Clemens Meyer: All the Lights

I shove my shotgun back under the sofa; I’m all mixed up, and when I’m mixed up like this my shotgun’s no good to me at all, because then stupid stuff happens with me and my shotgun.

Because then I get up and go to the window. With my shotgun. And then I open the window and cock my beautiful shotgun. It goes clack-clack. Then I position the shotgun and aim at the street lamp. And it’s not as if it’s just any old street lamp; it’s one of those disturbing street lamps, one of those lamps that never stop annoying you. And don’t anyone try and tell me street lamps don’t annoy you. This one annoys the hell out of me. The damn thing’s broken. Shines all day even though you can’t see it until it gets dark. The street lamps only go on at a certain time, but this damn lamp is totally out of sync, and that doesn’t just get me mixed up, it drives me crazy. So the gun’s positioned, I take good aim, and then my finger’s on the trigger. And then I feel that all I have to do is move my finger slightly so the.177 pellet hits the street lamp. And I don’t pull the trigger straight away. I always make the most of the moment before I pull the trigger. Not just with the shotgun and the street lamp. And that’s why my sweetheart’s mad now and not talking to me and hiding in bed so all I can see is her nose. Oh, that nose. I always want to tweak it, just a little tweak with one finger. Her gorgeous nose could make a nose fetishist of me, though I don’t even know what a nose fetishist does. Honey rose, honey rose with your beautiful nose. I had a woman once, I didn’t have her for long, just one night and not even all night long, and in that half or quarter of a night she kept on calling me ‘honey’, but she probably said that to all the guys, and I have to admit … ‘Sweetheart,’ I call out, ‘Sweetheart!’ and I’ve had about enough now.

Yes, I made a mess of things while she was asleep, I have to admit it. I couldn’t stick it out. And what does she know about what it’s like when you can’t stick it out any more? But Jesus, that’s no way to behave, hiding under the covers in the bedroom. So I pull the trigger. I only have to move my finger a tiny little bit. And then there’s a bang, but not like I was shooting a real carbine, it’s just a short, dry pop! — and then there’s a fraction of a second before I hear my lovely little.177 projectile hitting the street lamp. But that damn street lamp’s a tough one. I can hit it as many times as I want, it just won’t break, and it shines and shines and drives me round the bend. The protective glass around the bulb’s just too tough, too thick, too solid, too stable, too protective, but then that’s what it’s there for. So I close the window again. Put the shotgun away, suddenly feel utterly sickened by the shotgun, utterly sickened, starting in my feet and rising incredibly fast, so fast that I only just manage to wrench the window open, lean over and puke out of it. I hear it slapping onto the pavement, and I wish I could puke in a curve high enough to hit the street lamp. I wipe a hand across my chin. Smells of lemons. And now the lemon smell rises slowly from below, and I close the window again quickly.

She’s crying. She’s crying softly in the bedroom, heard me shooting and puking. She cries so softly I can hardly hear it. She’s actually very strong, or she’d long since have given up on me, long since have chucked me out, and I’d be sitting back in my little one-room flat. And it wouldn’t end well there, oh no, never. But it’s all ended well now, I believe that, I believe that so firmly it almost hurts. I wouldn’t make it without her though, and it’s doing my head in that she’s crying because of me now, because I’ve been so weak again and I’d promised her never to be weak again, and all the juice she got for me, and all the pills, garlic capsules, hawthorn, ginseng, valerian (high-dose), St John’s wort, as if all that shite could do me much good, but she said it’d help me, so I want it to help me, and it’s doing my head in that she’s crying because of me now. And I want to go to her and tell her she doesn’t have to cry any more because of me and I’ll never be weak again, really and truly, honestly. But my shirt’s covered in puke and I’m so scared she’ll send me away if I sit down next to her. Or that she won’t say anything at all, that’d be even worse — me sitting there next to her and her not saying a word, and the tears, it breaks my heart to see tears in her eyes. Marilyn Monroe should always be smiling. And I go to the table where all the packets of pills are scattered between all the bottles. A sip of vodka, just a tiny sip, I’ve earned it now, haven’t I? It’s just as a disinfectant really, because of the puke. I screw the cap off the bottle, but before I drink I take a few of the pills and put them on the palm of my hand. ‘Sweetheart,’ I call out, ‘I’m taking your healthy pills!’

