0.5 Absolute Zero - Misadventures From A Broad

by Margaret Lashley

  Friedrich and his mother kept talking – or arguing – or whatever they were doing, until Frau Fremden started to cry. This appeared to tick Friedrich off. He looked over at me.

  “It’s time to go.”

  I approached the old woman to say my goodbyes. She grabbed my hand in hers. Her boney fingers were surprisingly strong. She pulled me down until I was face-to-face with her. She planted an unwanted, wet kiss on my mouth. It was a Herculean effort to smile, but I managed it.

  “Freut mich, Val,” she said and released her vice grip. I sprung up and stepped back. As I did, the old woman began blasting a stream of what sounded like complaints at Friedrich.

  “Bis bald, Mutti,” Friedrich said dismissively.

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Fremden,” I said, and gave a weak wave.

  Friedrich grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the door. I hadn’t felt so relieved to leave a place since my last visit with my own ungrateful, guilt-slinging mother. When we stepped outside in the fresh air again, I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath. I took in a big gulp of air.

  “Sorry, Val. My mother can be…what you say, manipulator.”

  “Really?” I said, trying to feign surprise. Then I lied again. “She seemed sweet.”

  Friedrich studied me with a look of suspicious disbelief. Then his face shifted.

  “You have met the beast. You deserve a reward. I know what it will be.”

  I smiled with delight. “What?”

  “You see in a minute.”

  ***

  When Friedrich pulled up to an appliance store, my heart sunk. I’d had enough “gifts” of vacuum cleaners, can openers and toaster ovens to last five lifetimes. My jaw locked and my face grew red with anger. Friedrich didn’t seem to notice. He got out of the car and closed the door. I sighed and did the same. I followed him begrudgingly into the store. When he showed me what he wanted to buy me, my anger dissolved into delight. I kissed Friedrich and watched eagerly as he and the salesman demonstrated to me how to use my new German friend.

  It was a boxy contraption of grey plastic and chrome that made cappuccinos at the press of a button. It was love at first sight, and I named him Otto. He cost a fortune, but Friedrich said he would be worth it. When I fed him fresh water, Italian coffee beans and whole milk, he returned the favor with a hot, foam-topped cappuccino that truly did rival the ones I’d come to love in Italy.

  When we got back to his apartment, Friedrich set Otto up on the freshly douched kitchen counter, and, for the first time, I didn’t feel so alone in a sea of Germanity.

  ***

  With no ticket back to Florida, I didn’t feel compelled to live each day like a ticking countdown to the end. Time snuck by unnoticed, as it’s prone to do for new lovers. Every morning, Friedrich would bring me a cappuccino in bed, then fetch fresh, buttered pretzels for breakfast. While he was at work, I cleaned and organized his apartment, strolled around Landau, and shopped for food and accessories to brighten the place up. In the evening, I made dinner or we went out. We talked, we drank wine, we got to know each other, and we made love. A lot.

  One day Friedrich took me to meet his sister, Olga, a younger version of his mother, and her husband, Hans. They’d invited us over for dinner at their place next to a vineyard. It was a beautiful house, but followed the family theme; cluttered and unappreciated. Every windowsill and bookshelf was crammed with no-longer noticed pictures, figurines, travel mementos and, oddly, chunks of rose quartz.

  Hans spoke English quite well, but Friedrich’s sister didn’t. Despite this fact, Olga domineered the conversation, demanding to know every word spoken. After ten minutes or so of tedious interpreting, the three of them fell into speaking only German. She won. I lost.

  I wandered outside to escape the growing feeling of isolation. The backyard held things I could understand. A fish pond. Raspberry bushes. And a huge cherry tree – a novelty to a native Floridian like me. Being a bit north of Italy, the fruit in Germany was just now ripening in the gloriously warm, dry July weather.

  It was after 8 p.m., but the sky was still blue, lit by a low-hanging, persistent summer sun. I explored the side yard next to a vineyard and discovered a vegetable garden. Tomato plants heavy with fruit spilled onto the ground next to zucchini the size of my calves. I suddenly felt homesick for my grandparents’ farm in Greenville, where I’d spent so many summers as a child.

