Ich habe sie geliebt. PART 4

Ich habe sie geliebt. PART 4

3-596-15803-6Welcome to my Bermuda Triangle. I’ve always wondered why they call it that. A triangle. Suggests something light no? The musical instrument no one boasts about at parties. A necessary evil you keep schtum about. Mum’s the word. Sure, most people pick their noses, but you don’t see Buck sliding up to Cindy, extend his finger, and go “you never guess where that’s been”. In the same vein it would never occur to me to call an airplane-devouring black hole the size of a hundred football fields a triangle. I’d go for something a bit more dramatic like “very large, airplane-devouring black hole” or “stay the fuck away from this place”. The very nomenclature suggests a downplaying of events, something benign like socks lost in the machine. In short; a cover-up.

How do we know it’s a triangle when no cartographic mission has of yet successfully returned to relay its findings? For all our limited understanding of the universe it might as well be the shape of Jon Bon Jovi’s face tattooed on some hapless woman’s left breast. Que sais-je? In the grand scheme of things we are children after all. There’s stuff we know and then there’s things we make up.

I propose that the Bermuda Triangle is in actuality a line that happens to curl up a bit around Hawaii but that can otherwise be traced all the way to Brussels. And my bathtub to be precise. As I have mentioned in a previous brief, a small but glaringly manifest patch of enamelwork failed to show up for duty one day. Shockingly so, as my door showed no signs of a burglary, nor did I remember myself applying any undue force that could account for the damage.

The police showed up for no higher purpose than to commiserate on my misfortune. What else could they do? Arrest an unknown force of nature? Put out an APB on enamel-munching bacteria? Bathers, lock up your bathtubs! I’m calling the cops and I’m the one feeling guilty, cause I don’t know what the hell happened. A couple of weeks have passed and I’m just about ready to let it slide. No use getting worked up on account of the unknown. I’ll be happy to just have it fixed. I’m thinking, perhaps construction workers did drop something heavy and only now, further eroded by daily showers –yes, daily!- the injury became apparent.

Impossible,” said the spindly bathtub guy who dropped by to take a look today. “The bathtub received a serious thrashing. No doubt about it.” “We didn’t do it,” reaffirmed the tubby, bespectacled man in charge of the construction site, and his sidekick, tall and bearded, forever swamped and attention flitting from phone to laptop to some undefined wiring situation in C-block.

We keep a log of who works in which apartment. No one came even close to your place that day.”

I’m thinking “whatever” and I’m standing there in that ground floor office with the contractors and the guy whose company built all of 108 bathrooms in the building. A black woman stands waiting for an interview with the contractor people.

Weird stuff does happen though,” the bathtub guy confided as we walked up toward my apartment. “We’ve had faucets missing a day after installation. No one’s been there. No one’s seen a thing.” I’ll be happy to get just this fixed. Fuck it. Maybe I’m really frigging losing it. Maybe it was me all along. Maybe I had a hammer. A hammer in the morning. Perhaps the Bermuda Triangle vectors along a weird meridian, sprouting out my drain pipes. What difference does it make? A man’s gotta bathe, and I rather not be reminded every day –yes, every day!- of an incongruity in the fabric of time and space. Especially one I’m naked around so often.

The bathtub guy takes my phone number. He knows some companies that fix bathtubs. Take life as it comes. Sometimes you settle for breasts when you really oughta wait for brains. Sometimes… you call a plumber when what you really need is a private eye. The bathtub guy scrounges round for a piece of paper, and I’m waiting. Down there in that office. Other residents drop by for this and that, and the black woman’s waiting, with a pout, to be addressed, or an opportune moment to address. Whatever. Finally they’re talking and I tweak my ears to get the gist. “This is not my key,” she goes. “I gave you a key, but the one you gave back I’ve never seen in my life. I need my key.”

I’m still reading that book, by the way. Somehow I still expect it in some way to shed light on my affairs. Welcome to the Triangle. Welcome to John Bon Jovi’s head on tits.

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