Three of the green garlic capsules, no, better take six, a double dose. Two long red hawthorn capsules, they’re good for my circulation, regulate my blood pressure, the garlic does that too but hawthorn improves blood flow to the heart muscle, and I need a strong heart so I don’t go back to my shoes again. In my shoes, out in the hall. I’ve hidden something in there under the orthopaedic insole, it’s a sort of emergency supply, but I don’t need it any more, I’ll chuck it down the toilet later and flush it away, but actually an emergency supply’s only for a real emergency, and I’m sure that won’t happen now, and if it does I’ll stick it out, so I might as well just leave the stuff in my shoe. You should never throw away emergency supplies, and certainly not flush them down the toilet. It’s a pretty clever hiding place and all, under my sweaty insole.

And the way she searched me, turned every pocket inside out, patted down my shirts with both hands — but she never thought of my shoes. I’m proud of that hiding place and I add three ginseng capsules to the other pills in my palm. So now I’ve got six garlic, two hawthorn and three ginseng capsules. Isn’t there a joke about impotence, how you’re supposed to tie a ginseng root to your dick or something, but I don’t think that’s why my sweetheart got me the ginseng capsules. I’ve been taking the stuff for days now though, and when we’ve got through all this I’ll spend a whole day and a night in bed with her. I’ll make us a baby, oh yes, how often have I dreamt about the two of us having kids? And she has too, I know she has, she wrote to me when I … No, no, don’t think about it, don’t think about the toilet brush, toilet brush, toilet brush, what are those bastards doing with the toilet brush …? So one of these extra-large valerian capsules as well then, they used to take valerian root in the old days for heart palpitations, St John’s wort. ‘Sweetheart,’ I shout, my voice almost cracking, ‘I’m taking all your healthy medicine!’

And then I stuff all the tablets on my palm, a proper tower, into my mouth; a couple of them fall out again, I swallow and retch, swallow and retch and put the vodka to my lips and feel like someone’s ramming their fist into my oesophagus. The toilet brush, the toilet brush, take the fucking toilet brush away. I scream, high and shrill, and there are tablets stuck to my lips and my chin, and I feel the vodka wetting my shirt. There’s a knock and a ring at the door. And I turn around in circles a couple of times, drop the bottle, a terrible crashing and smashing, I don’t stop turning in circles, the bottle must have fallen on the table and knocked over all the other bottles of healthy juice. And I turn around and around until I fall over, I’m lying on the floor, I want to crawl to my shotgun, want to crawl to my shoes, didn’t I crawl to my shoes a while ago? Then I want to crawl into the bedroom and lie down with her. But there’s a knocking and ringing at the door, no, I haven’t been to my shoes for hours, since yesterday, since forever, since my sweetheart got so mad and sad at me I haven’t been to my shoes, and I know that now for sure, because now it’s not just knocking and ringing at the door, it’s knocking and ringing inside me too. I beat both fists against my chest and scream, ‘Stop, stop, stop,’ and now I feel like I’m bathing in hot water, almost boiling hot, bathing in a huge saucepan that’s bubbling and simmering all around me now, and I know the only thing that can save me now is my shoes, but how am I supposed to get out of the boiler and out of the water to my shoes? There’s that story about the cooks in the canteen who used to bathe in the soup kettles, but I never believed it. My mother used to tell me it sometimes, she worked in a canteen as well, but now I believe her, believe every word of it, because that’s what I feel like, as if I was being boiled to death in a huge soup kettle. The lid’s fallen closed, and when the lid closes the kettle heats up automatically — the soup doesn’t want to get out and doesn’t scream and shout when it’s done. I’m screaming and shouting, there’s a crashing and splintering, and I don’t know why I’m bleeding, but then I’m suddenly perfectly still, I give it all up, I’m perfectly light and I can’t feel my scalded skin any more. I go out into the hallway, walk to the door; I’m so light I think I’m floating. But the door’s open already, and I’m floating around between the cops. The cops shove me and hold me, drag me across the hall back into the living room, see my shotgun, one of the cops takes my shotgun, and then I’m in the bedroom with them. ‘Leave her alone,’ I say. ‘She’s got nothing to do with it, just leave her alone, please.’ But they don’t leave her alone — they pull the cover off her. And I hit out all around me; I want to launch myself on the cops but they hold me tight.