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- Herausgeber: kontrabande Verlag, Köln
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
Jo has nothing: no money, no job, and soon no place to live. When her boss goes too far, she pulls the ripcord—but the price is high. In a city that shows no mercy. She fights her way through the daily indignities of big-city life with defiance, dry humor, and the help of an old man. Between groping, debt, and the hope for a different life, one question arises: How far can you fall—and when does the road back begin?
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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About This Book
Plan B sucked too …
Jo has nothing: no money, no job, and soon no place to live. When her boss goes too far, she pulls the ripcord—but the price is high. In a city that shows no mercy.
She fights her way through the daily indignities of big-city life with defiance, dry humor, and the help of an old man.
Between groping, debt, and the hope for a different life, one question arises: How far can you fall—and when does the road back begin?
Contents
cover
About This Book
Imprint
Disclaimer
Dedication
Citation
Jo
Büdchen
Sami
Büdchen
Carlo
Büdchen
Amira
Café Moloko
Mr Hänsel
Büdchen
Hella
Büdchen
Jo
The Park
Carlo
Jo picks up her things
Carlo
Pete
Büdchen
Jo
Jo cooks
Hänsel
Laundry
Visions
Hella
Hänsel
Büdchen
Jo goes shopping
Jo cooks
In the evening
Nightmares
Hänsel
Büdchen
Clothes
Clearing out
Bathroom
Jo tells
Freddi
Finances
Jo
Büdchen
Jürgen
Crisis Meeting
Pete
Büdchen
Pete
A Job
Pete
Carlo and Jo
Büdchen
Pete
Jo's stressed
Helga
Pete hangs out with Carlo
Kitchen
A dispute
Büdchen
Hella and Hänsel
Hänsel
Jürgen
Jo after work
Sami
Freddi
Jo
Hella
Nightmares
Büdchen
Hänsel
Freddi
Büdchen
Amira
Joti
Büdchen
Farewell
Departure
Helga
Hänsel
Carlo
Hänsel
Standstill
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Epilogue 3
Thanks
About the author
Bibliography
Your Review Matters!
Catnip
Guide
Contents
Imprint:
Published by kontrabande Verlag
Landsbergstraße 24 · 50678 Cologne, Germany
Unabridged new edition © 2025 Mac Conin
Cover image & design: kontrabande Verlag, Cologne
Title generated in part using elements from MidJourney
Translation: Mac Conin, Aidan Shaffer
This work is protected by copyright. Any use beyond what is permitted by law requires the publisher’s consent. This includes, in particular, reproduction, translation, and storage or processing in electronic systems.
We are not responsible for the content of third-party websites referenced in this work; the respective provider or operator is always liable. At the time of linking, no illegal content was identified.
eBook production by the publisher.
ISBN 978-3-911831-19-2 E-Book
ISBN 978-3-911831-20-8 Paperback
For detailed information about our authors and books, visit our website: www.kontrabande.de
Enjoy the read!
All characters and events in this book are, of course, entirely fictional.
Any resemblance to free-range, living or deceased persons, or to real places, is purely coincidental.
If you think you see yourself in here, suspect similarities to others, or believe you've recognized someone: congratulations on your vivid imagination.
For my beloved wife Birgit,
who knows only too well
that life always has another surprise
up its sleeve.
If you have a tingling sensation in your stomach,
that doesn’t necessarily mean
that you’re in love.
It can also be thin air.
— Unknown —
Jo
”You’re dripping into my bedroom.”
He stands there like a schoolboy who’s been caught. His shoulders slumped, his hands protectively covering his now tiny dick.
He stands soaking wet in the doorway between the bedroom and the bathroom. Water runs from the tips of his hair, small drops collecting on the floor. Not exactly the sight you want to see in the morning. Especially not after a night like last night.
”Should I come back to your place? Or maybe get breakfast?” His voice sounds almost hopeful, as if he believes that last night meant something. Something deeper. But the look on his face tells me otherwise. My head is throbbing, and I’m not in the mood for sex. Quite the opposite, in fact.
He probably expected more. Something more than a simple goodbye. In a moment, he’ll ask me for my number. I can already feel the awkwardness building. Hopefully, he won’t burst into tears. Now I have to stay strong and consistent. There’s no room for pity.
”No, dry yourself off and then you have to go, unfortunately,” I say as calmly and firmly as possible. ”It was nice, but that’s all it is. And breakfast is canceled. I have to work.”
I can’t very well tell him that the fridge is empty because I’m broke. And I just want to be left alone now. Stoping it before it gets annoying.
He looked better yesterday. One of those nights when you convince yourself that the guy looks pretty decent when the light is right and the alcohol clouds your vision a little. But in daylight? Well, there are some things that are better left in the dark.
I point to the stack of towels in the bathroom. ”Take one, and then you have to go, I’m sorry.”
Don’t sound too harsh. Maybe I feel a little sorry for him—no, actually, I don’t. The sooner he’s out of here, the better. It’s clearly over for me before it could even begin.
”It’s Sunday, you have to work?” He sounds surprised. He was probably imagining a cozy morning. Brunch. Maybe with some kind of erotic encore from the night before. Rolls for breakfast? Mine? Oh God, bourgeoisie on the march.
”Yes, imagine that, I have to work.” This time clearly more irritated. I don’t feel like arguing right now. I want my peace and quiet, to be alone again as soon as possible.
