Tommy
Tommy and I met somewhere around December of 2002, in the very cold apartment of the great uniter of Berlin’s young English-speaking scene at the time, Danny B. I was there with my erstwhile pal Jacque (no s), and as was customary for such visits, embarrassingly stoned. At midnight or so, Tommy stopped by.
He had already mastered the admired Berlin style of incorporating dozens of mismatching layers—on that occasion wife-beater, t-shirt, pullover, hoodie and coat, if I remember correctly. His right pants leg was rolled up as per cyclist chic, and he wore thick-framed black glasses. He seemed unbelievably charming and witty, and I felt like an incoherent lump in comparison (partially due to my compromised state, naturally). I think I tried to grandstand a bit…or maybe even flirt. This wasn’t so successful, and I distinctly remember a look he gave me that night that said “you jackass…”. He left before I did that evening, prompting a defeated shrug from me. Oh well, I thought. I’d probably never see him again.
This assumption proved incorrect. In the years since that first meeting, Tommy and I have established one of the most valuable and nuanced friendships I’ve ever had. Tommy has become the closest thing I have to family in Berlin.
It’s not always easy with us. We bicker and get into scuffles, which are thankfully then resolved without any discussion or soul-searching. We get pissed off, annoyed and bored with each other just as with any close relation. We can exacerbate or eradicate one another’s tendency toward stagnation, inversely—depending on the day and situation.
Tommy is the one who moved me to Stuttgart this past Tuesday. He was the one who helped he assemble my belongings, effects and memories into a van and drive me from my home of four years to a strange, terrifying new place.
The odd thing about the move was that it wasn’t difficult of scary at all. I didn’t cringe when we passed the sign announcing departure from Berlin. My gut didn’t knot itself throughout the seven-hour drive. He’d ask if I was okay, and the honest answer was always yes.
Yes. Yes.
And it was. Walking with Tommy through the ugly, charmless streets of Stuttgart was perfectly delightful. With him sitting on the couch (slash bed slash work desk), I somehow didn’t notice how hideous and sad my closet-sized guest apartment was. As we walked the several blocks back to the apartment from the van after storing my life in an acquaintance’s basement, swilling wine straight from the bottle, singing and cackling, I had no concept of how barren and awful that route would look when walked alone.
In fact, nothing about my decision to leave or the move disturbed me until Tommy drove away shortly before noon yesterday, in an empty van. As had become customary, I’d misread our map and placed us at a remote gas station high up on a hill on the outskirts of Stuttgart.
Then it hit me. All at once. That wasn’t just Tommy driving away, this man who’d become so irreplaceable to me—it was really Berlin disappearing into the distance with him. It was four years of euphoria, heartbreak, ambition, disappointment, comfort, alienation, success, struggle—in the form of an enormous van driven by a small, tan British guy. The person I’ve been…the person I’ve become, or at least part of her, drove away as well.
Near the gas station, I found the entrance to a leafy path leading down the mountain back into Stuttgart. I was grateful for the shadowy green protection as I cried and cried.
