SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

—CHAPTER TWO—

Bratwurst-the-Cat woke me early the following morning. He had discovered the best way to do this was to sniff my eyelids.

As proof that spiritual connective tissue runs deep among all living creatures, Riggo (our cat) does the same thing when he wants me to wake up.

It works every time.

It’s a distressing feeling to have a cat breathe on your eyelids.

The house was silent, and all the bedroom doors were shut. I assumed the girls were still asleep. I quietly stepped into the kitchen, pulled a small bottle of root beer from the refrigerator, and spent an hour cleaning. Afterward, I peeked into the sitting room to see if Jen and Hindenburg (or whatever her name was) were still there.

They were. Fast asleep and still holding hands.

I stepped outside. The sun was beginning to make an appearance. I opened the bottle, and the root beer exploded. Most of it ended up on my shirt.

I drank the last of the root beer in the can and tiptoed back into the house. Jen was sleeping, but Hindenburg was walking toward me, giving every appearance of someone who needed to use the little girl’s room.

I whispered, “Guten morgen.”

Hindenburg looked frightened, backed away, and shook her head.  

I made the “ladies first” gesture towards the long hallway leading to the bathroom, but she stiffened and said, “No. You go. I go after. Please. Danke. Please.”

Okay. You’re weird.

I walked down the hall. Hindenburg waited for me to enter my adopted room and close the door before sneaking into the bathroom. Remembering the cat, Bratwurst, I opened the door so he could come and go as he pleased. When Hindenburg finished her fun, she took a step out of the bathroom and stopped. I guessed she didn’t trust me. I shut my bedroom door without looking into the hall. She then scurried down the hall.

Do I smell that bad?

After a few minutes, I returned to the kitchen for a glass of water. Bratwurst entered with a small fuzzy ball in his mouth. He marched over to me, dropped the ball at my feet, walked five feet away, stopped, turned around, sat down, and stared at me with a look, saying, “Well? Let’s get started.”

I had no idea what he had in mind, so I rolled the ball to him. He batted it around for a few seconds, grabbed it by the mouth, marched to me, dropped the ball at my feet, walked five feet away, stopped, turned, sat, and stared at me with a look that said, “Do it again.”

I sat on the floor, and we repeated this process until it became excruciatingly boring, at least for me. The cat was having a wonderful time and showed every sign of wanting to continue this game until one of us died.

Unbeknownst to me, a member of the Gang of Four had been observing us for a minute. She stood against the wall, her hand over her mouth, and giggled.

Great. I must look like an idiot.

She mumbled something in German to Hindenburg, who was in the next room. “Ja! The ugly man is stupid. Playing with the cat. Dumber than the cat. Ja. Jen brought a moron.” (Okay, that was a guess on my part.)

I smiled and continued my fascinating game with Bratwurst.

Hindenburg stood next to her, and they had a brief conversation. In German, of course. I assumed it went:

“Where did Jen find this clown?”

“In a furniture store. He accidentally locked himself in. She found him sleeping on the floor.”

“Ha-ha! Maybe he was sitting on the TV and watching the sofa.”

Jen joined the party. “Would you mind if I left him here?”

“Sure. We need someone to alphabetize our M&Ms.”

 “Whenever we need spare change, we can ask him for a penny for his thoughts.”

“We could lock him in the basement, and then he could try to kill himself by jumping out of the window.”

All three, in unison. “Ha-ha. Loser.”

I looked at Jen. “Dare I ask what you guys are talking about? I’m sure I look like an imbecile.”

Jen said, “They think it’s cute. You scored points with them. He likes you, too. Another man in the house.”

“What is the cat’s name?”

She replied with something that sounded like “Wienerschnitzel.”

I think I’ll stick with Bratwurst.

That was followed by the simultaneous buzz of four alarm clocks. Bratwurst jumped about two feet in the air and ran off.

Jen announced, “Breakfast time.”

I looked at Jen. “Think they’ll mind if I take a shower? Not sure what the protocol is around here.”

“They would be thrilled if you did. There’s a café near here. The gals don’t drink coffee. I know that cramps your style. Have breakfast first.”