He sighs deeply and drags himself into the bathroom as if the whole world were weighing on his shoulders. But he makes it. Without dying on the way there. I hear the sink running. I imagine him drying himself off dejectedly, as if I’ve just broken his heart. He probably tried really hard. But that alone isn’t enough. The night wasn’t bad, but nothing in me wants a repeat. At least he wasn’t a ”one-shot wonder,” but that’s the best I can say about the evening.
After a few minutes, he came back out of the bathroom. Now dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. His shoulders slumped even lower than before. He leans awkwardly against the doorframe, unsure of what to do or say next.
”I used your toothbrush. I hope that’s okay.”
It wasn’t! He also used my towel. MY towel. And probably dried his ass and balls with it. My face towel! I’m going to disinfect the place later—and get a new toothbrush, definitely. But I don’t necessarily have to tell him that. So: Bye, and door closed.
Now it’s time for my beauty routine.
Checklist: pee, shower, teeth okay, hair? It’ll have to do – I look like a mop. So that’s okay too.
Now let’s see what I’ll have for breakfast. I’m completely broke. The fridge offers an unobstructed view of: nothing. Except for some expired yogurt and something I don’t know what it was supposed to be: so, nada.
The coffee’s gone too – disaster!!! I scream, but only very quietly because my brain needs coffee right now – I’d kill for some. I’ll pop into Sami’s kiosk, maybe he’ll take pity on me and save a poor girl from starvation. Or at least buy me a coffee so I can think straight again.
And then, like it or not, I’ll have to go back to Freddi’s café. He’s as appetizing as a vomit-covered ashtray, disgusting and flabby. But I need money. Urgently, there’s no point in sugarcoating it. The rent is due again, and I’m completely broke. The fifty bucks that limp Nils, or whatever his name was, happened to lose – haha, happened to lose – isn’t enough.
I haven’t paid last month’s rent either. The landlord was already here and made a big fuss. He threatened to kick me out if I didn’t pay the entire rent. But what if I don’t have the money? I don’t know what to do. Let’s see what the day brings.
The job at the café and what I earn there is barely enough to survive on. Or to be more precise, it’s definitely not enough. The other jobs I’ve had so far weren’t great either, but at least they didn’t involve Freddi the groper. I should have done better. Working as a waitress in a café is at least practical because it saves me having to go shopping. Whenever Freddi isn’t looking, I stuff myself silly. And – thank goodness for Tupperware – I even get to take some home with me. I just have to make sure I don’t get caught. Freddi really has no mercy. But he just wants to get his hands on me anyway. In his mind, I should be serving half-naked. He always says it’s good for business, but I’m sure that’s just what he’d like for himself. The lascivious, that willing Jo who blows him his… coffee…
But the job alone just isn’t enough. Not to mention my studies. That was more of an escape to Cologne – out of the mess at home. I don’t want to ask my parents for money; I’d rather chop off my fingers one by one than contact them again. They’d demand that I move back home, into my childhood bedroom, with all the family stress and everything. Never.
Mom drinks and Dad is having his angry outbursts again. Mom tries to stay out of everything and drinks herself into oblivion or closes her eyes and pretends she’s drunk.
Maybe I’ll just clear my head and find something to eat.
Büdchen – the Corner Store
Sundays are like—I don’t know—a bit like the finish line after a marathon. The Friday parties and Saturday drinking are over. The air is out, everyone is staggering down Zülpicher Street, more or less waiting for Monday. Everyone is trying to cheat their way through the free Sunday after a long Saturday night.
And then Sunday morning – the last survivors of the night from the Venuskeller or the Barbarossa-Schänke. Almost gone or still there, swaying slightly, with a beer bottle in their hand. They’re actually done, broken, finished – they just don’t know it yet. They should go home, or at least they wanted to at some point. But maybe it’s just as boring there as standing in front of the bar at 11 a.m. as it slowly lowers its shutters.
Of course, there are others. Those who weren’t out on Saturday and lead regular lives. Those who have to walk the dog or use Sunday for a stroll, a museum visit, or some other mundane activity. But these two worlds hardly ever intersect. While some are still trying to get their bearings or figure out where they’ve been after a night out, others drift past them as if in a parallel universe. No overlap, no common goals or needs.
Those who still need something from a kiosk won’t find it at my place. There are different types of kiosks. In the past, when retail stores closed at 2 p.m., we had the most important little things that mom or dad had forgotten to buy: soap, diapers, a few canned goods, toilet paper.
Back then – that sounds like something your grandparents would say, but it was only 30 years ago. Back then, there were still clear business hours. Saturdays until 2 p.m., then it was closed. If you forgot something after that, you were out of luck. Or you came to me. A corner store had everything—from diapers to laundry detergent, a stick of butter, stamps, rice, flour, milk, or a can of ravioli.
But that’s changed. Retail stores are open until the wee hours – there’s no longer any need for us as the ”nation’s lifeline.” Today, it’s all about alcohol, snacks, and cigarettes. Or accepting and delivering packages because people are never home when the delivery person rings the doorbell.
I’m a corner store in the tough battle zone of nightlife. No one comes here to buy a packet of tortellini. Here, there’s alcohol and cigarettes for those who are too lazy to walk to the nearest supermarket.
Those who take their dogs out might buy a pack of cigarettes and a newspaper. I’ve also gotten into dogs somehow.
The selection is manageable. On the left side of the wall are five large refrigerators with beer in various types and sizes. Behind the counter is everything for smokers. On the right are another five refrigerators with soft drinks, wine, and small bottles of liquor—all chilled, of course.
