A piece of fiction I wrote.
_____________________________________________________________________________
"He is moving almost soundlessly in the
cold, hostile streets of Hamburg. The dim light from a nearby lamp post
illuminates his path. The air is stifling, but the quiet is redemptive.
He pictures of home; a stone fireplace, a homemade pie, his sister's
plaited hair, the freckled face of a lost love."
* * *
"Lukas! Lukas, goddammit!"
"Yes, yes!" Lukas sighs, accustomed to his boss' coarse behavior — if slightly exasperated.
He is obviously immensely grateful that Jonas Fleischer hired him when he first moved to Hamburg — employed university students with zero previous experience (unless you count farm life. Hey, that's gotta teach you something) are not particularly common. Especially in modern Europe.
He enters the large, rectangular room that is Fleischer's office, writing pad in hand. An impressive desk made of polished, quality wood stands in the middle of the office, surrounded by two plush armchairs. The left wall is covered in its entirety by a bookcase, while the right is flecked with framed articles; black-and-white pictures and vociferous headlines, tales of celebrity scandals and political corruption. A gargantuan floor-to-ceiling window that replaces the wall behind Fleischer overlooks Hamburg by dusk.
"Finally," his boss, a corpulent man of fifty years, groans. He eyes Lukas who waits patiently — frankly, he looks unsure of what to do. "Well, sit. Grab a pen," he instructs. Mentally, he is doing the — how is it called? Ah, yeah. The "facepalm". Another Americanism, which he hates, but his daily interactions with his teenage daughter have resulted in his familiarization with the overseas lingo. Anyway, Lukas is a smart kid and very talented, but he is a doormat. He takes no initiatives — none, never.
"Oh, right," Lukas stammers out. He fumbles for his pen — it must be somewhere in the inside pocket of his jacket, but he can't find it. "Shit," he hisses.
Fleischer shoots him a stern look. He pulls out a pen from the metallic pencil-case on his desk and wordlessly hands it to his employee. Lukas takes it, flips open his pad, and slumps down onto the armchair closest to him. Day forty-five at this job and he's already proven how much of a clusterfuck he is.
"Pick up Sofie from college," Fleischer recites, "pick up my suit from the dry cleaner's, and fix the damn cappuccino machine! That Italian piece of shit never works."
"Fix the cappuccino machine... Hey, Mr. Fleischer?"
"What, Bauer? I'm busy. The Greeks have fucked up again."
"I was wondering... I have this piece, I've been working on it for some time now —"
"To the point, Bauer."
"Yeah. Sorry. I —" He is lagging again, and Fleischer is losing his patience. "I have been working here for over a month, and I think you should... It would be nice, I suppose, if you would give me a chance to prove how much I deserve the columnist job —"
Fleischer, who up until that point was listening carefully (apparently), nods, and drops his gaze to a stack of papers in front of him.
"Um, sir?"
"What?"
"Uh... never mind," Lukas mutters, disappointment and anger mingling in his voice.
He goes back to the cubicle that is his office, a tiny, foul smell-emitting room, with the warmth and hospitality of a cardboard.
Two months ago, when he came to this city, three hundred and fifty euros in his wallet, he had dreams, aspirations. He wanted to be a writer. A writer. He read Hemingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Jack Kerouac, and he could see his name already, printed on the cover of his debut paper-back novel. Road trip fiction, it would be. He'd never been outside Meissen until now, but he had read books — tomes, encyclopedias, pamphlets, and brochures — on the geography, history, climate, culture, and life in Europe. He's read about America, and, Asia, and Africa, too. Books with pictures and without. Forests and rivers, vast stretches of fertile land and wide scopes of water — the Mediterranean, the Atlantic, the North Sea. And cities, islands, highways and dirt roads, sunrises and sunsets, skyscrapers and cabins in the mountains, verdant hills and limestone cliffs. Museums, and tiny cafés, and the Parthenon, and the Empire State Building, and the Statue of Liberty, and the Trevi Fountain. The Taj Mahal, the Great Wall, and the Tian Tan Buddha.
Lukas longed to escape his humble hometown, head for the big city... Fantasies and ambitions fought in his head; which would he accomplish first? University, then road trip? The "good life" — parties, bars, alcohol, and sex? The harsh reality of unemployment greeted him with a kick in the groin. 450 euros a month for a crappy job at a crappy tabloid, with a crappy boss and crappy working conditions...
