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- Herausgeber: novum pro Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
"Nothing is bad for me. I have an apartment, a bike and the prospect of a spaghetti ice cream soon. What could be bad? Plus the sun is shining. So: full marks." Henning Thorben Glückskind sends his protagonist on an entertaining and amusing trip to his favorite ice cream parlor, lets him meet old acquaintances and new friends, experience adventures and practice time criticism. Undaunted, the incorrigible optimist faces one obstacle after the next and always tries to find solutions that are both unconventional and pragmatic. In doing so, he never loses sight of his goal: spaghetti ice cream.
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Seitenzahl: 243
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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Spaghetti ice cream
from
Henning Thorben Glückskind
Chapter 1
Departure
As soon as I get up, I realize that today is going to be my day. The one-kilo Nutella jar I bought on sale is still almost full and only slightly smeared. Even the toast still seems to have a shelf life, although I can only make a superficial assessment due to the lack of a sealing clip, on which the best-before date is usually printed. I set my small kitchen table with my grandma Thea's inherited crockery, still a little sleepy but in a more than good mood, heat up the long-life milk that just expired the day before yesterday for a nice cup of breakfast cocoa and put two slices of toast in the toaster in my mood-induced exuberance. A little later, I'm sitting at the table in yesterday's underpants and my favorite sleep T-shirt, holding the cocoa cup and looking through the kitchen window into the blue morning summer sky. There's already a lot going on outside. Various people are walking home with their shopping bags from the nearby Edeka supermarket, cyclists are cycling towards somewhere on their neatly cleaned bikes, family men are carrying home bulging bags of breakfast rolls and joggers are already sweating slightly as they pursue their life-extending hobby. As I watch all of them and several children playing right outside the house, my gaze wanders to my right foot, which is resting casually on the second free kitchen chair, and I suddenly notice potential for optimization. Judging by the length of my nails, it must have been several months since I last had a proper pedicure. I can't avoid shortening the unsightly long nails immediately if I want to leave the house in flip-flops today. It's Saturday and the sun is shining outside. But as I learned from my mother, regular pedicures are simply part of being an adult, even if they take up a considerable amount of time; the pedicure, of course, and not my mother. Although? Both, actually.
Without further ado, I throw my subconscious reservations about working on my toenails overboard and dedicate myself to the art of horn cutting with meticulous precision. After a few sweat-inducing moments, I come to a truly impressive conclusion with my self-cutting: Flip-flop day one of the summer can therefore be heralded. I briefly consider whether I should also take a shower, as I've already spent almost half the day on my personal hygiene, but discard this idea and declare myself clean enough to head towards the bustling city center in casual jeans, a sophisticated T-shirt, reasonably presentable flip-flops and a suntan, where I intend to fight the battle with a beautiful spaghetti ice cream, which I love dearly, in a very carefully selected ice cream parlour.
After getting dressed a little sleepily and doing my morning ablutions, the question arises as to how I should get to my ice cream parlor. Do I take the bus? Do I walk? Without further ado, I decide to take the bike, which is probably the most perfect combination of bus and walking, especially on beautiful summer days, but not on days with heavy rain. However, I won't be wearing my bike helmet today, which is not entirely in line with the rules. The saying goes: "He who has brains, protects them", but as my hairstyle is still really presentable, I don't want to crush it with my old helmet and degrade myself visually. What are people supposed to think when a cool guy like me cycles through the city with freshly cut toenails and wears an old bike helmet from 2007 that has really seen better days and which also presses my hair into the shape of the hairstyle of a medieval priest from "Name of the Rose"?
