Korridorium

♫ Mein Leben als Fruchtfliege ♫

19/398

I enter the corridor, whistling a cheerful tune. I already know who I’ll encounter here so early in the morning on my way from the bedroom to the bathroom and then straight to the study. It’s you. You, yourself—yes, yes, search your memory, and then you’ll know where you’re hanging around in your dreams just before you wake up. In my hallway! And I am genuinely grateful for that because you are my quality control.

So I waltz in, in my pajamas with my hair all messed up, and there you stand, looking serious, asking, “And?” (Does any of this ring a bell?)

I enthusiastically gush about my ideas from the night—for more great corridor stories, for example: “A short sketch about a Chinese man who can’t pronounce the letter R—starts with ‘I entel the collidol!'” And you stand there shaking your head with that typical, ever-so-slightly dismissive smile. (Is it starting to click yet?)

I don’t let my euphoria be dampened: “Fine, fine, not that one. But how about the corridor story using our secret childhood language: ‘Itefy entefen-tertefer thetefe cortefor-ritefi-dortefor’!” As expected, you roll your eyes: “Dumtefumb” (Quite quick-witted of you.)

“Okay, then, the Pope,” I say, running my hand through my disheveled hair as I try to remember what I’d come up with. “At first, of course, you don’t know who it is. He walks step by step toward the balcony, where an immense crowd awaits him along with TV cameras and microphones. In his mind, he’s formulating his address—a scathing indictment of his congregation, accusing them of behaving like foolish sheep, unable to use their God-given minds to steer human history in a halfway sensible direction. Then he steps up to the railing, smiles at the sea of people looking up at him expectantly, and then just says ‘Urbi et orbi’ yet again! Well?” For a brief moment, you stare at me as if you’re about to burst into tears. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. “Not good?” I ask with sad puppy-dog eyes, which, as usual, gets me nowhere because you just slowly and firmly shake your head. (By now, at least a few memories should be coming back to you.)

“Alright, then let’s take the boy in high school who enters the corridors between the classrooms with a rifle, contemplating the best way for his shooting spree to…” Your reaction makes me pause: you’re biting your fist. I assume that means: unbearable and completely off the mark. Too bad. “Could be a tweet,” I add pleadingly, “very short.” But your brief, dry laugh, tinged with no small amount of despair, tells me the problem with this idea isn’t its length. (Go ahead and check the knuckles of your right hand for bite marks. Is anything showing up?)

“Then I have a Jewish concentration camp prisoner to offer,” I suggest, and at this point, your expression is simply priceless: that expectation of something terrible, and how you fervently hope it isn’t true. But of course, I continue relentlessly: “He enters the corridor on his way to the gas chamber and…” A sound escapes your throat, a mixture of a gasp, a gurgle, and a sob, only very brief—I stop, because I don’t want to overstep. The best moments are when you roll your eyes to the heavens and raise your hands, as if some power from above could dry up this incessant torrent of half-baked or entirely ill-conceived ideas, finally silencing me and thereby bringing the world redemption. You do that really well. A sight for the gods, so to speak.

Of course, you sometimes nod graciously when one of my ideas doesn’t strike you as silly, adolescent, or tasteless. Otherwise, this blog wouldn’t exist. (To be honest, I sometimes sneak things past your strict quality control. Like this little story right here.)

You wouldn’t have thought so, would you? You and me, early in the morning in the corridor between my bedroom and my bathroom—and all the nonsense you have to listen to every time. Actually, you aren’t supposed to remember it at all, because otherwise you’d already know everything that appears here on the blog. That’s probably exactly why we forget almost everything from our nightly dreams: otherwise, life would just be boring.