“Breakfast and I have an understanding. I don’t bother it, and it doesn’t bother me. Coffee sounds jolly good. If they have cinnamon rolls, then I’ll keep you in mind. What are we up to today?”

Jen replied, “Going to prison.”

I gave that a long thought. “Think I’ll be leaving now.”

I ran out for coffee and returned with some pastries for Jen and her friends.

I knocked on the front door. After thirty seconds, a head popped out of the bathroom window at the other end of the house. I heard, “Es ist okay.”

The door opened.

They can’t trust anyone for good reason. The next knock on the door may be from someone from their former church who feels his tender sensibilities were violated by the Fab Four’s belief in equal rights and has come, with a gun in one hand and a Bible in the other, to resolve matters in the most equitable way he knows. He’ll have to murder everyone in the house quickly because he needs to return to his family as soon as possible so he can find the weakest female in the room and punch her in the face. Of course, he’ll need to return to this house and shoot the cat because the cat might be gay, too. Even if he’s neutered, he may still be having “thoughts.” Then he’ll screw the woman he rented from the escort service, punch her in the face, go home, lecture the children about the moral malaise in today’s society, go outside, find a young girl who is walking her dog, punch her in the face, go back inside, drink a case of beer, congratulate himself for doing God’s work, wake up two days later, discover he was fired from his job for embezzling funds, and punch his wife in the face because it’s all her fault.

I put the pastries on the kitchen table, much to everyone’s delight.

Jen said, “You just made four friends for life.”

I replied with, “Now. Prison. Does everyone need to turn themselves in today? What are the charges? That why y’all were praying last night?”

No, actually. She said that every week, the four of them visit a prison to share the good news with anyone willing to listen. Since the audience consisted of convicts serving long sentences, the line of those interested was impressive.

Jen said, “You should come. It’s a great time.”

It’s a great time in a German prison. That’s not a sentence I hear too often.

I wasn’t leaping at the opportunity. “Uh, I dunno. Might mean the end of any faith I have in humanity.”

She thought for a moment. “It might mean the beginning of having more faith.” Pause. “I think you should come. Come on.”

“Where’s the slam located?”

“Berlin.”

“Oh.”

Berlin? Ick.

Jen was adamant. “Please. This is something I want you to see. You are my bodyguard, after all.”

“Yes, mother. The woman that slept in the sitting room. She’s the one you met in Wisconsin?”

I received a nod.

“When I walked in this morning, I must have terrified her. She was heading to the bathroom and looked mortified when she saw me. Please let her know I didn’t mean to scare her.”

Jen replied, “It’s not you. She has a history with…”

“Unpleasant men?”

“Uh-huh.”

“When I came back last night, you two were asleep but still had a death grip on each other’s hand.” Another pause. “Still in love? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Yeah…and…yeah. You know. I wish I could stay here longer.” She stared at me. “It’s, like…, I can’t…we can’t…like…I dunno.” For the first time in our association, Jen sounded defeated.

You cannot have a relationship because it’s against the rules. You cannot allow yourself to think about being in love with her, even though you’ll find yourself thinking about it all the time. You cannot live happily ever after because God has other plans.

Well, you can. But you won’t. That kind of devotion might get you killed. You know that, of course. You’re a better person than me. You know that, too.

I took a quick shower, tossed back some Jack, and hopped into the van; we then left for Berlin.

Of course, there were two Berlins in those days, divided by a very ominous wall and the dread of the Cold War. The dreary, depressing, half-dead East Berlin was brought to you courtesy of the East German Democratic Republic, a communist country and a satellite nation (not necessarily by the popular choice of its citizens) of the Soviet Union. West Berlin was in, well, West Germany, which was, as far as I could tell, a democracy.

I had already visited West Berlin a couple of times in the early 1980s when the city was crumbling under the weight of a poor global economy and governmental stupidity.

Visiting East Berlin was verboten on the grounds that Westerners would spread their Capitalist cooties onto unsuspecting citizens. Still, enough information seeped through to let us know that while West Berlin was down at the heel, it was a hell of a lot better than East Berlin.

My first impression was West Berlin was a great place if you had a demented sexual fetish that couldn’t be satisfied elsewhere.

