Flash Fiction (Movement)

Subway (NYC): 01.21.2011 1:45 PM

Train: Uptown J Train

Station: Marcy Avenue

Character: Tortoise Lizard

Old man in his 70′s staggers onto the train. He wears a thick frown that droops down over his body, morphs into a navy blue trench coat like rancid putty. His  sordid face is flanked by tufts of white hair, the top of his head smooth, shiny, reflective in the florescent moonbeams of those caterpillar lights lining the subway car ceilings. Hanging in folds from his layered chin, a series of turkey-like protrusions, folds of past frowns gathered at brow and too heavy, have fallen to a sway below his chin. Wearily he moves forward, his head bobbing up and down, his back bent, his eyes sharp and searching. He eyes his fellow passengers on the train as if attempting to levitate them, throw them to the side for the promise of a more comfortable journey. But no one moves and he is forced to navigate down half of the train, towards me, until he spots a seat wedged between one rather plump lady and a skeleton of a girl dressed all in black. He turns his back to them, slowly bends at the waist. He defensively presents his posterior to the ladies on either side, dares them to protest his incoming cheeks and not surprisingly they say nothing and move quite quickly to the side with their own resulting discomfort.

I watch as he settles in, beady eyes firmly set in darkened eye sockets. As tortoise now, he turns his head, each movement a strain to the taught fibers strung along a long-used neck nestled in hunched-up shoulders. With lizard-like subtlety he glares at the skeleton girl, as if admonishing her for not getting up completely. The angry old tortoise turns his head to the front and with a deep sigh, hangs his head and closes his eyes. The beast sleeps and the train continues on.

Subway (NYC): 01.19.2011 5:10 PM

Train: N Uptown

Station: Atlantic Avenue Terminal

Character: Gruff Beaver

Get into the train and get settled. Meet the character that will take me to my destination: older man in his late 50′s with a worn face, bulging eyes, light brown and white beard. He’s reading the Daily News with fervor. At his feet, a red Jansport backpack with a light brown leather top and dark black straps. Khaki pants, blue hooded sweatshirt with a shiny gray zipper slightly undone near the neck. A tuft of white and light brown hair springs forth from under the sweatshirt.

His movements are slow and sloth-like. He reads the paper, each page daintily gripped at the far corner with his index finger as if he wishes to later preserve this paper, frame it and place it above his bed or in the bathroom along the the hundreds of other framed Daily News papers which line the walls. I imagine him a hoarder, the type of man that stuffs sugar packets and toothpicks into his sweatshirt pockets not because he enjoys picking his teeth or sweetening his drinks but rather, enjoys the company of objects, particularly small ones that can easily be manipulated by the human hand. Bedside, he has stacked layer upon layer of tissue papers, each one pulled from its box, laid flat, and places them directly on top of the other. When the occasional wind blows them from their concrete location, a conniption fit ensues. He papers all the windows and tapes all the cracks that could potentially result in this horrific accident of misplacement once again. He listens to the Beatles but on LPs which he plays backwards. He listens for hidden messages, finds none, and quickly concocts his own. Lennon wants him dead by poisoning. Ringo swears he will kill him in his sleep. He enjoys the Beatles for their soothing tones and jovial lyrics.

Subway (NYC): 01.07.2011 4:11 PM

Train: Downtown N Express

Station: Prince Street

Character: Romantic Queen

Romantic Queen reads his novel near the exit doors opposite of where I sit. His hair, brown with blond highlights haphazardly thrown in speaks to the cover of his trashy romance novel, a busty black woman spread eagle on the shiny new cover. He has brushed his hair over to the left in s dramatic gesture to the 1980s, wears baggy black pants, a puffy goose feather down jacket, and poorly-polished black penny loafers. A darkened puff of thundercloud, slightly overweight chipmunk meets marshmellow man meets Truman Capote.

Adorning his nose, thin wire-framed glasses. His right leg is lifted gingerly, placed across his left knee. He seems to be a jolly man, a man who knows that on a Winter’s day in New York perhaps there is nothing better than a trashy romance novel on a steamy underground subway with hordes of strangers listlessly standing about.

He reads as if savoring a delicacy. I leave the train as a dribble of drool falls from Romantic Queen’s mouth, falls on page 46, glides lubriciously along the phrase, “…with a pounding scream”.