In between are two small refrigerated counters with a little ice cream and other items. And not to forget: candy and chips. In front of the door, because there is no more room inside, are two racks with newspapers – FAZ, SZ, Stadtanzeiger, and sometimes the Jüdische Allgemeine.
In the past, a kiosk was a meeting place – like the drinking hall in the Ruhr region, where people would gather after their shift underground. It was the place where workers would drink a beer, chat with their neighbors, hear the latest gossip, and then go home to sit in front of the TV. Along with a meatball sandwich or a greasy currywurst, you got the latest news from the neighborhood for free. Today, the gossip comes from the internet – about as exciting as soggy popcorn.
I’m not kidding myself anymore: our time is actually over. Our function as a social focal point of a neighborhood is history. We are changing, we are degenerating. What used to be the market square, the place where people met, no longer exists. We are an echo of the past.
Today, encounters are only fleeting, in passing. A ”hello,” a WhatsApp message – that’s it.
But there are exceptions. Sometimes we are still a meeting place. But not because of me – the communication hub of the neighborhood – but because of the people who work here. Those who still know someone. But that’s another story.
Sami
It was really quiet that morning. Two cigarette butts, three newspapers. All pensioners, with and without dogs.
Sami behind the counter could barely keep his eyes open. But after a shift, he was usually so numb that someone could have walked in naked and he probably wouldn’t have even looked up. Jo, with her tousled hair, was a welcome change and his secret favorite. She looked a little sleepy, but at her age, that usually wore off after an hour. Nineteen, twenty-four at most, petite, but with too much tension in her body—like a coiled spring.
She came rushing in and got straight down to business. ”Hi Sami, everything okay? How’s it going? How was your day?”
Sami raised his head, said nothing, just shrugged his shoulders. Jo leaned on the counter. ”Man, what a night, totally boring and dull. I was at Shell, Luxor would have been cool, but there was something about the entrance fee again and they wouldn’t let me in. Total capitalists. But I don’t have anything right now. But at Shell, it’s always the same and the guys, ugh, all full of boring squares and business students, you know, with pens in their shirts and haircuts like their moms did. Say, can you lend me another twenty or more? I’m really broke. And if you can’t, then you can’t. But you can always spare a coffee, right? And maybe something to eat? Say something.”
Sami sighed. ”Hey, Jo.” He reached under the counter and pulled out his supplies. He took the bagel that was supposed to be his breakfast and lunch and silently pushed it across the counter to Jo.
”I’d love to lend you some money, but first of all, it’s tax time again, and this place isn’t exactly a gold mine, although the tax office always sees it differently, of course, and secondly, you already owe me a good eight hundred. I’m just telling you so you understand the situation. Otherwise, I’d be happy to help you out.”
Jo rolled her eyes. ”Yeah, I know, job hunting isn’t going so well. It’s a tough time for students right now. I’ll go back to the café later, but that won’t really get me out of the red.”
”What about your studies and your parents? Can’t you ask them for some money?”
”No way, bad idea. Really bad idea.”
Sami pushed a coffee across the counter to her. ”But you have to do something, you can’t go on like this. All you do is hang around, go to Shell, Luxor or Schmelztiegel in the evenings. I couldn’t afford that. How do you manage to pay your rent? I’m starting to worry about you.”
”You’re right, it’s really complicated right now. I’m behind on my rent. And if my tab at Shell was cash, I could easily pay the rent. And I’m hoping the landlord doesn’t kick me out. I’m just an unregistered subtenant. No contract, no rights, ’hire and fire’. That’s why it was a bit cheaper. What the people of Cologne mean by ’fair’ ... But it’s not secure – only when I hand over the cash is it secure. Or the landlord decides he wants more. He definitely doesn’t pay tax on it. No bank transfers, please, always cash. It pisses me off. Pay up, but don’t complain. The heating broke again last week. Brrr, I can tell you. But I don’t really care because I can afford it. Well, not really. Not at the moment, anyway.”
”In other words, you’re practically already out, right? Grow up and take care of it. Talk to your landlord. Playing dead is a really stupid idea.”
”Now you sound like a schoolteacher.”
”I’m just saying, what if he kicks you out? Do you have a plan B? Or are you going to move under a bridge with the bums?”
Jo inhaled her coffee, cursed because it was still too hot, and said, ”Honestly, no. I don’t know. Can I stay with you...”
”No way—I like you, you’re a dear friend, but I really can’t right now. I live in a dump—when someone visits and wants to come in, I have to go out first. I’m really sorry—it’s not possible. If I had room, you could move in with me right away. But I’ll ask around.”
Jo beamed at him. ”You’d do that for me? Really?”
”Yes, we’re not family, but I’d be happy to help you. But don’t get your hopes up too high. Cologne is expensive and apartments are as rare as free parking spaces. No, even rarer. It’ll be tough. Don’t you have anywhere you could crash for a while?”
”No, not right now. And the guys who hang around there sometimes, no, really not—I don’t want to move in with them, I’d rather find a park bench.”
”It’s warm enough now. What about social services and the housing office? If you don’t have any money, you should be able to get subsidies and assistance.”
”Bad idea! I don’t want anything to do with them for various reasons. They’ll ask about my family, parents, student loans, and all that crap. No way! Nada, niente. I want to stay under the radar and keep a low profile.”
