Fame: A Novel in Nine Episodes

A Contribution to the Debate

Here I have to back up. Sorry: perfectly clear that lithuania23 and icu_lop will flame this posting for being too long; so will that troll lordoftheFlakes, just like he flamed on MovieForum, but I can’t do it shorter, and whoever’s in a hurry can just skip it. Meeting celebrities? Heads up!

Must signal that I’m a huge hardcore fan of this forum. Platinum idea. Normal types like you and me who spot famous people and report on their sightings: chill, no? wicked idea, really well worked out, interesting to everyone and besides it acts like control, so they know they’re being scanned and can’t just goof off. Wanted to post here forever, only where to get the stuff. But then came last weekend, the whole load.

Quick flashback. (My life has been the whole crazy load recently, but you have to cope, there are good days and bad days, yin and yang stuff and for you freaks who’ve never heard of that: it’s philosophy!) You know my username mollwit from other forums. I post a lot on Supermovies and also on TheeveningNews, on literature4you, and chat rooms, and when I see bloggers serving up bullshit I let them have it. Username always mollwit. In Real Life (the real one!) I’m in my mid-thirties, quite tall, medium build. During the week I wear tie, office regs, whole capitalist racket, you do the same. Has to happen if you’re going to realize your Life Sense. In my case writing analyses, observations, and debates: contributions to culture, society, political stuff.

I work in the headquarters of a cell phone company and share an office with Lobenmeier, whom I hate, the way nobody’s ever hated anybody, you can eat lunch on that. I wish him dead, and if there’s worse than dead then I wish him that too. Logicalwise he’s the boss’s golden boy, day-on-day punctual, yes yes yes hardworking, and for as long as he’s at his desk, he does his work stuff and only stops to look at me and say something like “hey, back on the Internet again?” Sometimes he jumps up, comes round my desk, and wants to eyeball my screen, but I’m quicker and click off in time. Just the once I had to go to the water closet in a hurry and I left a couple windows open by accident, and when back, he was sitting on my chair with a huge smiley face. I swear to you, if he wasn’t a fitness freak, he’d have swallowed his teeth right then.

Our boss seriously awful too. Totally unchill and majorly bad, none of your small stuff. I think he trusts me, but you can’t tell with him: he’s always thinking us through and hatching plans nobody can overview. Power plays totally above my head; for me, it’s about the universal thing and society and all the daily pig stuff … you know. Obvious that people who write for newspapers already bought, and people they write about in it with them. A huge conspiracy, everyone in bed together, coining money like mad, us okay people just waiting. Just one example: radio messages on 9/11, read it online, nothing will surprise you again!

Back to topic. All began last Friday. Was about to post on movieforum of TheeveningNews, about Ralf Tanner and the slap. Bugclap4 said nothing going on any more with him and Carla Mirelli, while icu_lop thought still something to be saved. I was one who knew more again, had read something on another Web site, but when I wanted to go public, noticed I couldn’t post any more. Wouldn’t work! Whole load of error messages each time, and because it stank I just called up.

Okay, okay, okay, okay, clear already. Didn’t think. I know. But evening before to top everything banged heads with mother again: you can cook for yourself, you can wash your own stuff, like that plus more, finally me back “So live alone, pay your own rent!”

Then her: “Never wanted to move here! And you’d really rather be with some tramp!”

Then me: “go back to flyspeckland, cow!”

Around midnight, kiss-up scene in cinemascope, but next day I was still cross-wired and all down-side up, otherwise none of it would have happened.

So, looked up number, dialed. So furious, could hear heart thump-beating.

Voice answering man. Me: “my postings aren’t being posted! Already the fourth time.”

Voice: How, what, postings where? No explanations there.

Me: explanations, explanations, blablah, then him “connecting you now!”

Then second and third technotype, and that’s exactly when Lobenmeier came back and smiled like a moosehead while the technotype asked for name and location and IP address and Ethernet ID. Then typed, yawned, typed, stopped. “Give me the IP again.”

Me: “Problems?”

He typed, stopped, typed, then asked if it’s possible I’ve already posted twelvethousandthreeehundredfortyone times on TheeveningNews.

“And?”

Him again: “twelvethousandthreeehundredfortyone!”

“So?”

