My New Friend

His name is Adam. He comes from England. Every day he sits at wooden table in the non-smoking section of St. Oberholz.

Sometimes he leaves his table. He claps his Vaio shut, jams it under his arm, and heads downstairs. He orders the Spaghetti dish of the day. Or a second Milchkaffee. Then, back up the stairs he climbs, laptop laid flat, dishes and cups balanced on its gray cover.

Wednesday I sat at a wooden table in the non-smoking section, too (funny, the number of Americans you find there). I peered over the balcony. There was Adam at the counter, Vaio gripped tight. He looked up. "Someone told me you could actually open this thing." "No kidding?!" I said. He began to prize his fingers beneath the lid. "It's more than just a tray!" He was delighted. "My God," I said. "What a find! What's that thing worth?"

Adam has good reason to hold his Vaio close. His livelihood is programming. The code he writes pays his rent and U-bahn card. "I'm a tech geek," he confessed, sheepish. "A tech geek," I assured him, "belongs to the highest echelons of friends one can have." He brightened: "...because we are so...?" "Essential to have around!" I finished. He darkened. "Brilliant," he said.

I like to pester him when he works. The "mad girl from the cafe" he calls me. Then again, the disturbance might be mutual. Tuesday he stopped by my sofa-seat to chat. A few moment's shmoozing and I asked him to leave. "I'm on a roll," I said. "I don't want to stop." He told me he would hold this moment in his memory forever, resent me for it always. If ever I wondered at the bitterness of his tone, the sharpness in his glance, I could trace it back to this.

"Good to know," I said. "Yes," he replied, "honesty is very important."

*                        *                      *

Not too long ago, we realized we are neighbors (good souls keep popping up in my immediate environs; you'd think someone were planting them, for the sake of my sanity, perhaps?). We are of one mind about Friedrichshain: Too much dog shit. Adam blames the anarchist punks with their free-wheeling mutts. I concur.

Wednesday I was working late. He was too. "If you wait a minute," I said, "we can ride home together."  I finished an email while he perched, restless. Then I remembered: "Oh...I have to go to the health food store before it closes. Just up the block. Do you mind?"

We walked up Weinbergerstrasse. "It's there." I pointed across the street. I stepped off the sidewalk, Adam right beside me. "Waaah!" I cried, tripping back. A bicyclist swung sharply away from us. "Woo-oh-ah," he shouted, straightening. A parked van had blocked my sightline. We caught our breath. The cyclist rode wobbly up the street.

"What was that?" asked Adam."Woah-woo-what?"

"Woo-ah-woo-ah?" I tried. We practiced all the way into the shop.

There Adam regarded the strange offerings ("What exactly is tofu?" he later asked). He bought a single carrot. I gathered up soy yogurt, organic apples, Hirse flakes. Adam waited. He bit into his single carrot. The crunch filled the shop. I began to laugh. He stood there chewing, chiseled jaw working hard. "What?" he said. "What's so funny?" But I could not stop.

The U5 neared Samariterstrasse. "Oh...I have to go to Captain Soda first." Adam had never been. "You must come!" I insisted. "They have a dog. His name is Tony." But the dog wasn't there. I paid for my Fanta Zero. Adam waited. The Turkish owner told me I am the only customer who buys Fanta Zero. He said they would continue to order it, just for me. As far as I'm concerned, this tells you all you need to know about Captain Soda. But Adam was disappointed. "I thought it would have all kinds of specialty juices, every soda, tables to sit..."

"There is one table," I offered. He was not impressed.

At the corner, the light shone red, a T-shaped man, arms stretched straight. The famous East German stoplight symbol, saved from post-Wende demise after much protest. "Oh...I think I still need to go to the corner store. I didn't get enough vegetables for dinner." The man shone green, his stride wide.

I investigated the cucumbers. Adam waited. I carried the least-mangled to the cash register. No Denis with a Z tonight. His bottom-heavy coworker rung me up.

Adam wanted to see my flat. He was curious about the size and shape, the broken seashell bowl, the general tackiness. "No way!" For I had not told him about the apple cores, coiling, on the kitchen counter. The bowls, corn-flake-gummed, in the kitchen sink. The clothes draped, as the dead, over every drapable surface. The nest of power cords and postcards in my unmade bed. All the things for which F. was not to blame.