”What do you mean, why not? What do they want from you? You’re a student with no money, you’re not alone. Did you rob a bank?”
”Nonsense, but I’ll tell you another time, don’t be mad. This isn’t the right place or the right time. My head is still throbbing. Can I have another coffee?”
Sami took the cup back and refilled it.
”I trust you, you’re one of the few people who doesn’t always pull out the moral stick and pigeonhole people. I have to try and find some money now.”
”The Moloko?”
”Mhm.”
”Does Matzner pay you, right? Like, real cash? He’s a weird guy. I don’t like him. When he’s here, I always feel like I have to wash my hands thoroughly.”
”If he pays, then there’s money, but always directly into your hand and stuff—you know what I mean? So always be nice and bow politely, otherwise he’ll forget you exist and you won’t get anything.”
”Then get yourself a decent job...”
Jo pushed back the cup, which she had emptied in record time. Sami rummaged in his pants pocket, pulled out a bill, unfolded it, and pressed it into Jo’s hand. ”That’s all I can give you right now. You know how it is.”
”Oh, Sami, you’re such a sweetheart. You’re so reliable. I won’t forget this.”
She grabbed the bagel, blew Sami a kiss, and was out the door in a whirl with a quick goodbye. A bank robbery couldn’t have been faster. At least bank robbers don’t drink coffee and steal other people’s bagels.
Büdchen
You can tell when some people come in that they’re primarily looking for a conversation – even if it’s just a quick one. They pull out things like ”It’s quiet today,” ”You’re already back at work,” and so on as conversation starters, just to say something for the day.
You can imagine them sitting at home all day, maybe in front of the TV or surfing the internet, not saying a word. At some point, they realize that they haven’t spoken a single word all day. They go to the bathroom to make sure everything is okay, clear their throat, maybe try to say a sentence in front of the bathroom mirror, stop, clear their throat again, and try again. Their tongues need to loosen up first. They think about what to wear, because a snowstorm could be coming, and whether they have their bag with them. Yes – then they’re ready to go. Operation social contact.
You go down the few stairs, across the street, eyes left and right, no one you know, and into the kiosk, ”low level social contact,” so to speak. You say the little sentence you rehearsed about the weather and then fail miserably because of Sami. A dialogue looks like this:
”Tomorrow is going to be a great day, it’s supposed to be really sunny.”
And then you choose a newspaper—you have to pick something up and buy it.
Sami glances briefly at the newspaper, ”Three eighty,” and slumps back behind his small counter. The conversation is basically over. At least for Sami.
”It’s already really warm for May. It’s always so warm in here, it must be the refrigerators, right? You’d probably like to be outside, wouldn’t you? It would be too warm for me in the long run.”
The sentences are rattled off to say everything that has been rehearsed at home. Sami looks at his cell phone in a well-practiced manner, like a mortally wounded animal about to die.
”Yes, have a nice day.”
Sami makes a noise that could be a cough or a clearing of his throat.
The customer leaves and there is no indication that anything has happened.
Thus, the attempt to establish social contact comes to a quiet end. But you said something, you ventured outside and tried to interact with someone. Great, isn’t it?
I remember well when I first opened. It was the early 1950’s, the streets were busy, and people were still struggling with post-war supplies.
Milk in particular, as supermarkets had not yet been invented, was not as easy to come by as it is today due to the lack of cold chains.
The ”Gemeinnützige Gesellschaft für Milchausschank” (Non-Profit Milk Dispensing Society) opened sales outlets in 1904. Here you could buy milk for very little money. The widows and single women who ran these outlets gave the whole place a certain charm. They ensured that I became a place of exchange and encounter. Not a mere sales stand, but a place where people met and talked to each other.
Over the years, things changed. By the 1960s, milk was no longer in such high demand, and other goods were sold over my counter. Cakes, rolls, and alcohol found their way into my product range. People came to buy cigarettes, a newspaper, or sometimes a beer. I became what is known today as a corner store—a place where you can find everything you need, even after the shops have closed. And after work, you could catch up on the latest news from the neighborhood.
This changed me a lot. I became an important part of urban life, a small but indispensable institution that constantly adapted to people’s needs.
I’ve noticed that customers have changed over the decades. Social coexistence and the way people interact with each other have changed significantly.
What used to be ”the neighborhood” is now ”the hood,” and it’s changing.
Rousseau wrote about civil society in his book Discourse on Inequality in 1755. He describes humans as free, independent, and peaceful. People are inherently good and act according to their basic needs. Social norms or possessiveness were initially non-existent. With the emergence of property and social structures in the city, he sees the emergence of inequality and social alienation. Civilized society ”corrupts people,” especially through the pursuit of recognition and possessions. Ha—I knew it. The first Marxist! This development leads to social injustice and competitive thinking.
Rousseau advocates a ”return to nature” and criticizes the negative effects of social development on human freedom and individual happiness. Not only a Marxist, but also a Green!
Sure, you can do anything, but who wants to do without a refrigerator and the internet today? I don’t think his approach is tenable anymore—except perhaps for those who really want to drop out and live naked in a mud hut in the middle of nowhere.
When I look at my customers, I still see a desire to experience togetherness. Even if it’s just for a few seconds, which is what buying two bottles of beer for the evening brings.
Sami is certainly not the ideal partner for togetherness. But it was at least worth a try.