I leave the breakfast table uncleared, walk out of my apartment after locking it up properly and look for my bike in the backyard. After finally finding it between, or rather among, several other bikes belonging to my housemates and unlocking the safety locks, I immediately set off with a smile on my face. Only when I have already covered a considerable distance of several hundred meters do I notice that I have forgotten both my underpants and my socks in my lightness of summer freshness, but I feel free enough to continue my trip without underpants - also in view of the impending delay in the spaghetti ice cream plan if I decide otherwise. I hesitate a little when it comes to the socks, but take advantage of my own laissez-faire and simply overlook the bare feet, which, although freshly pedicured, are by no means completely clean or even smooth. Ultimately, however, I don't care about the cleanliness of my feet, especially as bare feet on flip-flops in German city centers don't stay clean for long anyway with all the dirt and dust lying around everywhere or being whirled around by the wind, cars or anything else. What's more, it would probably take me a good twenty minutes to cycle back, lock my bike securely and look for clean socks in my apartment. So, in the spirit of a British James Bond hero focused on his task, I think to myself "Spaghetti Ice counts" and continue pedalling nimbly in the direction of the city center, whistling my favourite song "Froh zu sein bedarf es wenig, doch wer froh ist, ist ein König" (To be happy requires little, but he who is happy is a king), which is not quite in time with my mood.
What you can discover here on the cycle path: young cyclists, old cyclists, cyclists with wickedly expensive bikes, pretty female cyclists, but also female cyclists with thick white legs and knobbly knees, children riding bikes, joggers, senior citizens sitting on rollators, senior citizens pushing the rollator, small children on a Kettcar - I didn't even know these things still existed -, cars parked the wrong way, letter carriers walking fast and numerous dogs being taken out for a morning walk by their masters and mistresses, properly leashed. It was amazing, a real hustle and bustle that I would have missed completely if I had taken the expensive bus. When I think of knobbly knees, I spontaneously think of my former classmate Esther, who was actually quite pretty, but whose legs, which in my opinion were clearly too large, had no recognizable kneecaps, which she presented to us during sports lessons on summer days on the school's own tartan track. All in all, Esther's legs were objectively far too powerful for her actually quite slim body, and because she was rather inactive in sports, even at the tender age of sixteen they were unsightly due to the weakness of the female connective tissue, for which, of course, she could do nothing. At the end of the day, it wasn't necessarily nice to have to watch Esther run a thousand meters, which she regularly finished last.
A completely different caliber was my highly esteemed classmate Nicole, who we male sports colleagues loved to watch in eighth grade when she took about twenty minutes to finally find the right run-up length and mark it with colored tape before she took the grade-deciding leap in the long jump. We didn't watch Nicole with any particular interest because she jumped exceptionally far or ran disproportionately fast. However, at perhaps fourteen years of age, her body was already so feminine that, despite the sports bra she was certainly wearing, there was quite a bit of bouncing during the run-up, which kept us boys from falling asleep a few hours later. Of course, Nicole never said a word to me, but I never forgot her and her more than impressive run-up to the pit. I wonder if she occasionally thinks about me and is annoyed that she never went to the movies with me. I would have loved to take her to one of these small cinemas in the run-up to Christmas to watch one of the old Christmas classics such as "Love Actually" and even offered her my nachos, which I don't normally let anyone try. Afterwards, we could have strolled through the Christmas market in a good mood and chatted about the movie. I'm sure she would have fallen madly in love with me, at the latest after I had romantically bought her a smoker from the Ore Mountains at one of the many stalls with a softly murmured "Thank you for a wonderful evening ...", and could have cycled to the ice cream parlor with me today, provided she had treated me well or very well since the Christmas market visit. If she hadn't treated me at least well, I would be riding alone so that Nicole could think about her inappropriate behavior in my absence. It's okay to let women think things over, especially when you're together with them, at least that's what I've read somewhere.