Subway (NYC) 01.07.2011 3:45 PM

Train: Uptown D Train

Station: Atlantic Terminal

Character: Hooded Timberlake

I stand at the platform. The D train arrives and walking in I am immediately hit with the stench of stale socks and Cheez-its. A homeless man, bundled in tattered rags, sits alone on a four-person bench, a nest of crunched crackers and pretzels at his feet. His shoes have been removed, his black-stained white socks wet, leaving spider-web trails of water behind as he slowly moves them back and forth against the gritty black plastic tiles. Almost immediately I exit, changing cars.

The new car carries within the normal and expected smell of stale air one tends to associate with mass transit vehicles, although it seems rare that such staleness-as-neutrality is ever encountered. I stand (as often I do) and diagonal from me and one person down sits a rather well-built man, each appendage forceful, spatial. His body, unlike most bodies, demands space. He is far from obese. His fingers trail downwards endlessly, each finger the size of a medium sausage link. On his left hand a gold ring. On his right index finger another ring, this one gold with silver etchings carved into its face. His feet are adorned with perfectly-clean, high top Timberlakes, tied with loose bow knots three empty holes down from the top. His jeans are tightly-pressed, loose around his calves, tight around his thighs. On his torso, a gray, loose-fitting hooded sweatshirt, the zipper slightly pulled down from the top. The hood is pulled up and over his head which he cocks downwards so as to hide his face. The hood builds to a point above the crest of his head. I will never see his eyes.

I watch him as he slowly takes out a miniature bottle of lotion. The bottle seems lost within his paws, a doll house accessory, a bottle in the possession of a giant Alice. He opens the lid, dabs some lotion on his hands, places the bottle slowly back into his pocket and methodically rubs his hands together. On his right wrist, a golden bangle, a thin silver watch, a black linked chain. Around his neck hangs a loose gold chain, medium in thickness. He is a Senator exploring the dregs of the American metropolis, of scattered dreams along winding tracks, a sports star avoiding attention through cloaked underground, undercover movement. I imagine him throwing back his hood, nothing but air revealed and the clothes expand and then collapse into a crumpled pile upon the subway car floor. As the D crosses over the Manhattan bridge, filtered light shuffles in from the snowy air outside, lights his chin which is covered slightly in stubble. I see this only for a brief second as he lowers his head further, shrouding his face fully in darkness.

The train stops at Canal. Hooded Timberlake stands, brushes his fingers lightly against the rough fabric of his jeans, straightens his sweatshirt, pulls the zipper up slightly to just under his chin. His head shoots skyward, nearly touching the subway car ceiling, his arms nearly stretching from car door to car door. His head remains tilted downwards as he exits and in seconds, he is gone. Those left in his wake panic for the air has temporarily been sucked out of the car with his exit. We look at each other, wide-eyed and worried, immersed in a vacuum. But with a hiss, the air returns, the doors close, movement resumes, the only trace of Hooded Timberlake the faint smell of aftershave on a bed of stale air.

Subway (NYC): 12.31.2010 5:15 PM

Train: E

Station: World Trade Center

Characters: Pink Woman Pod

The afternoon commute. The E train is stationed at the World Trade Center, the doors ajar waiting for the people to shuffle in. Some run, arriving within the train in a pant. The next train sits across from us on the opposite track awaiting a likely departure in five minutes.

A pod of women is stationed to my right. Comprised of nine, they immediately exhibit group-think, positioned across from each other, talkative, finishing each other’s sentences. Should their talkative nature not give it away, they are all smiling– a clear indication that they are not from New York City. They exude joy and the rest of the train watches as they exchange missives about their NYC adventures, laugh at their occasional mishaps and quibble about how prices in the city are exorbitant. “I went to buy a sandwich,” one says, “and my jaw nearly dropped. The other women nod and the location of her purchase I think (likely along with most others in the train listening) was around Times Square. “Where was that?” another asks. “43rd and something,” she says. The sound of moving collar fabric is nearly perceptible as my fellow eavesdroppers nod their heads.