Him, third time. This not going anywhere. I hung up.

I know you’re uproaring with laughter. But no one is a hundred percent on alert, and shit occurs. When I tried again, the posting went through at once, and there was so much to do that I didn’t give it another thought. Discussion already far along, high time for someone to bring voice of reason. Ralf Tanner and Carla Mirelli, I wrote, it will never be anything again, he has sawdust in his head and is as ugly as an ox, you can forget it!

Only hours later did I begin to suspect I had done a really dumb thing. Real names, real addresses, the IP. I was now a whole load visible. Very bad feeling, and for real. Was chain-ganging again and no way to brainwave: major fight going on with lonebulldoggy on Thetree.com and at the same time I had to check through some Achtung from the technical department about mess-ups in the phone number bank that the boss had slapped on my desk. I’d had it for two days. Had forwarded it to Hauberlan, who obviously felt he had to send it on upstairs, probably just to darken me, the Überswine is in league with Lobenmeier. And suddenly the boss calls.

Result: general brown-trouser alert and whole load of heartrace. Of course thought: must be the IP thing already. Stand up, go, tell myself to stay cool as a fridge. I’m not a No-gump, have already written things in the German Chancellor’s online Guestbook but they got all erased no one can just flatten me like that, I can dish it out to anyone when I have to.

So am standing in front of the boss, and he’s looking at me. Piercingly. Like Saruman. Or Vorlone-Kosh from Babylon 5. Looking at me and me looking back. Fridgeorama. Two men, one look. Giant screen encounter.

Blahblahing about Congress of European Telecommunications Providers, Startgo day after tomorrow. Wanted to go himself, couldn’t. Department had to be represented, also presentation made: National versus European frequency norms.

Took me some time to figure out. Oh fuckingshit. What? You have to know I hate the travel thing a whole load. The seats in the trains are crazy narrow so that normal human person can’t get backside into them. And a presentation in front of strangers, I don’t think so.

Me in sequence: no, and won’t work, and have other plans, but him: nonsense, you have to, you’re the best. So what to say? Me: “Okay boss!” And him: “You’re my man!” and me: “no, no stop!” and him: “but it’s true!” and so on back and forth and back again, then me back in my office.

On the way home to tranquilize, the new book by Miguel Auristos Blanco. Writes that you shouldn’t take things to heart: learn to accept. Bingo! Which is better, to cover the earth with a carpet or to put on shoes? Must write that down. Wow. Where does someone like that find that stuff?

Then more row with mother. Away whole weekend, oh really, and how would she spend her time, and if I don’t care.

Me: “So go out. Go to a movie!”

“Don’t know, don’t want to! And don’t believe you, you’re meeting a tramp.”

Me: “Rubbish, nothing there” and so on.

Her: “Don’t pretend. You’re meeting one. And me alone at home. If only I’d known that thirty-seven years ago, you were such a darling, so little.”

Me: “So move out if it doesn’t suit you!” What I always say to her, now you know.

“And who will cook for you?”

Okay. Point for her. So leave her standing, slam the door, lock myself in. Leaf through Auristos Blanco and try parallel move to get into Moviechat with DotB. No chance of course, server overloaded, everyone trying, logical outcome. Become one with things, one with becoming one, one with your oneness with them, one with your anger too, and if the atom bomb should fall, then become one with the bomb. Big Bang Theory. I know, I’m too busy, too much work, too much day-in-day-out, but the super-thoughts, recognize those asap, soon as I see them. Then distracted by lordoftheflakes, usual bullshit, and by proctor, zheligoland, and pearfriend who’ve got hits on his site, and two new posters I don’t know at all and have to bellyslash right there. (Could also be that lordoftheflakes had new Nicks. Sort of thing drives me nuts, disgusting. Have three other names, me too of course, but only use them when baddest bad guys leave me no choice.) Transparent that I ought to have prepared my presentation, but it wasn’t until the day after tomorrow and I couldn’t concentrate right now. Shortly before midnight, a couple more private sites. Sweet, if you understand one, none of those brutal ones, they’re not for me and then went to bed.