  I went back inside and helped clear away the dishes. After a meal of meat and potatoes, I was bloated and tired. Olga seemed content to let me do the lion’s share of the clean-up. When I’d finished loading the dishes into the dishwasher, I returned to find that Hans had set the table with four small glasses and a large wine bottle full of clear liquid. Hans opened the bottle. The strong smell of alcohol struck my nose on impact.

  “This is kirshwasser, made from our own kirsh – uh, cherry tree,” Hans explained. He poured some into a shot glass. “Sit. Try it.”

  I obeyed. I took a sip and choked. The cherries had all died of alcoholism. This was pure, German moonshine. I looked over at Friedrich. He seemed amused.

  “No! Don’t sip,” Hans instructed good-naturedly. “Like this.” He poured himself a shot and tipped the whole thing down his throat.

  I followed his example. The strange brew burned all the way down my throat and inside my stomach.

  “Very goot!” encouraged Hans.

  Friedrich poured himself a shot and threw it back. “I think it’s time you had your first real German lesson.” He refilled our shot glasses with the hundred-proof hooch.

  “Und mir?” Olga asked sulkily from the kitchen doorway.

  Friedrich filled Hans’s glass and poured a fourth for Olga. She sat next to me and winked in a way that made me squirm inside. Or maybe it was just the kirshwasser.

  “A toast!” said Friedrich.

  “A toast!” echoed Hans and Olga.

  We raised our glasses and clinked them together. Everyone was careful to make eye contact.

  “Hau weg die Schiesse!” the three said at once.

  We downed our shots and Hans poured another round.

  “Hau weg die Schiesse!” I said along with them.

  Olga poured another round.

  “Hau weg die Schiesse!” I slurred at the strangely cracked-looking faces.

  I poured the next round.

  “Hau weg die Schiesse!” I think I managed to say.

  ***

  When I woke the next morning, Friedrich was sitting beside me on the bed, holding a beautiful cup of cappuccino. My head thumped like a palsy-ridden jackrabbit.

  “Guten morgen, mein Schatz,” he said. His face looked pleased with me.

  “Guten morgen. Oh, yes. Danke.”

  I took the cup and started to take a sip, but then I thought I would make him proud and use the new German phrase I’d learned.

  “Hau weg die Schiesse!” I toasted.

  Friedrich laughed. “You know what this means?”

  “No.”

  “Roughly translated? Get rid of this shit.”

  ***

  The months of July and August were glorious. Not hot and humid like in Florida. On weekends and some evenings after work, Friedrich and I would go walking through forests and farmers’ fields ablaze with bright-yellow rapeseed blooms. Every day, I added a few more German words to my repertoire. I discovered that Schatz, Friedrich’s pet name for me, meant treasure. I was his treasure! It made me feel special.

  It was a lovely, intoxicating way of life, and I did my darnedest to enjoy it. I had no pressing reason to return to the States. No one was waiting for me there. No one, that is, except the immigration officials. Friedrich reminded me one day that my ninety-day visa was almost up. It was time to go home.

  ***

  I couldn’t quite label my feelings as I stood at the gate in Frankfort airport. What could I say that would be appropriate? See you later? I had a great time?

  I’d made no promises to Friedrich. I hadn’t wanted to lie.
I’d enjoyed my time with him immensely. But did I belong with him in Germany? I still didn’t have a solid answer to that question. Besides, we hadn’t discussed what would happen next. I was grateful that neither he nor I had made false pledges. I guess we both wanted to see how we felt when we were apart. Would absence make the heart grow fonder, or would newfound freedom reign?

  “You are the best what ever happened to me, mein Schatz,” Friedrich said. “I am not good at goodbyes.”

  He kissed me on the cheek and turned and walked away. I watched him go, hoping to blow him a kiss, but he never looked back. A couple beside me were also saying their goodbyes.