The peep shows and nude bars weren’t places to gawk at people dancing with their clothes off. Well, granted, they were without their clothes, but the dancing was replaced with displays of sadomasochism, bloodletting, using the stage as a bathroom, playing with animals, inserting various objects, and dressing it all up as cabaret.

You’d get a transvestite singing “Show Me the Way to the Next Whiskey Bar” while urinating on someone and pass it off as theater.

The sign at the Berlin airports said, “Welcome to West Berlin – Bring Penicillin. This place is one big sexually transmitted disease.”

I stopped into a bar for a beer or three. I sat down just in time to witness an S/M demonstration where the actors slapped one another around while looking dispirited and bored to tears. It was unwatchable. After one drink, I left.

Another impression was that West Berliners were inclined to protest and riot about anything that came to mind, including housing shortages, the economy, nuclear power, crappy pay, inflation, homelessness,  too many foreigners, too many gays, too many skinheads, and big companies who were being mean.

When they ran out of ideas, they’d demonstrate against the United States. Sometimes they’d bitch about McDonald’s during the same demonstration, but no one could adequately explain why. It couldn’t have been about the food. During my 1985 excursion, I saw a drive-through McDonald’s in the southwest part of Berlin. At 3 pm, the cars were lined up thirty deep.

The good folks in the city were willing to sit in their cars for thirty minutes to buy a McDonald’s fat burger, some fat fries, a dessert made of pure lard, and a milkshake that had no milk in it.

Fortunately for those sitting in the car line, they were entertained by a group of youngsters breakdancing to a droning soundtrack with a disco beat. It was worse than the S/M display.

I’ve never wanted to kill people more in my life.

The UN shoved a load of nuclear weapons into West Berlin and issued a statement declaring, “You get all the nukes because we don’t like your fucking attitude and your music sucks.”

This caused more riots and motivated West Berliners to run to the Berlin Wall, paint drawings of penises, and write, “America is evil. Yankee go home. PS, we hate McDonald’s, but we don’t know why.”

A new political party emerged in West Germany with a promise to improve everything. The only change I observed was the introduction of a new dress code for parliamentary meetings. Otherwise, it was the same old misery, albeit without a necktie.

East Berlin was a disaster zone. The ruling government did what every communist government does when life is a nightmare for its entire population by taking a diseased farm animal and trying to make it look pretty:

During a housing crisis, East Germany’s GDR built a beautiful sports complex and appeased its citizens by saying, “Isn’t this great? You already feel better. We can tell.”

In response to one of many spikes in inflation, the government built a state-of-the-art hospital. “Cool, isn’t it? Aren’t you impressed by how wonderful your life is?”

When masses of East Berliners tried to get the hell out of East Berlin, the powers that be built an amusement park and zoo. “Come on! Who’d want to leave this.” Then, the Stasi captured the perpetrators and shot them. (There were reports of single people trying to jump the wall because the pickings in East Germany were mighty slim. I’m not kidding.)

Following protests over government oppression, a luxurious concert hall emerged. “Isn’t being a Commie great?” Then, the Stasi captured the protesters and shot them.

The result was a dying pig wearing lipstick, expensive jewelry, a tuxedo, and Prada shoes. And was about to be shot.

That was East Berlin.

West Berlin officials attempted a similar strategy to boost morale in 1985 by bringing Princess Diana into town to witness military demonstrations. To make matters worse, she was dropped into a fully loaded tank. She drove it and damn near ran someone over. The Western press dismissed it as “Eh, women drivers.”

The world was uneasy over the Cold War. By 1985, citizens and governments were panicked and paranoid, which is never a good time for citizens or governments to make drastic decisions. Nevertheless, they did.

The drive to the big house was pleasant. The gang was much more friendly and conversational. Jen provided translations. All five women wore long blue or black skirts, baggy shirts, sneakers, and no make-up.  

They wanted to hear all about America. Did we have a cause we all believed in? Was there anything that galvanized America’s citizens? World poverty, for instance. Maybe war or repression. Perhaps humanity’s inhumanity to one another.