Next day: train trip. Felt sick, seats too narrow— surprise—but not full-full so I could lift armrest and spread over two. Out there little house, roads, meadowswamp things, the whole view-from-the-train bit. Then exit, escalator down, escalator up, hard to breathe, sweating like a pig. But made my connection, more meadowswamps, farmhouses, fields of mustard. Six hours, already crazy-nervous could barely remember last time offline for so long. Finally arrive, driver with minibus to collect me and other Congress types. All ties and briefcases, the usual.

“Traveling: hell,” I said to the neighboring nerd along the way. “And for what! We could do everything from home by V.IP! I’d see you, you’d see me, everything easy-peasy, no stress.” But the nerd just stared and then slid away along the seat.

At Reception, I demanded instant Internet. The woman looked at me like an obelisk. “Internet! Hello, Internet!”

Her: “not working right now.”

“Pardon, what, how, huh?”

Her: yes, so sorry, service interrupted at the moment, usually the rooms have wi-fi, but not for now.

Me: just stared. Couldn’t get it.

“It’ll be fixed next week.”

Me: Fanbloodytastic. Really helps me. What’s the prob?

Stared at me blank. Sarcasm: new territory for her. So shocked felt faint. Hotel parked in booniest boondocks. No village, no Internet café, so either someone lent me his HSDPA card, or situation pitch-black. And come on, nobody lends you their Internet card, everyone’s afraid you’ll download movies at company expense. So: catastrophe. Catacombs. Night night.

Dinner. No need to describe it to you, you know it: food-fight at buffet, pushing, shoving. Everything good already gone when you want some. Then at table: to my right, a bearded type from T-Mobile talking about his new wooden floor, to my left a female skeleton from Vodaphone has a cousin of her brother-in-law’s who’s scored an Opel at rock-bottom price. Me: radio silence. Never say anything in front of strangers. Can’t, won’t, no app. Went back to buffet instead, then again, then I would toss, then out into parking lot, nicotine fix. Not allowed to smoke inside, not allowed to smoke anywhere. Telling you, no worse under the Nazis.

Rain, a whole load. Under porch roof, man with a cigarette. Almost dark by now, so at first only saw his outline and luminous red dot. Asked for a light, and while he groped nervously, recognized him.

“Leo Richter!”

Jumped. Looked at me. It was him!

Okay. So I’m asking you: What would you have done? Pre-amble: been a fan of his for years, totally crazy. That one book, don’t remember title, Lara Gaspard teaching in Paris meets these totally wasted types and then in the last story goes down to the Underworld. Read it, totally crazy, couldn’t believe it, mega-trip. The style, the wit, smokin’ good, but most of all, the woman. Have to add have never been winner with opposite sex, all that roundabout stuff and blablah and then always “Leave me alone, you’re a nice guy but not that way, now go!” and so on, all the bullshit you guys know, and on FindyourLove, even if it was all A-1 to begin with, the moment I put my photo online, blackout. Contact gone? But Lara, for sure, wouldn’t have happened that way with her. She’s not superficial. And though she looks crazy-good, she’s also so smart she doesn’t care about a man’s outsides. And she thinks like me! And me like her. Know you’re not supposed to read books that way, but sometimes … well, seem crazy to you?

I mean, I know she’s a made-up person. And that—of course I googled as soon as I’d read it—Leo Richter wrote it when he was in Paris himself and then when his wife gave him the boot came the three stories where Lara leaves her husband, The Moon and Freedom, Herr Müller and Eternity, forget the title of the third. So, the shit that happens to him then happens to her, what he does, she does later, and whoever meets him can surface in story. In the Literaturehouse chat room, somebody called this autobiographical narcissism, but I flamed him and he won’t ever chat again about stuff he doesn’t get, dumpster dog. Only story I didn’t like was the one about the old lady going to Switzerland to throw the poison down, he wasn’t in it anywhere, and the ending made no sense, no idea who could see through it, not me for sure.

“Your book! Where d’you think I read it?”

Hiccups. Logical: the excitement. Hard to talk to strangers, don’t normally do it. But I was crazy-excited. “Between Munich and Brussels! Dining car! Finished it as we pulled into the station.”

He looked at me. Turned away, then back to me. Strange moves, sort of angular and nervous.

“Exactly the right length! You leave Munich, you start. You reach Brussels, you’re done. Wicked! I was going to a seminar on UMTS.”