Carlo | Home
The cat is complaining again because he’s not getting his favorite food. I can’t change that now. It’s Sunday, the shops are closed. That’s it. So it’s either starve or eat. Cats always have to act so snobbish and put on airs. I don’t make such a fuss when my bread roll is a day old or when they don’t have the bread I like. But no, the cat acts as if I’m trying to poison him. A look that says, ”Are you serious? You want me to eat that? Dude, I could die—I bet it’s full of nasty additives...” says it all.
The only thing missing now is for him to collapse like a drama queen and pretend he’s starving to death. Losing a little weight wouldn’t hurt the fat beast either.
Now he’s stormed off, offended. I think he’s decided to go on a hunger strike. Or he’ll start terrorizing me later, first by lying on the keyboard, then maybe tidying up and knocking something over. The whole repertoire of cat terrorism that he’s so good at. From ignoring me to total contempt, Kater has perfected it all. Or the grand gesture: I don’t give a shit about you, and now I don’t give a shit about your carpet either.
Okay, if he doesn’t want to, that’s his problem. I have stronger nerves. I’ll just sit relaxed at my kitchen table and drink my morning coffee. The window to the Zülpicher is open and the sun is shining in. It’s going to be another warm day.
But I still have a few things to work out so that Monday doesn’t start off stressful. Now I’ll spend two to three hours preparing the project. That will give me some breathing room on Monday, at least until the afternoon. Then Meier can puff himself up again and I’ll deflate him and show him the finished plan.
Actually, the weather is too nice to work. I could sit across the street in the café and work there. Then Kater can run around and get excited here. The waitress at the café is nice, too, if she’s working today.
But maybe that would be too distracting? The café, not the waitress. She’s really nice, though. A little scatterbrained sometimes, sometimes impulsive, always on the go. But she does what she does with passion. The coffee is great, you can’t complain about that. And she always has a quick quip. And when she dashes through the café, her curls always dyed in whatever color is trendy right now, and then her casual clothes. How old do you think she is? I guess she’s in college, first or second semester, so around 20-22 years old? Come to think of it, the café isn’t distracting. I can work well here. She really has the place under control, hats off to her.
I think I’ll do it. And if I don’t finish, it doesn’t matter. Meier will be in a bad mood again tomorrow and grumble no matter how much I get done. And Kater is already in a bad mood. I wonder if she’s working today?
I just need to pack up my laptop and then the workday can start. Down the stairs, diagonally across the street, and then into Moloko.
They’ve probably thrown open all the doors and windows in anticipation of the warm weather. On the one hand, that’s nice because it makes it airy, but Zülpicher Straße isn’t exactly an oasis of calm. Trams, cars, and hordes of cyclists, most of them on their way to university. And the section for pedestrians is narrow. If you sit at a table out there, you have to keep your feet close to you, otherwise people will trip over them, or one of those crazy scooter riders will crash into you. Something like that. I’m sure she’s working today; she’s often there.
I always sit at the back of the café. I don’t need the hustle and bustle of the street; I can get that from my window. I usually take the table at the back, against the wall of the café. It’s quiet there, even though it’s next to the kitchen. But there’s electricity and it just feels a bit more sheltered. And you have a great view of everything that’s going on.
From there, I can see the counter well, and also a little bit into the kitchen. What’s not so nice is the owner. Or is that just the boss? I don’t know. He’s always ranting and raving. He’s one of those sleazy guys. Nothing is right, everything is too late, too slow, not attentive, and so on. He’s annoying.
Büdchen
But what’s it like living together in the big city, how has that changed? What about the desire for community?
The city isn’t a small village. Structures that once existed in the countryside or in small communities don’t work in the city; more precisely, they never established themselves in the first place.
But the desire for community, for the neighborhood, the hood, is still there. You identify yourself by the corner where you live, where you shop, which stores you frequent. The neighborhood determines the style.
People want to belong to something, even if they have little or no direct contact with the people in their neighborhood. But everyone will tell you clearly and emphatically that they come from the South Side, Ehrenfeld, or Bickendorf. It’s almost like saying, ”I come from the village back there.”
These boundaries are actually noticeable. It’s not just differences in shops and houses that hint at boundaries. In some cases, it’s also language and idioms that change from neighborhood to neighborhood. Not drastically, but there are nuances that signal to Cologne residents: You’ve left your neighborhood, watch out, foreign territory. ’Hic sunt dracones,’ wrote the cartographers of old at the margins of their maps—where the unknown began.
One might have expected that attachment to a neighborhood would be clearly expressed in the form of social interaction. Instead, completely different processes are taking place.
The physical attachment to a neighborhood is being replaced by a virtual one.
The neighborhood is not experienced by actually living there; much of it happens in digital form. Virtual neighborhoods emerge, similar to groups on Facebook, Instagram, Discord, Slack, and so on. But digital communication, even with all its advantages, is still a rather bloodless affair that cannot replace real conversation.
I used to notice more. Customers would come in, and we would gossip about what Jupp had said, what Luzie had said, who was cheating on whom, who had knocked on the wrong door drunk at night. In short, everything that was going on between people.
A picture formed in my mind of an environment defined by people, destinies, and events. Like landmarks that make it easier to find your way around a partially unfamiliar landscape. Pins on a map, invisibly connected and held together by events and people.
Back there, where the butcher used to be, who always had a wild boar hanging on his door in winter, lived this strange piano teacher, to whom the girls from better homes marched. Now the butcher is gone, a small architecture firm has moved into the premises, and the piano teacher has died.