The pod is nearly split in half, five on the side closest to me, four positioned across from them. To my right (beyond a poor soul who inadvertently sandwiched himself in the bench of exuberance) sits a husband (silent, strong type) and an older, white-haired woman with a long, flowing pink jacket made of loosely-knitted strands of cotton, a knitted pink cotton cap with a bordering strand of dyed-pink feathers on the rim, a silky-white undershirt, and long, fake-diamond earrings with small hearts floating in each. She clearly emerges as the pod’s leader, the fun and youthful elder, the, “Oh that’s Joanna. Boy, she’s a hoot,” woman of the local block. Loudly and full of teeth, she tells stories about adventures she and her husband have taken around the world. He is the silent type, slightly overweight, graying hair, a bulbous nose and occasionally he compliments her lengthy monologues with an additional detail, an interesting side note. The other seven women all beam while she tells her stories, clearly adore her and ask her questions to garner further information on her and her husband’s adventures to which she gladly obliges.

I watch the pink woman pod with adoration, infected gladly by their joy and general joie de vivre. As I listen to the pink woman rattle off her stories, I imagine her in her early 20s, the girl of the party, the mid-30s woman who, now married, clings tightly to her mildly-successful husband but speaks for him as classy dominatrix. In bed, as in societal affairs, she is demanding and her husband, unable or simply not wanting to fulfill such needs, finds his release in work, she by over-compensating with joyful presentation, perhaps a tidy home or tightly-managed classroom or small business. It is an act yet one no different than any other generally employed and one quite well accepted in most circles. For who doesn’t wish to feel joy, even if it be feigned at least partially and perhaps only temporarily before transforming into a sense of the “real”?

The train’s occupants lose their interest when the pink woman pod falls silent, pink woman’s stories temporarily exhausted. The woman sitting diagonal from where I stand smiles broadly when the others speak, says nothing more than an occasional and inquisitive “Really?!” but stays ever-cognizant of the fact that they are being observed as outsiders, observed as misplaced smiles. I smile back at her when we make eye contact and she seems temporarily relieved that not all New Yorkers wear stony face make-up.

As the train stops and I turn to leave, pink woman leans her head lightly against her husband’s right shoulder. With her right arm she grips his right forearm and forcefully lifting, slides her left arm underneath, interlocking it with his manipulated appendage. He looks off, distant, in the opposite direction. She smiles, not noticing. I exit.

Subway (NYC): 12.30.2010 7:30 PM

Train: L

Station: Broadway Junction

Character: Headphone Man

After getting lost on the G train and later the A train, I ready myself to board the L at Broadway Junction in the blistering cold. As the train pulls into the open air station, water trickles down its windows from above, snow gathered on top, remnants of a subway yard cocktail party, machinations only.

I enter the train. Two stops later, a man in his 30s enters, headphones plastered to his ears. It is immediately apparant that he is less than sane.

He sits down nervously, edgy, wiry. He is by himself, humming and then it happens. He suddenly lets out a loud “ugh!”, an “ugh” that one would think would accompany some type of music but is so off-key and random that it just seems likea move of “ugh” terets. The train continues, the man occasionally blasts out an “ugh!”. For anyone that was not observant before, this man is now clearly recognized now as slightly unstable.

One stop later, a well-dressed couple of Italian men in their mid-20s get on the train. Unsuspecting (as most foreigners are) they sit next to the man. The doors close and with the first “ugh!” the Italian men realize what they have done and smile.

“Hey, how you guys doin’?” Headphone Man asks.

[Strained] “Good, good. Very good,” Italian Man 1 stammers.

[Pause] “Hey, where you guys from?!” Even to the mentally unstable, foriegners are easy to spot in NYC.

“Italy,” Italian Man 1 answers and immediately receives a loud, “Ohhhhhhh” from Headphone Man.

“So you’re the Godfather then?!” he says. I cringe. How stereotypically American. The uneducated movie reference. The Italian man stares, not knowing what to say, perhaps not understanding and truly, who would?

“Yeah, yeah. You’re the Godfather man,” Headphone Man says, thumping his thigh with a clenched fist. To another ”no answer” from the Italian men, I imagine him assaulting these Italian men in pursuit of a response to which the Italian men then answer, “No, No!” yelling for help but of course this is New York City and we observe far quicker than we act. “Two dead Italians on the L train,” it would read. “Man observes and documents the whole episode,” it continues. Welcome to America.

The Headphone Man never gets an answer so instead, even louder than before, “Ughs!”. The Italian men look at each other and laugh. Headphone Man is now humming something to himself, tapping his left foot wildly. Another stop and a rather busty and “full” woman gets on the train near Headphone Man. I await disaster as she turns, pointing a rather large ass towards Headphone Man but he looks, simply turns his head back to the Italians, and then as loudly as possible (imagine a 90 year old man yelling over Zepplin) says, “You know we have some mighty fine women in this city?” gouching the air with a thumb pointed towards Exhibit Ass. The Italian men laugh uneasily, the woman scoffs. Headphone Man pauses as if he knows he is in trouble, immersed in those laden silences where pressure seems to build from the stomach, gathers in the temples.