I thought about that until I found my answer. “Coca-Cola changed its formula.”

The silence was profound.

I continued. “It’s called New Coke. Everyone hated it. The people united and yelled until Coke went back to the old formula.”

Crickets.

“That’s about it. I’d imagine there are other issues we care about, but I don’t know what they might be.”

Nothing. Just dead fish stares.

“We don’t care about the suffering of others. Moral outrage is restricted to the point spread in a football game. We spend all our time eating Cheetos and watching the latest TV game show called ‘Washed Up Celebrities Eat Bugs for Money.’ Our greatest concern in life is the store’s refund policy for merchandise we stole from it three days ago. That’s about it.”

Well, what about me, they wondered. I must be someone with a cause or belief. Why else would I be going to a war zone with Jen?

I shrugged. “I’m no different than any other American. Worse, actually. Nothing mattered. I met Jen, and I believe in helping her finish what she started. After that, I’m as bankrupt as my fellow citizens.”

This mystified the Fab Four. How is this possible? What’s life without purpose? Doesn’t everyone believe in something? What about having faith, hope, and love? How about God? Where does God fit in my equation?

Why do people keep asking me about that?

I gave a defeated smile. “God. Hmmm. Vexed issue, that one. Currently on the shelf for future considerations. I admire your faith. I really do. I wouldn’t mind having some. Are you selling any? Your beliefs and faith are genuine, but I don’t share them. But I believe in what Jen’s doing, and I, at least, am motivated to help her. It’s a cause, I guess. Maybe not. So much of this is beyond my understanding. I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I’m doing it anyway. I don’t care about the cost.” Pause. “And I don’t mind dying in the process. Maybe there’s some faith there. You’d know better on that score.”

This prompted some back and forth until one of them made an announcement that returned the silence.

Jen told me we were in the area of the recently destroyed “Church of Reconciliation.” It was a church directly on the Berlin Wall but on the east side. The East German government walled off the entire building. The only ones allowed to enter the church were East German soldiers, who occasionally shot people from it. Earlier in the year, the GDR blew the place to smithereens, which didn’t sit well with the four of them. They wanted a memorial for the church and quietly prayed about it.

Afterward, they sang “99 Luftballoons,” which was playing on the radio.

I hate this fucking song.

 We traded war stories. Two of them gave me accounts of their troubled lives, abusive relationships, and safe landings in the Christian world.

I’m in an abusive relationship at the moment with myself. I don’t want to say this too loud because I don’t want me to hear this.

But I know I need to leave before I get hurt.

When you see us together, it looks like we have it all figured out. And, we usually… I mean, I can be a lot of fun. We have so much in common. We complete each other’s sentences all the time. I make me laugh so much.

It’s like, sometimes I don’t want to hear me out. We’re both Leo’s, that’s probably some of it…then…sometimes I can be so mean to me. I won’t let myself get a word in edgewise.

Then I’ll buy myself something amazing. It’s as if I always know exactly what I want, and it feels okay.

Then, it’s like a light switch, and I turn into someone…it’s like I don’t have any idea who I am…I walk on eggshells because I never know…what version of me will show up…then, I end up getting into the most ridiculous arguments with myself.

And, when it comes to me, I can be so vicious…not always…well I started noticing it about twenty-five years ago. That’s when the abuse really started.

We arrived at the prison, and it was nicer than I expected. There was no barbed wire with prisoners standing behind it while guards had guns pointed at them. It was a clean, modern building. We passed a couple of checkpoints by van and a few more when walking into the facility. The security staff we met were suspiciously friendly. When it came to getting passes, the person in charge noted that they were prepared for the usual four people. Based on his astute observation, there were two more. In his estimation, that equaled six. After some lighthearted conversation and identity checks, he decided that Jen and I looked nice enough to come in and play.

As I’ve mentioned, getting around in 1985 was easier than it is today.

We passed many inmates.

Can you imagine the creative suggestions five women would hear while walking past inmates at Folsom Prison?

I doubt they’d hear, “Let’s spend a night by the fireplace and watch “Grey’s Anatomy” while I respect your boundaries.”

Okay, they weren’t exactly dressed for a night in South Beach, but that wouldn’t have stopped anyone.

