Don't Forget to Stamp Your Ticket

The ceremony was beautiful. A photo of a young and healthy Adam Garret in pastor’s collar had been placed by the coffin covered with white orchids; a photo in which he smiled like no one had seen him smile for the past year. Through the sound of tears, and sniffles, of relatives and close friends; as the organ began playing the melody of “Time To Say Goodbye” by Andrea Boceli, the younger brother didn’t cry—not because he held anything back, but because there was no precious connection or bond severed that day. Adam Garret these ten years had already been dead by sentimental means.

He had not joined the company for coffee afterwards—instead he had caught the closest S-ban from Dennewitzplatz. He bought a ticket from the machine by the station and stepped onto the escalator. Halfway up the track-platform he met an elderly woman in fur-coat who asked him to help her carry her luggage downstairs. She spoke in German at first, and then said “I need—uh, help wiz’ zé bags.”

Down the escalators again, she grabbed her baggage and thanked him, but soon turned around.

“Lang lebe der Regenbogen!” She said holding her arm raised in salute.

How she accurately assumed him for a queer he did not know, and paid little inquiry of thought. Perhaps it was the suit.

He looked out the oval windows of the doors as the train left Alexanderplatz. The autumn sunset shining along the industries of the city gave it a golden crust; the metal ledges and concrete glistening in the moment like the relief of some ordeal affirmed by the outer world. Berlin had never seemed so beautiful.

The white motel room was austere, with four bunk beds along both walls, even though he was a single guest. He spoke in his cell phone as he entered and placed the card key into the electricity socket.

Back at the train, near the end of his line, the ticket inspectors had knocked him awake. Apparently he had forgotten to stamp his ticket through the machines by the platform and had to pay forty Euros. He tried to explain that he was a tourist and hadn’t known any better, and offered himself to step off the next station. They looked at him callously. “No,” they said in choir,“wha’z that gonna help?—I’z too late naow!” Apparently the good old fascism has not left the culture yet, he thought while walking up the lobby.

“No, I know that!” He said into the phone. “But I still had to pay. Yes, I know I didn’t have to, but I lost it—they caught me off guard.” He slipped out of his polished leather shoes and sat down on the bed, still suited.

“Yes, it was beautiful. Well I spoke to her, but I sat next to my cousin. She and dad were at the front row. I didn’t cry.”

He bit his lip over the last part, looking at the receipt of forty Euros ill-spent.

“The plane leaves Frankfurt tomorrow at noon,” he said. “I’ll be in Wisconsin by midnight. No, I won’t be traveling with the others. I’ll call you from New York, okay? I’ll see you soon. I love you too. Bye.”

He put the phone to recharge, and removed his black jacket. He opened up the window, had a smoke and tried reading a little.

Eventually he put the book aside and went to the little make-up table by the foot-end of the left bunk bed and picked up the envelope. It only said “To Mathew”. He had received it from his mother the day before and had not opened it yet. His brother had wished to send it to him personally a couple of months ago from the hospital. He had refused to give their mother the address of his fiancé, Al Heath.

Perhaps out of boredom, he gently tore the rim and pulled out the paper inside. His brother always had beautiful handwriting, as opposed to himself. He looked out the window, and stood looking for a long time before he sat down on the bed again; his heart beating. And he read:

“Hi, Mathew.

I assume you know why I’m writing you this letter. The doctors say that the cancer has spread.

The chemotherapy is taking its toll, and by the time you choose to read this, I don’t know if I’ll even be there to answer for these words. When we were kids you used to say I had a fat ass, well you should see it now. I’m not doing very well.

I won’t ask for undeserved sympathy, but lying here in the hospital bed, I like to think that we had a good childhood together, right? What happened next, I can’t rationalize by words. I guess that’s why you’re the writer and I’m not.

I’ve come to terms with whatever vow you’re taking, and I’m sorry that it won’t mean much to you by now. But let me make my last point clear.

Through this lonely harsh cold, we conquer, we devour, we fuck; we live. And at the end of the day, all we get is this one go; one shot at life. Remember man; be sincere, stay loyal, tell the one you love how you feel. But never, ever, forget where you’re from—‘cause when you do, you’re a long way from home.

I love you. I wish things had played out differently, and I wish you were here with me now.

My heart, Adam.”

He held the sheet in one hand; his other covering his brow, sobbing in the blonde light, the receipt of the fine still pinched between the letter and his fingers.

The sun silently slipped away beyond the black silhouettes of German suburbia, like an eavesdropper stricken by guilt; as if to let the cold night pass quickly upon some whim of empathy not expected to be appreciated.

And night came, and night passed, and in its trail; all history written.

THE END