“Ugh!” he yells. And the beat goes on.

Subway (NYC): 12.29.2010 8:15 AM

Train: E

Station: 14th Street/8th Ave

Character: Old Jewish Man

Slouched against the railing, his head tucked under an invisible wing (right arm). He is ball-ish, each part of his body indicative of a distinct direction. On his head, a black leather Yarmulke (kippa), a gray beard that is 2″ long, fat, chubby fingers, a gold ring on his left ring finger. He has glasses which fit perfectly to the sides of his face, thin silver frames propped up by his wide and elongated nose. He carries a black canvas computer bag and has tucked it under his right arm. He looks akin to a mole which has been forced into sunlight and, tired and distressed, falls into a catatonic sleep to avoid reality.

The E train stops and with immediacy, he awakens looking left and right rapidly, as if nervous, disorientated, in need of knowing what is going on, where he is. He then sits seemingly stunned, chin pushed slightly forward, eyes once again almost closed. His head is tilted slightly upwards, his glasses near the edge of his nose. He presents himself as an 80 year old man when in reality he must be late 40s/early 50s. As the E train stops at World Trace Center, he stands up, clutching his black leather bag to his chest, burrows it deep into the downy fabric of his jacket and steps off the train left foot first.

Once out, he extends his right arm downwards, places the bag within his grip and begins walking foward gingerly, relaxed, as if at any given moment the cartons of eggs under his feet might crack. I pass him and our conversation ends.

Subway (NYC): 12.28.2010 4:50 PM

Train: 4

Station: Fulton

Character: Cape Cod

Waiting for uptown 4 train. People off work. I take notice. A tall lanky man catches my eye. Stands 6’3”, maybe 6’4”, a Wall Street type, well-polished, recently tanned, close-shaven and long, thin hair swept over to the right just so. His skin is white. No splotches, his nose slightly red still from the outside. His eyebrows arch smoothly over light brown eyes, eyelashes protrude slightly but not enough to make them a feature. There are no visible wrinkles on his face, a red and black plaid scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, fitted comfortably under the collar of a light brown London Fog which ends just above his knees. He is a presentation of carefully-controlled image.

His hands are covered with black leather gloves, a black leather bag strung over his shoulder. It is light though and does not weigh him down in its general direction. I begin concocting stories for him: he is the son of a wealthy banker that has just returned from Cape Cod where he was sailing with his blond, model wife and his dog, Chester, either a labrador or a golden retriever. As they sail along in his white yacht, they leave their house in the distance, a two-story, light blue and white job with a white picket fence and long, wooden slabs on its sides. There is a porch and most definitely a porch swing made of redwood but painted white to match the house. There is one pot for flowers (white) that sits at the top of the stairs to the porch and it is filled with white and yellow tulips. On the door to their house, a sign: “Welcome Friends” with a snowman, scarecrow, or angel all depending on the season, the nearest holiday. There are white cotton screens to cover the windows when they are away and right now they are exactly halfway down as they sail. They have no neighbors to speak of. Just rolling sand dunes, occasional tufts of bright green grass, and a long, wind-worn, wooden deck that seems to go on for miles. At the end of the dock there is a long telephone pole and at the top a bright antique lantern. The man jokes occasionally that it is their own personal lighthouse and while it is not in the least bit funny, the wife responds every time with a hearty laugh. He is happiest when he is sailing, loves his wife and his dog, does not want children. He is content and as a result, has no wrinkles on his face, no worry lines, and always carries a slight smile on his face.

The man shifts his bag, runs his slender index finger under the length of his scarf. He coughs gently into his hand. It is a calming cough to listen to, one non-intrusive and soft. One that says, “I am here but were we not in the subway, I might ask you to sit down and have a proper cup of tea and biscuits with me to talk philosophy and small business.” But I look at this man and think such a conversation might be dull and quite short for what philosopher has ever written about Cape Cod or dogs named Chester?

My yacht lands at Union Square. I exit, longing for the substantial, the calming Cape Cod left in the underground.

