was some mist floating