Watch out, red pedestrian light! I almost missed the traffic light. Sometimes I'm not quite myself and don't pay attention properly, which can quickly become dangerous in road traffic and especially when cycling without a helmet. I often ask myself when such - yes, what's the best way to describe this phenomenon? Mind wandering - started with me. In any case, I've been catching myself being distracted more and more often lately, which may be due to the fact that I've had a lot on my mind recently. In particular, I'm asking myself more and more often what I'm actually going to become, what path I'm going to take and what career I might pursue in the future. So far, I haven't been working, I've been concentrating on my studies for a short time and for a long time on how I can hide the fact that I've stopped studying philosophy and Japanese studies from my parents in order to delay the severing of the last remaining bond between us and the cessation of monthly support payments. Before the war in Ukraine, I got by really well with the four hundred and fifty euros my parents paid me in addition to the rent, especially as I don't smoke and don't have to invest large sums in other vices such as alcohol or women, so I was able to make ends meet relatively easily without working as a supposedly still-student. Unfortunately, Mr. Putin has changed my life, which was designed to be calm and relaxed, in more ways than one. My parents openly admit that they can't give me any more money each month because they are also suffering from inflation and rising energy costs and Dad is already retired, which rules out any major salary increases for this elderly gentleman in the future. Fair enough! On the other hand, I categorically rule out the idea that I should also work alongside my aborted studies in order to earn some extra money just to iron out the crisis caused by Mr. Putin himself. After all, I can't help the Russian war of aggression in Ukraine. And hiring myself out at McDonald's or Subway just to be able to drink sparkling water instead of tap water again doesn't meet my own expectations of myself or my inclinations with regard to my future career, as I would only have to sell overweight men burgers that taste like nothing for the minimum wage. Against this seemingly complex global political backdrop, I have decided to rethink my purchasing behavior and limit my consumption of goods such as clothing, technology and hygiene products as much as possible. In doing so, I am essentially following all the sustainability ideas of the current Fridays for Future movement, or at least that's what I would assume if I had even begun to think about them. That's why I now maximize the life cycles of my jeans, sweaters and winter jackets, don't buy any new smartphones or tablets and only use the own-brand products from DM or Rossmann for my personal hygiene - and I use them very carefully in terms of quantity. I am also meticulous about using as little electricity and gas as possible. With this in mind, I prefer to snuggle up on the couch under my real comforter on winter days, leave the lights off for as long as possible in the morning - although my late riser gene certainly helps me with this savings approach - and quite often avoid using my TV, which is at least fifteen years old. All of this helps me to continue living my usual life with my parents' monthly money, even without my own additional income, despite inflation.
Thank goodness. The traffic lights in front of me finally turn green, so I can cycle on after a short wait. I wonder what the gentleman in front of me has to do in the city. Money transactions perhaps, or is he more interested in pure primary food intake like me? From the look of him, he probably has nothing to do in town either. It's entirely possible that he's just riding through the city center, simply for the sake of cycling. Sometimes this is called a sport or hobby. Personally, with the exception of a brief period in the gym after my eighteenth birthday, I've never really given any thought to such pointless leisure activities. If I have time off and nothing to do, I don't have to fill this God-given free time with something meaningless. That's why I consistently do nothing in my free time. Nothing at all, to be precise. This usually leads to me being incredibly bored, especially during longer periods of free time. However, I do enjoy the idea of being so free that I could potentially do anything I wanted and not being restricted by any time constraints of any kind of hobby or regular pastime, living out my absolute freedom spontaneously in every conceivable way. I then spend hour after hour on my couch, lying on my back and mostly staring at the more or less white ceiling. I could really paint the ceiling again, although painting ceilings overhead is physically quite strenuous and always requires all the furniture to be neatly covered before painting. During these periods of leisure time, which are characterized by laziness and lost in thought, I am only allowed to interrupt my leisurely idleness for absolutely necessary needs, such as combating thirst with either cheap tap water or, in better financial times, ice-cold malt beer or well-tempered raspberry soda in sufficient quantities, or Mrs. Gröper from the floor above me. The kind-hearted old lady rings through to me at regular intervals to find out how I'm doing. However, I've never opened