The general theme of comments directed my way would involve me being cut into bite-sized pieces and fed to the small rabid animals in the prison.

Instead, I occasionally heard a polite “guten tag” and “hallo.” We made brief stops for conversations that sounded positive. I was introduced to some of the lucky residents. We’d shake hands, and I mumbled, “Schön, dich kennenzulernen,” which was my attempt to say, “Nice to meet you.” Those who spoke English could tell I was an American. They were delighted to talk to me about the States and share copious information, including addresses and phone numbers, about their third cousins who all lived in America, mostly in Houston.

Some inmates wore their own clothes, most cell doors remained open, and the hall was immaculate, reflecting German tradition and order. Prisoners had their own cells, complete with a television, a small refrigerator, a bathroom, a closet, and plenty of shelf space for reading materials.

I asked Jen if we were in the minimum-security part of the prison with the laidback money-laundering bankers and if the psycho-killers were in another cell block.

 Jen conferred with her pals and replied, “They said the people here are all convicted of violent crimes. The last guy you talked to admitted to killing his wife and children.”

I said, “What?!”

“Then he burned his house down.”

“Aw, come on.”

“They said we’ll see him later.”

“Imagine my excitement.”

The prison had two rooms set aside, both of which were large enough to accommodate a half-court basketball game. One had rows of chairs facing a small stage.

The other had four sets of ten chairs in a neat circle in every corner of the room, accommodating four Alcoholics Anonymous-style meetings.

“Hi, my name is Claus, and I’m a serial killer.”

“Hi, Claus.”

“Hi, I’m Wolfgang. I’m a murderer, arsonist, pervert, child pornographer, panty collector, bestiality participant, and drug-dealing Boy Scout leader.”

“Hi, Wolfgang, you sick bastard.”

Over the course of two hours, prisoners arrived in shifts and sat in one of the four circles, each led by a member of the Feb Four who were treated reverently. There was singing, testifying (I suppose), laughing, crying, handholding, and hugging; the frauleins were excluded from any embracing, presumably at the orders of the prison commandant.

All hands moved to the other room for an animated and heroically loud church service. It reminded me of the service James Brown led in “The Blues Brothers,” a comedic movie about two guys who, go figure, were “on a mission from God.” If you haven’t seen it, then see it.

There was one-on-one time after the service, during which all five appeared to be giving advice and counsel to various attendees. I reminded myself that these men, who showed every sign of being at the mercy of the Fab Four, were convicted of murder, rape, and other very violent crimes.

When I arrived at the prison, I figured most inmates weren’t genuine about having faith in anything. Four hours later, after the festivities were over, I doubted more than two or three were faking it.

I helped with the cleanup, which was my sole contribution for the day, in addition to bringing the pastries that morning.  

On the drive home, I had more questions from the girls. They were fairly benign until Hindenburg asked me a question that disturbed me, “What keeps you up at night?”

The voices in my head. They’re loud, and they share very unhelpful observations all night.

“Wow. Everything. All the time.”

She smiled. “I know the feeling. Does it feel out of control?”

“Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, twice on Sunday.”

“That used to be me.”

As I write this, I remember another time I heard that question:

It was years later, during a sales meeting. The sales representative was new to the company. I was there to observe him. He was struggling to get a conversation going with the prospective customer. To move things along, he asked the potential buyer, “What keeps you up at night?”

This is the last question you ask because it implies that you have no clue. None. Plus, your customer has heard that question too many times from too many low-rent salespeople.

When the rep asked that question, I picked up my phone and started sending a take-out order to this Chinese place close to home because, well, why not? There’s no point in sticking around. It’s best to leave before this guy shoots us dead, which any jury in the country would consider justifiable homicide. 

Instead of gunning us down, the guy stood up, walked to his desk, pulled out a picture of his recently married wife, put it on the desk for us to see, and said, “THIS! This is what keeps me up at night. This is what keeps me up every night.”

Well, to say the picture was merely attention-getting would be quite a disservice. The woman in question was undoubtedly striking, tan, statuesque, and exquisite. The photo was taken at the beach.  