“Remarkable,” he said.

(Hey, not making this up. Wrote his words down as soon as I got to my room. Why? Logical—for this forum.)

Me: Where do you get your ideas?

He turned away, looked down at the gravel, then up at the porch roof. “In the bathtub.”

“Really? Chill! Fact?”

“Promise.”

“Chiller than chill. Eat my socks! Bathtub.”

Then both of us silent for a time. He smoked, I smoked, the rain did its raining thing.

Then me: “And are you writing right now? What’s Lara doing, what’s in the plan? Can I stop being formal with you?”

He threw his cigarette away. “I have to go back in.”

“What are you doing here? Of all the gin joints?”

“Lecture.”

“Hey?”

“A bank’s giving a seminar and they contacted my agent to book me. I thought why not, a few days in the green. But it doesn’t ever stop raining.” Looked at me, as if it was my fault, and again, “Ever!” Turned around and back into the house. Me: Stood there, smoked one more, chilled, and tried to figure out what had just gone on. My God. Wow. Then went up to my room.

I admit, my head was cross-wired and scramble-brained. Too much colliding: the fight with mother and being so stupid as to give out my IP. And worry about tomorrow: okay, a pro like me can make a presentation, but I hadn’t netsurfed for nine and a half hours, no longer up to speed with anything! Not a spark about how lordoftheflakes, icu_lop, ruebendaddy, and pray4us had responded to my postings. Made my stomach heave just to think of it. Potatoed in front of the TV, but nothing but world-level shit, and then I see there was no shower, only a tub, so narrow you couldn’t fit in it. So today would be hygienically challenged too.

A few minutes on the laptop. PowerPoint, not easy to use. Typed a little, moved some windows around, couldn’t get it to work. Well, it would have to work tomorrow morning. So bed, lights out, clutch pillow. The dream Olympics, as mother always says.

But couldn’t sleep. One floor down, sounds of whole choir of drunken nerds. Constant thundering of feet in the corridor. Always like that with Congresses, the desk jockeys can’t handle it and down the booze like drains. Funny ideas in my head. Holy Ninjas: being in the same house as Leo Richter, who made up Lara Gaspard. The guy who decided what she saw and did. Shaking his hand was almost like shaking hers—you pierce my meaning?

And then, at that moment, in the darkness of my room, I had an A-1 flash. If you’re surfing the net as much as I am, then you know—how to say it? Well, you know that reality isn’t everything. That there are spaces you don’t enter with your body. Only in your thoughts, but definitely there. Meeting Lara Gaspard. It was possible! In a story, of course.

Leo used stuff he saw? Guys he met? Events that happened? Yes, he could even use me. Nothing against it! Appearing in a story—really no different from being in a chat room. Transformation! Transport yourself into some other place. In a story I’d be someone else, but also me. In the same world as Lara.

You on my page? I crazy-worship this man, and I wanted to get into a story. He had to get to know me. I had to make him notice me! Either become his buddy or—main thing, had to notice me. My whole shit life, the nonstop fights with Mama, my dog boss, and that huge porker Lobenmeier: I felt suddenly there was a deliverance. As I went to sleep, I was happier than I’d been for long time. And you know what else? I felt light.

Next morning: wake-up. Still no luck with the bathtub, far too narrow. Went down to breakfast room. Made mistake of three plates, one in the left hand, one in the right, and one balanced in the middle, and of course preciselyexactly that one fell: scrambled eggs on the floor, bacon stuff, two rolls, everything garbage fodder. Leo was sitting far back against the wall, alone. Approached him, naturally, and “Slept well, hombre?”

He stared. Funny way of watching. Eyes wide, mouth twitching nonstop. Relaxed, believe me, he’s not.

“Didn’t get the chance to talk yesterday!” Began to eat. Blob of scrambled egg fell down, paid no attention. “Do you want to know something about me?”

“Pardon?”

Said my name and where I work and gave him a brief outline of what my department in the company preciselyexactly does. Also said something about my mother and what it’s like to share your office with a pig.

“Have to go,” he said.

“Your breakfast? You didn’t finish yet!”

Already gone: exit, door, out. Nervous guy, writer, what d’you want. Ate the two pieces of toast he’d smeared with marmalade, would have been a waste, then went to Reception and demanded Internet. What d’you think? Dungheap. Catacombs. And then: Conference room.