I took a tour of his apartment instead. It belongs to Frank, a geologist. "It's such a shame," said Adam. "Imagine what you could do with this place." It was true. Beneath our feet lay a floor of wide weathered planks. Overhead high ceilings sported Art Deco touches.

"Let's see," I said. "What would you keep?" We stood in the common room ticking off items: Plywood boards used as floor-to-ceiling shelves. The dusty, cragged rocks lining them. Blue nylon hammock strung across a corner. Sagging brown sofas guarding either wall. Crooked photos of geological formations. Black plastic TV console of indeterminate age.

No. No. No. No. No. Noooo.

"But," I said, "definitely keep that planetary rock conference poster." It uglied up an entire kitchen wall.

"Absolutely," said Adam. "It should be the focal point. I'll construct a pully system so that it descends from ceiling as you open the front door."

Then he opened his own door. Space to move. Air to breathe. Surfaces so clean they were crisp. Sand-colored wardrobe. Shelves. Drying rack. Desk. "Very Ikea," I said. "Yes," Adam frowned. "Not really my style. Kind of cheap." He pointed to the bed. "Now that," he said, "that is what I like." Danish-made, queen-sized. A half-circle headboard, a foot-wide spiral carved into its center, repeated again on the bed's base. The wood was golden, its grain flecked with brown. A cloudy white comforter stretched from head to foot. Beautiful indeed.

Something pitch-black, with head and limbs, caught my eye. "Why do you have a Voodoo doll?" I asked. I crossed to the desk.

"That's not a Voodoo doll," said Adam. "That's my earliest memory. My teddy." Black cloth skin. Eyes stitched red. Hair a patch of real black fur. "My Nan made it for me when I was one." It wore a small white dress shirt and a string tie. Pinstripe slacks.

"Wow," I said, "that is so cute." I'm not sure what was cuter. This odd sock-being, or the fact that a 30-year-old Brit had introduced it to me without shame. And kept it displayed on his bare desk as if for viewing. "Oh, look," I said, "his pants aren't done." It was true. Brown felt peaked through the gap. "Does he really have underwear?" I began to peel open the pants.

"Hey, stop!" said Adam. "Treat the man with respect!" I sprang my hands back. Adam straightened Teddy on the desktop. "That's the most action he's gotten in years."

"I have to go home or I'll keel over from hunger," I said. We were standing in the living room again."Hey, you have a balcony!"  I had spotted the glass-windowed doors, half-hidden by the console. 

"Do you want to see it?"

"Oh yes!" There were two layers of doors. Adam opened each, stepping back to let my pass. I walked onto the tiny porch and leaned over the railing. Behind me Adam closed each door. I turned around. He was striding away, through the living room, shutting off the light behind him. I doubled over, laughing.

"Imagine," I said, when he finally set me free, "if I'd been standing there when Frank came home. Hello, Frank, hello!"

*                        *                      *

The next day, Adam sat at his usual table. I found a spot adjacent. He programmed, I emailed. Suddenly he was standing  over me: "I'm going to get a Milchkaffee," he said. "Will you watch my laptop?"

"For real?"

"Yes."

I grabbed hold of the power cord. "I will not let go of it," I promised. "Not even once." Adam walked away. I began to type a post about him. One-handed.

Five minutes later, maybe ten, he reappeared. "You really didn't let go!" he said. We looked at my hand, still curled around that grey cord.

"Of course not," I said. I opened my fist.

That's how it is in a foreign city. When you find a new friend, you do what you have to. Even if that means indenting a Sony Vaio power-cord into the palm of your hand.

 

Comments

[jess]

adam sounds great! so glad you have found a good friend! can't wait to hear how it continues!

[micha patri]

Hey Leeler
What's your phone number out there girl?
Adam sounds geek-sexy. Sort of mysterious...
Miss you,
mushy
(aka mushu)

[jess]

amen to geek-sexy!

[jess]

what no posting today?!
i need my Berlin or Bust!
:)

[Moms in San Francisco]

Schätzlein, Micha and Jessica are right as I said to Papi, strange, there is no Berlin story today. How do I know you have written? Do I need to do something special to get a Berlin alert. Papi found your Adam story and so we are reading it, amused, curious, on pins and needles about the possibly locked balcony door or the VAIO cord stuck to your palm... then we sink into bed, still downstairs. It is losing its charm. Liebe Dich, Mami
P.S. √What do I type into the URl space? Ratlos!!!

[Julie]

girl -- great writing! you are having the best damn adventure ever. xoxo