Assignment #1

There are two things one never associates with the batshit crazies in this world: bicycles and Geoffrey Chaucer.

 After hearing the assignment to buy a journal, I went to AldiMarkt. They did not have any journals in stock, but I bought the 0,4€ liter of shampoo/four-stroke engine cleaner. It smells like sourkraut and makes my hair feel like baleen, but what low prices!

 I went to Kaïser’s next, hoping that I wouldn’t have to leave the neighborhood for a cheap spiral notebook. Kaïser’s has eight different kinds of butter, an annex devoted to beer, and an aisle of weight loss powders. But stationary? Fat chance.

 I figured that as long as I had to hop on a train to get my journal, I might as well venture down to see Dussman along Freidrichstraße. On my way up to street level from the U2, I walked behind a curious fellow. He wore the tattered clothing and shaky grimace of a mentally deranged homeless person. The stench that accompanied this guy was expected, in a way—the typical “I proudly threw my poop this morning” mix of caked-on sweat, sea bass, and Schnapps.

 At an unceremonious spot along the steps, My Guy turned towards the faded teal tile wall and yelled. He didn’t yell anything in particular. His inflection never changed, nor his body language and facial expression. He just held a loud, throaty C-sharp for four seconds, and then continued up the stairs nonchalantly, as if his stentorian scream was just another exhale. If not taken aback, I was impressed. This guy has pipes.

 When I made the last step, I saw the nut-job appraising a bicycle with his eyes. He then thumbed the back tire and gave the rear brake handle a gentle squeeze. I wondered if he was flirting with the Huffy. Dammit, I thought. I don’t know how to report a stolen bike. But just as soon, the guy took a small key ring out of his pocket and unlocked his bike—simultaneously, snorting phlegm and hawking a loogie square onto his seat. I liked this guy already.

 I made my way towards Dussman about 15 feet behind the homeless guy. We never made a green light but he kept puttering along, not giving two shits about traffic. When he stopped in front of Dussman to yell again, I was half a block behind.

 My loony companion disappeared behind a crowd of businessmen and an Italian tour bus. And right then, I missed him. It’s strange how some things stick with you like that: without rhyme or reason, he was the hook and I was the felt in our spontaneous Velcro arrangement.

 I went to the second floor of Dussman with a heavy heart. I found my journal, 150 college-ruled pages proud, and waited in line. As I was counting out my change (who charges 1.57€ for a journal?!), a familiar sound caterwauled through the bookstore. On the floor below me, with a security guard and employee wrangling, was my buddy. His bike was gone (probably wedged in the underbelly of an escalator or shoved into a women’s toilet, knowing his style of humor), which made it easier to throw him out. The security guard huffed and puffed back in the store, tossing a thick book down onto the information desk as he passed. I found it lying there on my way out. The motherfucker had ripped about half the pages out of the translated version of Canterbury Tales.

 I wrote in my new journal with thick underlines and a jagged frame: If I’m the pilgrim, he can be the minstrel.