Don’t worry, not going to rigidify you with the details. A conference, right. Flipcharts, tables, lots of handshakes around the place, but none with me. Just one guy wanting to know about our department but what are you supposed to say? Looked at him silently till he went away. Then finally lunch break: rolled ham, mayo, eggs, quiche, it went, have had worse. Coming back with my third plate, okay, it was admittedly a little bit full up, a guy got in my way, and “Are you taking precautionary measures against a crisis?” Me, rocketing right back: “Fuck you, pigshit filthsow die!” And he just vanished. Sometimes just flip my lid. Not good, I know, regret it afterward, but can’t help it.

A few minutes left in the break. So back to Reception. “Need to have quick conversation with Leo Richter, please.”

She typed on her keyboard, then picked up the receiver, Leo on the line. Must have been asleep. “Who?”

Give my name again.

“Who?”

Unbelievable. He’d forgotten me again already. “Thought we’d grab a bite together? Lots to tell you. Unbelievable stories, you can really use them. I’ve had quite a life.”

But then, a sharp noise and a click, connection interrupted. Crap hotel. Immediately dialed again. “Me again, so what about lunch?”

He coughed. Sounded influenza’d to the max. “Can’t.”

“Later?”

Silence.

“You still there?”

Silence.

“You coming to my presentation?”

“Difficult. I’ve got a lot …”

“European versus national frequency norms. Interesting for you too!”

He cleared his throat.

“Look, a phone uses something called ISM Codes, for identification purposes. Example: You want to issue an order and you’re not on your home network. If you—”

Click and the engaged signal. That was no accident, I’m not brain-dead, he hung up on me! Artists: shy, you have no idea.

And me: heart-bangingly nervous, and how. Crystal-clear, logicwise of course: the presentation. Right after the break, so now, no exit, no time, close my eyes and go.

Everyone already in the room. Someone gave me hand, then another, than another, didn’t know any of them, and up front at the microphone some type in tie announcing unfortunately my boss not here, but me in his place, then applause. Me, up on platform. Three steps, quite steep, once up there, totally out of breath and sweating. Open laptop, plug in network cable, my PowerPoint started right up on the screen, the technical stuff really A-1 here, you’d have liked it, and off we went, the complete enchilada.

To begin with, it was aces. Everything clear, the flipcharts flipped, and I talked New Approach and the national security protocols for UMTS, pros and cons, glitches and possibilities, everything clockwork. Then I see Leo.

Or maybe not. You know, darkened room, two spotlights on my face, and no chance to see if the Darth Vader–black shape right at the back was him or not. My invitation, after all. His size, the nervous twitching were right, and he kept rubbing his head. But his face? I leaned forward, useless, saw nothing. From then on, it was curtains for me.

Stuttered. And how. The whole nine yards. Words disappeared in the middle of sentences, then the laptop went on the fritz and blocked the graphics. And my hand so wet, couldn’t work the mouse. Felt everyone looking at me, burning. Wouldn’t wish it on any of you (no, not true: lordoftheflakes). And then a thought: Leo could really use this! A good guy, knows his stuff, but goes to pieces big-time during lecture. Chill story? You can bet on it. And suddenly was seeing myself from the outside as if it wasn’t me; result more stuttering, and result more stuttering still.

Hands sweating even more, mouse fell down, clattered on the floor, and bending over impossible, what to do? Stood there gaping, clueless. Then somebody out there in the middle laughed. Then somebody else at the back. Then three women in the first row, then everybody. Asked myself if I was dreaming. Had had dreams like that, so have you, so has everyone. But this was for real, one to one, Life Reality, the full program. Managed another few sentences, then thought flash: “What if that’s it?” And that’s what happened, I heard myself not hearing myself any longer because my voice was gone and I saw myself standing there looking at myself standing there looking at myself. Hell. And meantime they were laughing. I still managed to get it together to say into the microphone that I wasn’t feeling well, then that I was faintingfitsick, gross-out, then back down the three steps, luckily without landing flat. A tie-guy asked if I needed doctor, but I told him to mind his own business, and out of there.