the door for her. I only found out from an acquaintance of a fellow tenant that it might be Mrs. Gröper who occasionally rings my doorbell. Who else could it be? I hardly know anyone in this house, which I've only lived in for a little over five years. And Mrs. Gröper looks exactly as if she rings through to me regularly to find out how I'm doing. Sometimes, after she has rung through to me, she also puts DHL notes in my letterbox. Again, I don't know what that means. In any case, when Mrs. Gröper rings my doorbell, I usually get up from my couch, go to the door and call out, without opening the door of course: "Sorry, it's a bit inconvenient at the moment. I'll be happy to open it for you later." By the way: I've never understood the DHL notes either. When I've ordered something pointless on the Internet on a whim, I never receive the order itself a little later, just a DHL note, which has probably been posted by Ms. Gröper and asks me to visit a DHL branch. I have never visited a store like this before. You never hear good things about such dubious stores. DHL could perhaps be a sect - comparable to the Jehovah's Witnesses, who recently fell into disrepute as a result of the shooting rampage - that wants to convert me in the "branch". What does DHL actually stand for? The holy people? It is also possible that you are recruited there by IS and then have to be trained as a fighter for the holy war in earthquake-prone regions of Syria. I don't believe in training, which is why I've never done any myself. I also consider education without an "out" to be a form of deprivation of freedom imposed by the authorities, which is why I quit my studies of my own free will after just a few months. Instead of enjoying your free time, you have to study for the sake of education itself. And let's be honest: the knowledge about the structure of composite flowers taught at school is only of very limited help when it comes to a) procuring food for a fee or b) successfully approaching a Tina, Tanja or Doris to make more intensive contact. Humanism! Dangerous and unnecessary like pretty much every "ism". Of course I also went to school, for quite a long time. And of course I also have a school-leaving certificate. Even the highest possible! However, I never really enjoyed my time at school apart from the breaks and school trips. Some teacher was constantly asking me to do homework and prepare for the next test or GLN. By what right, actually? Only Mr Sackmann, our much-loved religion teacher in years six to nine, was a different caliber, as he regularly let us watch a film and relax. His favorite film was "Ferdinand the Bull", a black and white comic film from the 1950s, which we must have watched ten times and were allowed to fall asleep after the third time at the latest. Today, I fall asleep better with a "Three Question Marks" radio play. Lying on the couch, I listen to some adventure from Rocky Beach and by the time Peter shouts "I'll get him", I've already dozed off. Wonderful, especially on gloomy November days. Incidentally, falling asleep to TKKG radio plays doesn't work at all for me, which may be due to the voice colors of the speakers, which is why I would urgently advise the producers of this radio play series to replace them.
What could lend weight to my assumption that the gentleman in front of me is possibly only riding his bike for sporting purposes are the two circumstances that he is riding one of those modern ultra-light trekking bikes with gears and that he is sweating, just like top athletes sweat, a lot. The entire light blue shirt he is wearing, including the poorly coordinated tie, is stained dark by the moisture from the sweat trickling out of all his coarse skin pores. The smart gray trousers have also spent a medium-length rainy voyage on deck, which is why the light summery trouser fabric, which has also become damp, clings tightly to the skin of the sportsman cycling in front of me and you can see the mighty muscular calves of the cyclist, who weighs an estimated one hundred and fifty kilos. He continues to pedal hard and breathe heavily, even as I easily overtake him on my more than thirty-year-old Dutch bike. I think he didn't want to show me off, didn't want to brag about his training advantage, didn't want to give me the feeling that I was also moving quickly. That's why I refrain from waving at him, which I normally do in my friendly manner when I pass another slow two-wheeled road user.
I particularly like several things about my Dutch bike:
What I don't like so much is that my brakes hardly work at all and that my front tire loses air so quickly that I have to pump it up every seven hundred meters or so. The reason for the loss of pressure is either a defective valve or a broken tube. I've been to various garages several times because of this, but all the mechanics with bicycle expertise I've employed there have unanimously assured me that the warranty on this tire, including the valve and inner tube, which has not been manufactured for several decades, has certainly expired. Numerous visits to the consumer protection office have also led me to believe that I may not be able to enforce any claims against the tire manufacturer in my favor. Justice certainly looks different. Having just thought about this disadvantage of my fancy Dutch bike, I realize that I need to pump up my tires and give them back the necessary pressure.
