The terrorist: Romanian scenery 2

The scenery

Again in my hometown – or village by mexican standards. It was summer and I was home to visit my familiy. I was coming from a small German University town, a small bubble of perfection, where the streets are cleaner than most hospital floors. I was in the center of my hometown. Again, nothing special, just some old buildings and a park in the middle. Wait! There is something special. In the backdrop of the park one can see the old church tower – still the tallest building in the town. The tower is the second most leaned after the tower of Pisa – or so they say. None of this is important though for my story. I am just setting the mood.

All around the park there are old buildings, beautiful buildings. In one of them, next to a Montessori school and a betting place lied a bookstore. In front of the bookstore was the police department – in a hideous, blueish building, that looked like a small town police department should look like. Inbetween the bookstore and the blueish building was a street. At the end of the stree a barrier blocked the entrance to cars in the old center. Inbetween the bookstore and the police department, and right next to the barrier were two big street flower pots. They lost their function however as flower pots and just became dirt pots – no flowers.

The meeting

I was supposed to meet my cousin in front of the bookstore and then go for a coffee. I arrived early and had to wait for him. Me, being a tall lazy person with back issues, decided to sit down on the flower pots. I had my wallet and my phone in my back pocket though. In order to sit down, I took them out. I was now sitted down with my wallet and my phone in my hand. The day was quite pleasant. It was warm and sunny and there weren’t too many people around. This is an important detail for my general state at the moment. Besides being a lazy tall person with back issues, I am also generally not fond of big crowds. I was therefore feeling at peace with myself in an empty, sunny town.

“What are you doing here?” a strange voice asks me.

I look around to find a man, of medium stature, looking at me insistently. I didn’t get to respond.

“What are you doing here I asked!?”

He was a burly man, with an incredible amount of chest hair exploding through his half buttoned down shirt. I remember this the most. It was quite impressive. He didn’t just have chest hair, he had a forest on his chest. He was probably in his mid fities. I can’t be sure however. My age assessing skills have greatly deteriorated since I have been living in Germany. A man in his seventies in Germany looks like a man in his fifties in Romania. Anyway, he was past his primetime.

Nevertheless, he had the build of a hard labourer. Hard labourers are the strongest people on this Earth. I don’t care how much you work out and how strict your diet is, a man that worked with his hands all his life is stronger than you. His voice was quite conflictual, so I decided to stand up before answering. I was anticipating a fist in my general direction already. I was determined to avoid a conflict at all costs however. You never pick a fight with a hard labourer.

The terrorist

“I am waiting for somebody!” I tried to say in a calm but asserting manner.

“You’re waiting ha?” he replied in a way showing his complete lack of trust in me.

“Yeah! why?!”

“Show me you ID!”

“Show you my ID? Why?” he was obviously no policeman.

“Just show me your ID!” he insists

“No, I won’t show you my ID.”

At this point was mostly angry with my cousin for not showing up on time. I could’ve avoided this whole situation. The man was not fidgeting and he seemed quite sure of himself. He was reaching in his pocket quite often though, so I felt a bit panicky. You never know when a knife might pop up and greet the sun.

“Just show me you ID! Are you a terrorist?” he asked me. At this point I was sure he was mentally deranged, and was feeling more scared than before.

“No! What’s wrong with you?!”

“Well why are you standing here all suspicious with your phone and wallet in your hand?…”

His question completely disarmed me. There was no logic there, just a bundle of words and thoughts suddenly charging at me full force. Then he completes his verbal charge.

“And you also have this beard…” He was pointing at my beard in total dissaray.

At that point I knew. There is indeed no logic, just a bundle of words, associations of images that drive him and his fears.

The policeman, the terrorist, and the angry man

My cousin was still missing and I was still angry with him. My agile mind suddenly realized at that moment that I was standing in front of the police department. So I decided to make use of that. Still, I couldn’t just shout for help. That would be overly dramatic and would damage my reputation. Not that I had one, but I was in a weird fighting mode, and somehow I kept thinking about my childhood friends. They would make fun of anybody that avoids conflict and would isolate them completely. I didn’t want to be a paria amongst the friends I haven’t seen in 10 years or so. So I decided to compromise and I told him in the most aggresive way possible:

“You want to see my ID!? Then let’s go to the police you madman!” I might have used a more aggressive word.

Then, I start walking towards the blueish building and to my utter surprise … he was actually following me. I think he thought it was a good idea. As I was walking in the police station however, the absurdity of it all hits me. What was I supposed to tell the policeman? This man wasn’t harming me, he wasn’t robbing me. He was just asking to see my ID. It was too late, I had to say something.

“This man wants to see my ID” That’s all I said and I thought the policeman will make fun of me – just like my childhood friends. Instead…

“You want to see his ID?! Who the fuck do you think you are? You’re lucky his such a nice guy (he was talking about me). If you would’ve asked me I would’ve kicked your ass so hard you wouldn’t walk for a week!” The charge continued and he was incredibly virulent. I actually felt sorry for the man asking me for my ID … and then he talks.

“Aha! So that’s the way it is in this country. I want to help and this is what I get in return!

“Help! Who!” said the policeman.

“You! I thought he was a terrorist! Just look at his beard” I have to be honest. All this attention my beard was getting made me feel proud.

“Are you a terrorist?” said the policeman.

“No”.

“There! He’s not a terrorist! Now get the fuck out!”

We actually got the fuck out.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were a terrorist.” The man with a forest on his chest told me. “Well, see you around!” he told me in the most jovial way possible and left.

Right after that my cousin shows up.

“Where the fuck were you?!” I ask in complete and absolute confusion.