Absolutely flatass. Sweating like a sauna. Dizzy, boneless. Every part soaked. Had to cool down somehow, come down, be chill again. Looked around lobby. And right then I spotted guy getting up from table, direction restroom, laptop abandoned—and it had a WiFi stick! Snuck up closer. And closer. Then down into the chair, typed furiously, foot on the gas. First stop Movieforum, and yes, in response to my totally factual posting, bugclap had flamed me so fiercely it took my breath away—what is it with you guys, don’t you have a life? Replied express, had to.

Flashback the lecture again. When shit finds fan, flies in bucketloads. Hands trembling: Quick into chat room, where I told pray4us what needed telling since forever, dumb as pigshit, die. Then into my mailbox. No messages—thought again about having given out my IP. Was someone already after me? Because the bigshots are ruthless. They do whatever they want, and I’d insulted everyone from the President on down. Then went into TheeveningNews and said today’s lead article was all bullshit. Hadn’t read a word of it, but so what, they’d take it down anyway, and it helped, feeling calmer already. At that moment, from beside me “Hey what’s going on?”

Me: huh, what, what d’you? I’d already forgotten. Head pretty cross-wired, believe me.

“You, that’s my computer!”

What big retort is there in a case like that? So me: Apologies, sorry, error, the whole shitload. Stood up, went through the lobby. Just then, saw people coming out of one of the other conference rooms: tie-guys and women in silk stuff, but in the middle: guess who!

I was speed itself. Heard someone say, “Do you know where I read it? In the plane from Hamburg to Madrid.” Leo nodded. He looked peculiar.

Another one: “Where do you get your ideas?”

Leo twitched, turned around, swayed a little. The whole nervousness deal. “Have to go work now!”

“What a won-der-ful lecture!” A woman. Glasses, a real wrinklie, upswept hair. “You have made us think!”

And another: “You’ll stay to have dinner with us?”

In your dreams. I manipulate his shoulder and “Out of discussion, we have an appointment!” Stressissime for me, crazy to madness, sweating saunas, but didn’t let it show. “No boringness, we’re going for a drink Misterman Leo the Writer, we’re off.”

But he pulled himself away and ran to Reception and “Room 305, key.” I can tell you this exactly because I heard it with fine ears and know the vitalness of exactitude online and precise info and datastuff as soon as you have something. Have thought about it often since, but supercertain, no doubt, 305, I heard it!

Then Leo to the elevator, so fast I couldn’t follow him: I’m not so lightfoot. Next to me, the woman says to the tie-guys “What a pity. It was really mah-vell-ous.” To which one of them “Okay, but he really isn’t very appealing.” And the third: “I thought it was so-so.” And the woman again, to me “And who are you?”

Didn’t want to talk to them. So button lip and leave, head for bar, order whisky. Then another. Charged to the company of course. And another. Tie-types went by, turned their heads toward me, laughed. You know, those people who at a certain point grab a gun-thing and then it’s blood by the square yard, I can understand them. It’s just I’m not that type. I don’t know artillery, wouldn’t know where to get it, unfortunately.

One whisky doesn’t do much for me, I need several before I feel anything. After the fourth however, downhill slalom. Vertigo, thick tongue, eyes frozen, the whole effectsofalcohol program, you know it all, don’t have to explain. But suddenly I was so sad. And didn’t know what to do anymore.

Lara Gaspard. Now or never. So I got up (ethylo-alcoholic impediments notwithstanding), took elevator to the third floor. 305.

Knocked. Nothing.

Knocked louder.

Nothing.

Banged with fist.

Chambermaid suddenly next to me. Of course total panic and sorry and my mistake and started to go when she: “Did you lock yourself out?”

And me right away: “Exactly!” Because when in need, I can cogitate like lightning, Spock’s a koala compared to me. So she does the card thing into the slit, beep, door opens, I’m in. Switched on the light. Everything empty, bed untouched, no Leo.

Sweat event. I had thought that was over, but you know what? With sweat, there’s always more. Leo Richter’s room, I thought. Looked around, opened drawers, cupboards—Lara Gaspard’s room. Somehow hers as well. My God.