  “Bis bald, mein Schatz,” said the man to the woman.

  He kissed her and she walked toward the gate. Another older couple let go of each other’s hands. It was time for them to say goodbye as well.

  “Aufweidersehen, mein Schatz,” said the woman.

  “Aufweidersehen, mein Schatz,” said the man.

  I turned and walked toward my gate thinking that maybe Schatz wasn’t such a special name after all.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It was nice to see a friendly face at the airport in Tampa. Clarice was there to greet me with a smile and something I hadn’t even realized I’d missed – a good-old Southern accent.

  "Val! Girl, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes!"

  I studied the face of the woman who’d been my friend and confidant since we’d met at a party eleven years ago. She was still as cute as ever, with her sparkling green eyes and blonde hair cut in a not-too-fussy bob. She was dressed in Florida summer survival gear: a short-sleeved, loose-fitting cotton sundress and thin-strapped sandals.

  “No, Clarice. You’re a sight for my sore eyes! What did I miss while I was gone?”

  “Nothing but ninety bad-hair days in a row. The humidity this summer’s been brutal!”

  Over two months had gone by since the cruise, but Clarice and I picked up as if we’d seen each other at breakfast. For me, that was the sign of a good friend. Being raised by a family that had doled out approval in small, hard-earned dollops, I’d always felt a bit insecure. Making friends had never been easy for me. When I’d met Clarice, she’d been a godsend. She was worth her weight in gold to me.

  “Nothing’s happened since I left? Not even a bad date?”

  “Nothing compared to your summer romance! I want to hear all about it. Leave no juicy stone unturned!”

  “It wasn’t that juicy.”

  I spied my luggage and pulled it off the conveyor belt.

  “Who do you think you’re talking to, girl. I can read you like a book. And your face has erotic romance written all over it.”

  “Oh. Do I need a napkin?”

  Clarice blanched, then doubled over with laughter.

  “Val, you’re the absolute queen of one-liners. That one alone was worth hauling my butt over here to pick you up. Have I said it yet? I’m so glad you’re home!”

  I swallowed a lump in my throat.

  “Thanks. Me too. And thanks for letting the ‘one-liner queen’ stay with you for a few days. I really appreciate it.”

  “Are you kidding? You can stay as long as you want. Your rent is to be paid in tales from your trip. I live vicariously through you, you know.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware of that fact. It may be cheaper for me to stay at a motel.”

  Clarice swatted my arm. “Just for that, you can load your own bags, missy.”

  She clicked a button on her key fob. It beeped and the trunk lid flew up on her beat-up Ford Focus. I hefted my heavy suitcase into the trunk. The weight reminded me that I’d brought back every single thing with me. I hadn’t left a stitch at Friedrich’s apartment. Not even a pair of sexy panties to remember me by.

  ***

  It felt weird to wake up with no cappuccino – or Friedrich – waiting for me. Clarice had gone off to work and left me alone with Melvin, her orange tomcat. He stared at me accusingly as I fumbled to the kitchen and fiddled with the Mr. Coffee machine. Clarice had left half a pot of black brew on the warmer for me. I poured a cup. It tasted like burnt mud. I poured it down the drain and clicked off the machine.

  I looked around the kitchen. It was bright and cheerful, just like Clarice. Even though I’d been to her house many times before, today it seemed different somehow. Strangely, I felt like an intruder, as if I didn’t belong. Restlessness ran up my back like a daddy long-legs spider. What was I going to do all day?

  I petted Melvin and gave him the last two treats from a jar on the counter. That seemed to win the fat, fuzz-ball over. He sauntered off to lay in a sunny windowsill.

  I looked at the clock. It was 8:45 a.m. Clarice would be home in…eight hours! What should I do now? I washed the coffee pot. That killed off two minutes. I picked up the St. Petersburg Times on the coffee table. One quick glance at the headlines made me lay it down again. Same crap. Different day. I could call my mother. Oh my gawd! Was I really that desperate?