Landmarks have always shifted. Some disappeared, were relocated, or new ones were added.
Today, these landmarks are becoming fewer and fewer because no one uses the kiosk to update information anymore. Sure, there’s still the odd piece of news, some of it juicy, but more and more of my landmarks are disappearing and all that’s left is information that only means something to long-time residents: ”That’s where the miller with the wooden leg used to live.” The landmarks are fading because fewer and fewer people knew Mr. Miller and others have no use for this information. The map is becoming increasingly empty.
And the people? They walk through this city, have their apartments and their so-called environment, their ”hood,” where they feel largely safe. They are isolated, live alone, but generally long for what used to define people: community.
Here in Cologne, there are more singles than families; over 50% of households are now single-person households. All of them live alone in smaller or larger apartments. And the trend is rising.
Like ships in fog, they drift through their territory. They signal their position with mostly digital signals, like foghorns.
They also hear other ships traveling in the fog. Perhaps they are on the same course, heading for an imaginary safe harbor, or at the same position – but they can’t actually see anyone.
They hear the others and think to themselves that they are not alone, and that gives them a little security. Because now they know that there must be others out there looking for the same thing as them.
At the same time, they are afraid of getting too close. In the worst case, a collision could mean disaster, with one or both ships suffering damage or taking on water and perhaps sinking.
But they long for closeness and at the same time are afraid to get any closer to others. So they drift silently through the night and the fog, hearing the others calling. Perhaps one of them will answer, confirming that they have been heard and noticed. They call out – and yet remain alone.
The only comfort is the knowledge that there are others out there who are also searching. It’s not much, but something. And perhaps the fog will lift at some point.
Perhaps we all need to be a little braver, listen more closely, and slowly approach other ships. Perhaps the fog is not as thick as we think, and we could cautiously approach other ships at a slow speed. If danger arises, we can always turn away and hide in the fog again.
But closeness requires courage. Courage to take a risk and possibly be sunk.
The city is like an ocean, with reefs and sandbanks, harbors and bays. We navigate by ear, perhaps by maps. But in the fog, we are all the same. Alone and searching for safety.
Amira
Summer is slowly approaching. June. But it’s always summer in front of the stove – just like in Tunisia. Exhausting, yet reminiscent of home, when the air shimmers and people enjoy meeting in the shade to chat. I miss that. Everything here is always so hectic that you hardly get to talk, except for the bare necessities. There was always a lot to do at home, too, but it was still more relaxed. I don’t know why that is. Tunisia was so long ago now that it seems almost unreal.
Today is Monday. It’s quieter. Friday and Saturday are the most stressful days. Nobody cooks anymore, everyone gets pizza or kebabs.
I’ve known some of the customers forever. I know what they always order. They’re happy when I remember and ask them directly, ”The usual, pizza Napoli and mixed salad without dressing?” Then they laugh, nod and say, ”Yes, exactly!” That feels good.
Jo, on the other hand, is different from most people here. She talks fast and always has a quip at the ready, as if she doesn’t take the world too seriously—or doesn’t let it get too close. I often have to ask her what she means. You ask her a question, and she’s already moved on to a completely different topic. Sometimes she seems like she’s everywhere at once and nowhere in particular. But she’s nice. Direct. No fake smiles, just genuine.
She does a lot of silly things, but she’s smart. I think she could get a lot more out of life if she didn’t always have to fight against everything. She reminds me of someone swimming in a river – but always against the current. Sometimes I wonder if she could make life easier for herself if she wanted to.
We don’t talk about personal stuff very often. She doesn’t really share much about her private life, but I can tell there’s a lot she’s not saying. Maybe too much. I know what it’s like when you don’t want to talk about things because then they become too real.
Sometimes I buy her a pizza when she’s short on cash. It’s probably her only proper meal of the day. She always thanks me profusely. I like that.
Jo isn’t afraid of me, which is something I really appreciate. Some people here treat me like a stranger, even though I’ve been making them pizza for years. Not Jo. She looks at me as if I’m just Amira, not ”the woman with the accent and dark skin” who sometimes searches for the right words because they don’t come quickly enough. Maybe she’s so open because she doesn’t really belong anywhere herself.
My daughter Jouri is five now, and when she gets to come along and meet Jo, they’re both overjoyed. I want Jouri to have a better life than I did. To go to college. Find a good, honest job. Making pizza is honest—but hard. Long shifts, from noon to two in the morning. Jouri is long asleep by then. Tuesday is my day off. We do something together. Playground, maybe ice cream. She’s always happy. And so am I.
Café Moloko
She picked up speed on the street. She didn’t want to be late again. She almost overlooked the elderly gentleman with a cane, whom she nearly knocked over. He almost lost the newspaper tucked under his arm.
”Oh, sorry,” she squeezed out cheerfully between her bagel and her breathlessness. She blew him a kiss, which visibly irritated him. The older gentleman straightened his jacket and just shook his head.
Meanwhile, her thoughts kept circling around the topic of money. The jobs she had done recently had been more or less okay. They ended well sometimes, but mostly badly, leaving both sides with a sour taste.
The café job was the only one she could really count on—for now.