Along the bottom of the picture was written, “Sunday in Marseille.”  What followed was a startling description of the strenuous and harrowing sexual exploits she intended to do to and with him later that evening and every night thereafter. Halfway through reading it, I was tempted to say, “This woman is a total animal!” I mean, this was some Caligula-type severe behavior. All-night debauchery.  And she’s talking about doing this every night. After reading the rest of what she wrote, I almost asked, “Has she considered some sort of in-patient therapy?”

Because, based on what she wrote, if they were to complete all the erotic hijinks on her to-do list, then they would be, in the very best of scenarios, dead. And that’s after Night-One.

There were subtle nuances in the picture. One distinguishing feature of the photograph was that the young lady appeared to have forgotten her swimsuit despite being at the beach.

This may not have been the first time because, upon further examination, I noticed she had no tan lines. As with all men, tan lines are always the first thing I notice when looking at a picture of a woman with her clothes off.

The picture changed the direction of our meeting in a way we hadn’t expected. The sales representative stared at the picture, but he wasn’t saying a word.  

By showing us this picture, I inferred that the customer was indicating, among other things, that our meeting was officially over. 

So, while trying to pry the rep away from the picture, I said, “Hey, listen. Thrilling meeting you….and your wife.  Dazzling ensemble. She seems…uh…, yeah. And, based on what she wrote, she’s pretty….ambitious. Taken on Sunday, I see. Were these taken before or after the church service? That must have been quite a sermon if these were taken after. You wouldn’t happen to have a transcript, would you?   

“Personally, reviewing this photograph has been a very educational experience. It lends significance to the saying ‘thinking outside the box.’ We certainly understand that your hands, at the moment, are tied —literally. The Little Lady does have some unique thoughts on alternate uses of pearl necklaces—certainly nothing I had ever considered. And I’m sure I’ll never look at the word ‘masticate’ in quite the same way for the rest of my life.

“At any rate, we can see you’re a very….VERY….busy man.  And, despite the extreme sleep deprivation, you are bearing up relatively well, as evidenced by the fact that you’re not currently dead. We will leave you in peace, no pun intended. 

“Perhaps, between one of your joint sessions of congress, as it were, you might look at this information and let us know what crumpets you have.

“Questions! I mean, let us know what QUESTIONS you have. 

“We’ll be back next spring, assuming you survive the winter months, which I severely doubt. I think you’ve got no more than 40 days before going to that great orgasmatron in the sky.  Remember, you will be making the ultimate sacrifice. On behalf of all heterosexual men, I want to say thank you for your service. You’ll be in my thoughts and prayers. Thoughts, mostly.

“If, on the remote chance, you don’t leave this mortal coil before we meet again, you’ll probably be in some assisted living arrangement. I think we can all agree on that point. Let’s face it, the only functional part of your body will be your, well, your, your, uh, yeah.

“I mean, hell, you won’t be able to walk in a couple of weeks.  When the time comes, give me a shout. I can get you a great deal on wheelchairs.  I know a guy.”

I left with visions that stay with me to this day. The rep stayed behind. He was still looking at the picture.

Back to Berlin…

Jen and her pals wanted to know if I felt God’s presence during the service.

“Jen, I wouldn’t know if God was around even if He bit me on the leg. I understand that’s probably not how He’d introduce himself, but there you go. No bolt of lightning. None that I noticed.”

She thought for a minute. “How’s your faith in humanity?”

It was my turn to pause. “Well, you were right. It’s better than it was this morning.”

She had a quizzical look while processing my answer. “It doesn’t have to be, like, a lightning bolt. It can be a new attitude. Some insight. Like, a change of heart. Something you learned. Like I said, an insight…into you. New. Something new.”

Divine intervention? Highly doubtful.

I didn’t want to say that. I asked, “Did God change my perspective on humanity?”

“You have to open your heart and find out.”

But my heart had closed shop years earlier. The likelihood of it making a reappearance was, at best, extraordinarily poor. An open heart is a trusting heart.

I had no intention of trusting anyone, seen or unseen.

That option was no longer on the table.

At any rate, that’s what I thought.

—END OF CHAPTER TWO—

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