His dreams have already taken the backseat, and he hasn't even realized it.
"Yes, yes!" Lukas sighs, accustomed to his boss' coarse behavior — if slightly exasperated.
He is obviously immensely grateful that Jonas Fleischer hired him when he first moved to Hamburg — employed university students with zero previous experience (unless you count farm life. Hey, that's gotta teach you something) are not particularly common. Especially in modern Europe.
He enters the large, rectangular room that is Fleischer's office, writing pad in hand. An impressive desk made of polished, quality wood stands in the middle of the office, surrounded by two plush armchairs. The left wall is covered in its entirety by a bookcase, while the right is flecked with framed articles; black-and-white pictures and vociferous headlines, tales of celebrity scandals and political corruption. A gargantuan floor-to-ceiling window that replaces the wall behind Fleischer overlooks Hamburg by dusk.
"Finally," his boss, a corpulent man of fifty years, groans. He eyes Lukas who waits patiently — frankly, he looks unsure of what to do. "Well, sit. Grab a pen," he instructs. Mentally, he is doing the — how is it called? Ah, yeah. The "facepalm". Another Americanism, which he hates, but his daily interactions with his teenage daughter have resulted in his familiarization with the overseas lingo. Anyway, Lukas is a smart kid and very talented, but he is a doormat. He takes no initiatives — none, never.
"Oh, right," Lukas stammers out. He fumbles for his pen — it must be somewhere in the inside pocket of his jacket, but he can't find it. "Shit," he hisses.
Fleischer shoots him a stern look. He pulls out a pen from the metallic pencil-case on his desk and wordlessly hands it to his employee. Lukas takes it, flips open his pad, and slumps down onto the armchair closest to him. Day forty-five at this job and he's already proven how much of a clusterfuck he is.
"Pick up Sofie from college," Fleischer recites, "pick up my suit from the dry cleaner's, and fix the damn cappuccino machine! That Italian piece of shit never works."
"Fix the cappuccino machine... Hey, Mr. Fleischer?"
"What, Bauer? I'm busy. The Greeks have fucked up again."
"I was wondering... I have this piece, I've been working on it for some time now —"
"To the point, Bauer."
"Yeah. Sorry. I —" He is lagging again, and Fleischer is losing his patience. "I have been working here for over a month, and I think you should... It would be nice, I suppose, if you would give me a chance to prove how much I deserve the columnist job —"
Fleischer, who up until that point was listening carefully (apparently), nods, and drops his gaze to a stack of papers in front of him.
"Um, sir?"
"What?"
"Uh... never mind," Lukas mutters, disappointment and anger mingling in his voice.
He goes back to the cubicle that is his office, a tiny, foul smell-emitting room, with the warmth and hospitality of a cardboard.
Two months ago, when he came to this city, three hundred and fifty euros in his wallet, he had dreams, aspirations. He wanted to be a writer. A writer. He read Hemingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Jack Kerouac, and he could see his name already, printed on the cover of his debut paper-back novel. Road trip fiction, it would be. He'd never been outside Meissen until now, but he had read books — tomes, encyclopedias, pamphlets, and brochures — on the geography, history, climate, culture, and life in Europe. He's read about America, and, Asia, and Africa, too. Books with pictures and without. Forests and rivers, vast stretches of fertile land and wide scopes of water — the Mediterranean, the Atlantic, the North Sea. And cities, islands, highways and dirt roads, sunrises and sunsets, skyscrapers and cabins in the mountains, verdant hills and limestone cliffs. Museums, and tiny cafés, and the Parthenon, and the Empire State Building, and the Statue of Liberty, and the Trevi Fountain. The Taj Mahal, the Great Wall, and the Tian Tan Buddha.
Lukas longed to escape his humble hometown, head for the big city... Fantasies and ambitions fought in his head; which would he accomplish first? University, then road trip? The "good life" — parties, bars, alcohol, and sex? The harsh reality of unemployment greeted him with a kick in the groin. 450 euros a month for a crappy job at a crappy tabloid, with a crappy boss and crappy working conditions...
His dreams have already taken the backseat, and he hasn't even realized it.