Subway (NYC) Fieldnotes: Defined

Definition of Subway: upon entering platform area via a series of steps, I am in the subway. Upon exiting platform area via a series of steps, I have left the subway. The aubway then is from steps to steps, point A of outside, above-ground world to point B of outside, above-ground world. It is also the trains which move above ground. But stairs connect us to subways, whether they be stairs up or stairs down.

Fieldnotes: hand-written notes, jottings made in the “field”, as in within the space of observation, amongst those observed. Subjective, descriptive, mini-vignettes. A snapshot, a character, a sense of the space or individual, perhaps an archetype.

NYC: a city, sometimes crazed, sometimes beautiful. Most of the time both.

Snow Drifters

It wasn’t beyond Peter to eat the woman’s leg. He knew this now after hours of internal debate and reprimanding himself for even thinking the thought. It was plush, vibrant, and in stark contrast to the drab snow banks building up on the outside of the A train on the upper platform in Queens. His stomach growls, he places the palm of his right hand, sweaty, against his brow pushing the skin upwards into burrowing folds.

On his right, an aged woman who smells of moth balls and whiskey, tight purple headscarf wrapped tightly over red, dyed hair. Her nose protrudes as probiscus, her legs like slender veined ropes tossed carelessly over the hard plastic of the subway seats.

On his left, a young man, tight curled black hair, deep brown eyes, a pair of earbuds snuggly resting against his ear drums, the beat of a loca-loca riding the still subway air. His foot in Timberland taps fervently against the black, speckled floor, the sole of his shoe smacking as it rips from the stale brown snow agua.

Above the air ducts suck in the freezing night air, run it through worn, warm coils, send it spirling down against huddled passengers. Down the car, a young child screams.

Across from him, the woman’s leg, supple, protrudes from a heavy cotton, plaid skirt. Heels frame the toes, lift the leg, position the muscle to drumstick, to sideways steak, to leg of lamb, rosemary and the family just around the corner. “Just one bite,” he thinks and down the car, the child screams louder.

The snow is getting higher. Six hours in. No one knows how much longer. “This could be it.” He thinks it, thinks how silly it is but thinks it nonetheless. “And what if?”

“That train won’t move, that platform frozen still, those lives in those cars, and those cars upon cars, and roads all blocked. We are stockpiled, frozen meats, the forgotten in a wintry Armageddon. But at least we have each other,” and he looks up and down that rounded, meaty leg. “At least we have each other,” he says leaning forward.

And the woman takes notice of a man leaning towards her, hands outstretched. She sees the hungry look in his eyes, that crazed “What does it matter?” glaze and she’s swinging her purse as hard as her arms allow and the passengers are screaming, that child frozen still. She’s beating that man to keep warm, just because she’s wanted to for so long. Not that man but other men. Other crazed and shitty men and her arms feel like they are going to fall off, can feel the steam plowing through her blouse, escaping at the crest of her bosom, warming her chin.

That snow piles higher and that woman stops swinging. There’s a silence to match the snow nearly covering the car windows and that child starts in again until that woman just looks, a look to end all looks, and that child is silent and the car is silent and there’s just more waiting to be had.

4 Train Normalities

Crazy Jamaican woman on the 4 train and it’s the end of the day. She sits in the corner facing the passengers encased in an oversized, poofy blue jacket.

“Dirty hands,” she repeats time and time again. “Been putting your hands all over your piece.”

“You talkin’ to me?!” the guy sitting next to me says. I think his reaction is a little too adamant, that perhaps he has been putting his hands all over his piece and he believes he has been found out.

“Naw,” his friend says. “Forget ’bout her. She’s crazy man.”

“I don’t give a fuck what she is. She better shut the hell up,” he says, now furious at the woman clear across on the other side of the train.

This really gets her going and she starts talking about how her, “Withcraft gonna turn your world upside down, you man with the dirty hands.”

An older man dressed in a khaki jacket and loose-fitting khaki pants then runs into the car and we are still at a standstill at Crown Heights/Utica. Already I feel like I am in a crazy house and I can’t escape. I need to take this train. At the top of his lungs, he starts explaining that he needs money for Jesus. “And don’t you know, any money you give to Jesus, I take 10%. 10% and the rest to Jesus,” he says, a sly grin on his face. Apparently, he meets up with Jesus later in the day to turn in his earnings. “Ya’ll need to accept Jesus into your hearts. This much is true. Give your money and support to Jesus and he’ll give it right back. But I’ll take my 10%. If you want to give, I’ll be in the car next door. Just come on over.” As if we will follow, dollars clenched in hands outstretched. And like that, he dashes off, a Jesus nymph of the subway tunnel.

