There he lays. Six foot two, sturdily built, heavy leather jacket and wet spots in the crotch of the worn jeans smeared with damp earth. In the middle of the crossroads of the small town somewhere in Germany he lays babbling in front of himself, unable to get back on his feet. The curtains of the detached houses lining the street moved and in the open center of crossroad lays the six-foot-two man.
Undecided, there stood on the sidewalk a weedy boy, about 5foot five tall, wearing shorts.
It was summer.
A hot, sweaty day.
He looked around uncertainly.
There was no one there.
Only he, 13 years young and the man, middle-aged, helpless in the middle of the street
the curtains were moving.
Cautiously, the boy approached the person lying there and asked what was going on.
A salivary dribble, “shut the fuck up” came towards him.
Nevertheless, the boy grabbed the man in the right shoulder bend and said,
“Come on! Come on!”
after that the reclining man first stood up on his knees, then in full length, wobbly, the boy pulled his right arm over his shoulder and tried to embrace the wobbly giant with his left arm from behind in the hip.
As they both swayed to the sidewalk, a window was opened, and a nagging woman’s voice shouted,
“Leave the pisshead alone.”
and take a breath,
“Franz lives up there, down Liebig Strasse, in the last house to the left,”
also, immediately the window closed again.
Lonely, pulling loops, unsteady steps, the slim little one moved with the slurping, drooling giant towards Liebigstraße.
The described house in sight, the giant’s strength failed, and the boy dragged the helpless man with extreme effort to the front door, as a pain traversed him, and it got gloomy around him.
All this went through his mind when he stood in front of the door on the fourth floor of the apartment building and knocked on the door.
It was long after work when his office phone rang, and a desperate woman’s voice told him that Anton had taken tablets, sounded drunk on the phone and wanted to kill himself. He was already on his way home, but he knew Anton well. On his way to the apartment building, he hastily alerted the rescue service.
When we arrived at the house, the front door was open, as usual.
Now he stood in front of the door, knocked as it opened and Anton, a kitchen knife in his hand, grinned at him and at the same moment went past him without hold, tumble to the floor in full length. He turned Anton around. Laughing and confused, he looked at his back and threatened: “I’ll kill you all! Everybody!”
He was approaching his fifty, had been 9 hours bringing behind himself and hadn’t eaten anything after breakfast.
Anton was 19 and pumped full of tablets, vodka, amphetamines and probably hadn’t eaten all day. The world had closed itself to him, no one loved him, and he loved no one. Nothing makes sense anymore, he slurred, interrupted again and again by hysterical sounding giggles.
When Anton saw the paramedics coming up the stairs crouching on the floor, he wanted to stand up, became aggressive, but in his condition, this remained stuck in the gestures.
So, he stumbled down the stairs, Anton mumbling in his arm, powerless and painful, followed by the two paramedics.
In the ambulance, he sat next to Anton, held his hand.
The sliding door fell into the lock.
Actually, he was off work.
“We are not only responsible for what we do,Moliére
but also, for what we don’t do.”