Once off the bike and with the pump at the ready, I notice how unkempt the surface of the cycle path is. It's not just that countless smaller and larger holes have an asymmetrical negative effect on the ground, or rather the path surface. Thousands of small stones also disrupt the cycling experience. Why doesn't the city cleaning service put the stones back into the holes intended for them? The ladies and gentlemen from the city administration probably don't have my aesthetic standards when it comes to surfaces that serve traffic. Perhaps these city officials also don't think about how much rubber could be saved if the cycle paths were designed to optimize friction. What would be the economic benefit if the working population using bicycles could cycle to work faster because they would be exposed to less friction? I'll try to do a quick mental calculation, kneeling on the cycle path and pumping up the front tire, by making some basic assumptions: Number of cyclists; number of working cyclists; number of working cyclists who cycle to work; average hourly wage of working cyclists who cycle to work; number of days a year that working cyclists who cycle to work actually use their bike on the way to work and don't leave it at home just because it hails a bit; Number of sick days taken by working cyclists who cycle to work and would actually have used their bikes on the way to work if they weren't sick in bed; working time gained per kilometer of distance travelled due to lower friction losses as a result of improved cycle path quality. I estimate a net economic benefit of one hundred and twenty-three euros twelve. And that's per year. Should I write another letter to the editor of the Frankfurter Allgemeine (FAZ) and point out these shortcomings in the German cycling system? Do they actually still accept handwritten letters to the editor at the FAZ? How expensive is the postage for a German letter? Is the readers' letters department still based in Germany or do I even have to pay postage for a letter to India? Not with me! They can shove their stupid letters to the editor up their asses. Exactly. The fine ladies and gentlemen at the FAZ can do that. It's outrageous to finance a letter to India. I get back on my bike and drive on, heavy with thought and inwardly seething about the outrageous outsourcing of entire sectors of the economy to third world countries.
Chapter 2
First problems
A little later, I unfortunately have to realize that I might have to pee, which is quite unpleasant. Especially today. I'm sure it's the fault of the copious amounts of cocoa I had for breakfast or the peach iced tea I bought on sale at Aldi, which I finished off my breakfast with in uncontrolled quantities not so long ago. On the one hand, of course, the fact that I forgot to put on a fresh pair of underpants before setting off towards the city center this morning is a positive thing. On the other hand, riding my bike doesn't make it any easier to urinate and continue riding at the same time, partly because my jeans have these stupid buttons that I can hardly get open even when I'm standing. How I'm supposed to manage this sitting on the bike is a mystery to me. I should probably have taken the bus after all. If I was sitting on the bus, I could stand up, get off at the next stop, look for a quiet place and my buttons could be opened - albeit with difficulty - but still reasonably easily. But sitting on the bike, opening my trouser buttons seems more than difficult. If I had only left the first button of my trousers undone, then it would be a possible undertaking. Or if I had been really scatterbrained and forgotten to fasten the last three buttons on my jeans, I could now reach into my pants and let nature take its course. But I'm never actually scatterbrained. Unfortunately. My perfection is almost inhuman, almost robotic. As far as scatterbrainedness is concerned, I like to compare myself to the Terminator in the first part of the trilogy. Or is it now a fiveology or something? In any case, the Terminator from the aforementioned Hollywood series never forgot anything, just like me. At least I don't remember anything like that. I have to admit that I certainly haven't seen the movie for a few years, but for the life of me I can't remember the Terminator in the movie ever forgetting anything. I'm almost certain that in no scene did the Terminator have to go back because he'd left his handkerchiefs in the hotel room, for example. I don't think the Terminator ever hit his forehead with the flat of his hand because he realized he hadn't paid the bill at the restaurant or got on the wrong bus. The Terminator also never had duck feet because he would have mixed up his left and right shoes. And, I'm quite sure, in no scene did the Terminator have to call the locksmith because he had forgotten the combination to his bike's license plate lock.