The crazy woman wears a white scarf tied tightly across her head, big dark sunglasses, sits with her left leg crossed over right, remains silent as soon as the train begins to move and other people start getting on through the stop-starts of the train working its way down the tracks. Suddenly, she bursts into song but I can’t understand what she is saying. Her voice is muffled by the repetitive clanging of the train wheels against the crooked, rusty tracks.

Anybody that gets on hears her singing and moves to the other side of the car. People without their headph0nes to drown out her warblings simply look at one another  and laugh. She is quickly marked as just another crazy person and will most likely be forgotten once they leave the train.

“I know somebody rich and famous too. I don’t blame you. I feel your aches and pains,” she says. I think to myself, if only for an instant, that she is speaking to me and it is my twisted ankle she speaks about. “I would do the same thing too. I feel your aches and pains.” She says this over and over again until the train drowns her out as we approach Bowling Green. With the overwhelming numbers of new people, she silences herself, sits quietly with her black sneakers, grooved white socks, messy and unkempt legs, long fingernails.

An older man in a London Fog walks in surrounded by four young men, short haircuts, business suits, extended cuffs and cheap but shiny shoes. The older man wears dark brown loafers well-polished, gray slacks that rest perfectly on the tops of his shoes. He wears a beige, red and white checkered golf hat, has white bushy eyebrows, kind gray-blue eyes, a shortly-cut white goatee beard, a brown cashew-shaped hearing aid under his left ear. Vericose veins on his rosy cheeks–perhaps he drinks heavily, perhaps it runs in his family. Red silken scarf adorns his neck, blue and white flowers very small, perfectly puffed out of the V of his jacket. He leans forward to talk to his boys, his followers, perhaps his students, perhaps his workers. They listen intently, lean in, crowd around him to protect him from the surging crowds, perhaps own him in a way but he smiles. He owns them right back.

The train continues, the characters are many. They are the normalities of the subway train in NYC.

The Wait

The man pauses in the aisle, marks down the colors of the seats, the feel of the tepid airplane air hitting his face, appreciates the scenery of those joining him on his flight from Berlin to Amsterdam. The black bag in my left hand becomes heavier, the leather bag on my right shoulder pulls my bones down towards the mish-mashed carpet of light blue, burgundy, puce and navy blue, threatens to snap my arm clear off. Still, he waits. For no apparent reason other than to hold everyone up from getting on the plane and sitting down. He grins like a buffoon, shuffles his bags around in the cabin stowage area above, pushes his gold-rimmed grandfather glasses up with his right index finger. The bane of our existence, the sardonic jokester, the unbridled grinner, the haughty smiler. He exists to pause, a temporal anomaly existing neither in time nor space. He speaks to others sitting down of banal topics related to seat locations, his favorite foods, his final destination. My fingers have reddened. The pressure of the bags is mounting. I imagine my fingertips exploding, blood spraying everywhere coating all passengers rouge. The buffoon will not notice but I will be escorted off the plane to medical. I will miss my flight.

The leather strap on my right shoulder digs in, begins to melt into my skin. Soon we will be one and I will be known in New York as that freakish man that walks the streets with a leather bag dangling from his shoulder skin. My body will reject the leather graft , a debilitating infection will ensue and months later, my arm will be amputated. This man is killing me. Slowly.

The stewardess comes by to ask him to sit. He engages her in a ridiculous conversation regarding the occupancy limits of the plane, the food that will be served, her favorite color. I brace my legs against the seats, afraid one of them might leap forward and up, send the man hurtling towards the back of the plane. Gently, I bring my black bag forward and begin bumping his legs. “So sorry,” I say and he looks back, smiling. Again, I begin bumping him. “Ah, I am so sorry. I think my bag is dying to get to its seat.” Subtle shifts of focus defray any chance of hand-to-hand combat and as he turns once again to ask me to stop, I make my move, speeding past him with my bags, knocking him in the arm, pushing him into the seat on the side. As I run down the aisle cackling, the cabin crew tackles me, restraining me with plastic handcuffs.

I watch from the office of the polizei as my plane leaves Berlin, the buffoon smiling from the window of 2A.