The job at the sushi bar had been great. Everything had been just right. She had learned a lot; just by watching, she had picked up a lot from the old chef, who didn’t speak any German. The sushi master, and he really was one, was a true artist. Takeshi often talked to him and called him ”Hey, Baka.” Jo wanted to be attentive and show her commitment. The next day, she greeted him cheerfully with ”Hey Baka, how’s it going?” The chef looked at her, then at Takeshi, there was a moment of silence, then they both roared with laughter. Jo was completely baffled. Had she pronounced it wrong or remembered it wrong? She tried again, emphasizing it slightly differently. The ensuing burst of laughter was even worse. Jo was completely confused. Takeshi explained to her that ”baka,” depending on the intonation, could mean either ”friendly” or ”rude.” Jo blushed bright red.
The chef came over to her, wiped the tears from his eyes, patted her gently on the shoulder, and then called her ”hei baka-chan.” And then he shook with laughter again. Eventually, Jo had to laugh too. Baka, whose real name was Haru, showed her a lot of his skills over the following weeks. She learned what consistency the rice should have, how to cut fish, how to prepare vegetables. She absorbed everything like a sponge. Haru was really proud of his ”baka-chan .”
Unfortunately, Takeshi, who was a really lovable owner and wonderful host, had been a little careless and had kept more than creative accounts. This had come to light during a random inspection by the local tax office.
Takeshi just laughed and said that everything could be sorted out. The tax office and customs didn’t find it so funny and simply closed the shop down. Haru was deeply saddened to lose his student. In an extremely generous gesture, he gave her one of his sushi knives. Jo understood that this was an expression of great affection and respect. She carefully took the knife with both hands and bowed deeply. She thanked him politely with a ”Dōmo arigatō gozaimasu.” At least that’s what she had learned. Takeshi had always pressed her wages into her hand every evening. The bills often smelled like fish, but money doesn’t stink, as we all know.
The ”Smash” – it could have been something. A trendy bar straight out of a book. Dark, lots of stuff plastered on the ceiling, shabby furnishings, cozy, a long, round bar, and lots of regulars. Jo felt right at home behind the bar. Pouring Kölsch, collecting tips, serving red wine and everything else that goes over the bar in a corner pub that has been around for decades. She quickly became part of the ’community’, joking with the guests and constantly on the move. What had gone wrong, what hadn’t worked out? She didn’t understand it until the very end. After a good four weeks, Frank, the boss, a rotund, kind-hearted guy with terrible bow legs, told her she was no longer needed. She had asked Frank, but he had only hemmed and hawed, muttered something about his wife, and then pressed her pay into her hand. It was more than they had actually agreed on. His wife Renate, a rather poisonous, dried-up person who stuck her nose into everything and controlled everyone, had probably been the driving force behind it. Jo confronted Frank about it, and he admitted that Renate was quite jealous and had given him hell to get rid of her. With firm breasts, a firm butt, and significantly younger than ”that dried-up old hag with a saggy ass,” she was a threat to Frank in Renate’s eyes. She had burst out laughing at the thought that she might want something from Frank, but seconds later, the laughter had stuck in her throat.
Melvin with his vegan sandwiches was an instant flop. Other jobs followed and ended similarly. And so the job opportunities in the area became scarcer. All that remained was Moloko… with Freddi. The location on Zülpicher Straße was good, a corner café with a wide window front that could be opened fully in good weather. There was just enough space on the sidewalk for tables. Freddi thought that three or four small tables would fit there. Inside, there was a simple, long counter and more than a dozen tables and small tables on two levels. Nothing special, no furnishings with flair—rather cheaply put together and not very cozy. But the location was just right. At lunchtime, the café was popular with people from the surrounding offices who would arrive around 12:30, grab a salad or a lasagna and a water, then an espresso, and disappear again. In the evening, it was more the drinkers who wanted something to eat before heading to the next bar.
Moloko – Freddi was so proud of the name that, in his genius, he chose it from the movie ”A Clockwork Orange.” Everything about him was genius. And he was the most brilliant of all on Zülpicher Strasse. At least, that’s what he thought of himself. She found the name boring – and Freddi just sleazy.
Frieder Matzner, who always called himself Freddi because he thought it sounded dynamic and youthful, had become overweight at an early age. In any case, this man in his mid-thirties thought he was irresistible; his 165 cm and estimated 95 kg made him a sex bomb and a great guy in his own eyes. The fact that he already had hardly any hair left and his eyes disappeared behind his overly thick cheeks was irrelevant. When he smiled, he had trouble seeing anything. He always shone a little, as if he had been oiled, but that was probably just his oily, pale skin. He always referred to a thick brown wart with two hairs on his cheek as a beauty mark. Beauty is always in the eye of the beholder, Jo thought to herself.
She entered the café and swung herself behind the counter. Her apron was hanging there. Wrap it around once and ”Jo is ready for anything.” The coffee machine was already set. One of the regulars had already moved to the back table. She knew he would order a coffee in a moment. She prepared his order with practiced ease.
Freddi emerged from the kitchen and smiled at her; he had an audience. He grumbled quietly. ”You’re late, beautiful Johanna, again.” Strictly speaking, it was barely five minutes. ”Do I have to do everything here by myself? Unlock up, bring out the tables, and get everything ready? But the lady is taking her time again. Looks like you extended your beauty sleep a little too long.”
She groaned inwardly. He had the key; he had to unlock the door because she didn’t have a key. Even this dwarf could easily roll the sliding doors aside without getting out of breath. She said nothing, silently clearing the delivered goods, coffee, and rolls onto the counter. It only took a moment. She had been doing the job long enough that she didn’t need much time for it. With a little concentration, you could be considered a pro in a job like this after just a week. The demands weren’t high, but she loved doing her tasks as efficiently as possible. She took the rest of the goods to the storage area in the kitchen.