Usual stuff in the cupboards. Underwear, a laptop (booted it up, but required password), couple of books: Plato, Hegel, Bhagavad Gita. Unnecessary, the lot of them, it’s all in What the Thinkers Tell Us by Auristos Blanco, only much clearer and easier to pierce. I squatted on the bed. Listen, no bullshit, I was completely at fours and fives. And afraid of course: if Leo came in now he’d be perfectly capable of calling for help. But I had to reach his awareness somehow. Had to get into the story. Because what else did I have? It was a one-time opportunity. I’d have hit him in the chops if that would have helped, but he wasn’t there.

As I looked around, the room looked—well, don’t ask. Craziness: drawers pulled out, papers strewn around, computer on the floor, screen probably busted. Sheets torn out of the notepad and all crumpled up. Bedcover on the carpet, in the bathroom, everything dropped onto the tiles, glass splinters. Was that me? I couldn’t tell you. Then I lay in his bed for a bit. So soft. Cried for a long time into the pillow. Thought about Lara.

Then out again, quick. Along the corridor to the elevator, down to my room. Just made it to bed. Legs collapsed, lay there, and the ceiling was spinning abovebelowabovebelow me, everything mixed up with everything else, my God was I drunk.

I woke up to pounding head. Everything soaked, banging behind my forehead and taste in my mouth as if some animal had died in there. Seven a.m. Seven messages on the phone from mother. Had slept in my clothes again. Two clicks and it all came back to me.

I had to talk to him. That was it: talk to him, admit everything exactly the way it happened, the way I’ve just told you now. Didn’t matter what he did next, he wouldn’t be able to resist it, because it was a real story. My entry into fiction. Right now, at breakfast.

So took myself to breakfast room and waited. Ate toast, ate muesli, ate scrambled eggs. Drank coffee. Leafed through two newspapers. Not familiar with TheeveningNews in print version, only online, interesting, there was a tech-page that wasn’t half bad, but it only reminded me that I couldn’t get online, so I quickly set it aside. Ate some rolls, two sausages, some salmon, chunk of salami, two pieces of toast with marmalade, more scrambled eggs. Mother never makes a decent breakfast. Always says “make it yourself, buy your own stuff if you don’t like mine!” and so on. So nervous. He’d be here any minute.

But he didn’t come. Only nerds from yesterday who looked at me and grinned and whispered. I swear to you: if I weren’t such a peaceable person, then it would be pumpguns, hell, shots to the head, inferno, the whole load.

Finally went out into the hall. The woman behind the Reception desk was already shaking her head: “no, no, no Internet yet.”

“Want to speak to Leo Richter!”

“He’s no longer here.”

“What?”

“Left last night.”

Okay, so I got a little loud. I shouldn’t have banged on the table, at least not with both fists. But I shouldn’t have asked her whose room I’d just totally zeroed. Luckily her understanding pierced nothing and I clammed asap, I do not have a brain of mush. Then I abandoned the field and called mother.

All alone, she said. Had cried all day. “Are you going to keep doing this? Do you have a tramp?”

None, I promised her. Anywhere!

“Don’t believe you!”

I began to cry too. I know it sounds crazy-pitiful. But I’m telling you because you don’t know me and you don’t know who I am. Right there in the lobby.

Okay, she said, it’s all right. “I do believe you. But promise you won’t ever do it again. The whole weekend. Alone in the house. Never again, okay?”

I promised.

So okay, why not? I had no problem with it. Would anyone else ever want to spend time with me? At least I now had some stuff for the SpottheStars forum. But I can see already that it has no punch line, no hooks, nothing. No basis for a story.

For I’ll never see Leo again. I did a posting on literaturehouse.com that his books are all shit, did it on Amazon too, bigtime. But this changes nothing. He’ll never read that stuff.

The hotel guys didn’t want to give me a thing, no address, no phone number. He won’t write anything about me, I’ll never meet Lara. Reality will be the only thing I have: job and mother at home and the boss and the Überpig Lobenmeier, and the only escape forums like this. (At least I’m no troll like lordoftheflakes, or a brainless custard like icu_lop or pray4us.) All I have forever is me. Only right here, on this side. I’ll never get onto the other side, never. No alternative universe. Early tomorrow, back to work. Weather forecast terrible. Even if it were good, so what? Everything goes on the way it always has. And I know now that I’ll never, ever, be in a story.