Freddi followed her around. The kitchen was cramped, and they kept bumping into each other. Freddi continued to grumble, sorting things and pushing past Jo as if the kitchen were even smaller than it was. He liked physical contact. ”Is this necessary?” she asked, annoyed. They had played this game many times before.
”What are you doing? It’s cramped in here, there’s no way around it.”
She squeezed out of the kitchen. First, take orders. Just get away from that wart. A guest at the counter was already immersed in a daily newspaper. ”Good morning, what can I get you?” she asked cheerfully.
”A coffee.”
”Coming right up.” She hurried over to her regular customer, whose name was Carlo, or so she knew. He looked nice, even if he always seemed a little shy. Dark, short hair, maybe in his mid-thirties, always casually dressed. She smiled at him, relieved to no longer be alone in the café with Freddi.
”Morning, Carlo, that was right, wasn’t it?” she said to him.
Carlo blinked, looked at her briefly, then looked away again. She had already noticed that he wasn’t very good at making eye contact. Some people just felt uncomfortable doing that.
”Yes, that’s right, I’d like a coffee and a ciabatta, the one with cheese.”
”Sure, coming right up.”
Carlo put on a practiced smile, opened his laptop, and set up his office, which meant plugging his laptop into the power outlet, connecting to the café’s Wi-Fi, and starting his programs.
Jo stood behind the counter, turned on the coffee machine, and made coffee for the customer at the counter. She pushed the coffee toward him and asked, ”So? Anything important in the paper? I haven’t had a chance to read it yet. Would you like something to eat? We have fresh ciabatta with all kinds of delicious toppings.”
She never read the newspaper. First of all, it cost money, then it cost her nerves to digest all the bad news, and last but not least, she didn’t give a damn. She had enough problems of her own to deal with, she didn’t need other people’s problems on top of that.
”No, the usual, politics, then more delays at the opera, someone has filed a lawsuit against a bike lane. Nothing really important. But a ciabatta sounds good, cheese and salami, is that okay?”
”Sure, I’ll get it for you, give me five minutes. Then I won’t have missed anything,” she said, already having finished Carlo’s coffee. She brought it to his table, he looked up briefly, nodded, and immersed himself in his laptop again.
She had to go back to the kitchen for the ciabatta. The kitchen assistant wouldn’t be coming in until later, when the shop was busier. Freddi was a stingy jerk.
He was still in the kitchen. She took two ciabattas, cut them open, and took the cheese, salami, and butter out of the refrigerator.
Freddi pushed past her again. She could almost feel his cock rubbing against her. ”Is this necessary? You’re doing this on purpose,” she hissed at him. She took the two ciabatta and quickly made the sandwiches.
”No, of course not, Jo. But I don’t think physical contact is such a bad thing, is it?” He patted her on the butt.
Jo still had the kitchen knife in her hand and hissed, ”Stop that or you’ll be sorry.”
”What’s the matter, sweetheart, why so bitchy, are you on your period? It wouldn’t bother me. And please be careful with that knife.”
Jo turned back around, angrily slapped the toppings onto the ciabatta, and closed it.
”It’s actually quite nice here, isn’t it?” he whispered in her ear. Jo turned away, just wanting to get out of the kitchen. She hissed at him and stormed out of the kitchen with the two plates. He laughed after her.
One ciabatta went straight over the counter, and she brought the other to Carlo’s table. She stayed with Carlo, just to get away from Freddi.
”Can I ask you what exactly you do? You always look so focused. It must be something complicated, right?”
Carlo emerged from his thoughts. He noticed his ciabatta, then Jo.
”Are you writing a book? Or is that real work? I mean, writing is work, but it’s different, isn’t it? It’s not the first time you’ve been so absorbed, I’ve noticed.”
Carlo looked up, visibly irritated because he had been left alone. ”Uh, yeah. I’m planning a project, remotely. Coordination, project management, thinking everything through, looking for stumbling blocks before they become ones.”
”Get to work, you’re not paid to chat,” Carlo heard Freddi scolding from the kitchen.
Jo sighed. ”Would you like another coffee? It’s on the house. If the boss is so obnoxious, I have to at least make sure the atmosphere is pleasant. So, another one?”
Carlo was overwhelmed with coffee, his laptop, Jo, and the ciabatta all at once. Four things at once was too much. And then there was Jo, who always smiled at him so nicely. He shut himself off. He thanked her with a nod and stared intently at his laptop, not knowing what to say.
Jo disappeared behind the counter again. The other supplies for the day still needed to be put away.
Carlo tried to concentrate on his work again, but he couldn’t. He watched Jo as she disappeared behind the counter with her tousled hair, reappeared, bent down again, and shot up again, putting more things away. New guests had settled down at the tables outside. Jo began to work faster, moving between the coffee machine, the counter, and the plates with the perfection of a dancer. Carlo had always been fascinated by workflows—by watching someone perform movements and tasks like a well-oiled machine.
Jo clearly enjoyed completing all the incoming orders with a minimum of effort and energy in the shortest possible time. She performed a complicated choreography in a tiny space in no time at all. Every movement was well thought out, with no unnecessary movements. It was beautiful to watch her.
Jo disappeared into the kitchen again to fetch something. Carlo heard excited voices coming from the kitchen, but couldn’t make out exactly what was being said.