  I went to the garage in search of more cat treats. I found my car instead. I’d forgotten all about it. Duh! I could go for a drive. Pick up some cat treats and dinner! I calmed down. I was okay now. I had a mission.

  I dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, said goodbye to Melvin and stepped back into the garage. Only fifteen minutes had passed since I’d discovered my car, but the summer heat had already raised the temperature in the garage a good ten degrees. I sighed and braced myself for the coming blast. I clicked the button to open the garage door, and was accosted by a wave of thick, hellish air. That was something I certainly hadn’t missed while I was in Germany.

  I drove my Ford to Publix, my favorite grocery store. Even though I’d been there thousands of times before, when I walked in, I nearly had a panic attack. During my time in Europe, I’d forgotten how bright the florescent lighting was, how hideously colorful all the packaging was, and how ridiculous the number of choices were.

  I pushed my cart to the pet aisle. It was a bloody warzone! All those brands screaming for attention. Did a cat really need thirty-two different kinds of treats to choose from? I thought I would remember the name of Melvin’s favorite treats, but so many similar names caused the words to vanish from my memory like disappearing ink. I settled on a bag with the image of a cat on it that looked a lot like Melvin. Meowy Yum Yums. WTF.

  I’d planned on cooking a nice, healthy dinner of salmon and greens, but the smell of fried chicken from the deli broke both my will and my willpower. I followed the aroma to a display case and placed a box of chicken in my cart. Next, I headed to the produce section and picked up a bundle of collard greens and some potatoes. At least I could still claim I cooked the side dishes.

  I searched the wine section and settled on a German Riesling from Saarbruchen, just north of Friedrich’s stomping grounds. The thought of him made me suddenly want to rush home. I’d forgotten to check my emails this morning! I got in line behind a plump, sweaty man in a Rays jersey and ball cap. His shorts hung down past his knees and he had on shower shoes. He was buying a case of beer, a box of chicken wings and a box of donuts. He looked me up and down briefly, then looked away.

  “Having a party?” I asked, trying to be friendly.

  “No.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t….”

  “Look. You’re not my type. Just let it go.”

  The man paid for his groceries and left, never looking back. As I bought my groceries and hurried home, I felt that old veil of undesirability closing in on me. I set the groceries on the counter and clicked the computer’s power button. I gave Melvin a Meowy Yum Yum while I waited for it to boot up. Melvin sniffed the fish-shaped nugget. I was the color and texture of a chunk of half-dried brown clay. He looked up at me in disgust and waddled away.

  I logged in and checked for emails. I sat up straight. There was one from Friedrich. I clicked on it.

  Dear Val,

  I hope you had a pleasant trip. Let me know you arrived well. I miss you, and so does Otto.
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  With heartfelt greetings,

  Friedrich.

  Attached to the email was a photo of the cappuccino machine. Friedrich had stuck a picture of a sad face on it. The frown made my lips smile and my heart ache.

  ***

  I woke up on the couch. Jet lag had gotten the better of me. Before I’d passed out, I’d emailed Friedrich with a simple note letting him know I was okay. Then I’d eaten a piece of fried chicken. That was a lie. Then I’d eaten the entire box of fried chicken.

  I looked at the clock. It was 4:33. Clarice would be home in less than an hour. I grabbed the cardboard coffin of chicken bones and headed for the car. I made it to Publix in less than ten minutes. I stuffed the skeletal remains in a garbage bin outside the store and ran inside. I bought another box of chicken and a packet of antacid, and scurried back to Clarice’s house. I was mashing the potatoes when Clarice walked in the door.

  “Mmmm! Smells like Southern cookin’ in here!” she called from the front door. “Either that or something died up in the attic.”

  “It’s collard greens. Get washed up. I’m putting dinner on the table!”

  I heaped Clarice’s plate high with collard greens, lumpy mashed potatoes and a fried chicken breast and wing, her favorite pieces. My own plate got a modest portion of potatoes and lots of greens. As I poured the Riesling, Clarice came in and took a seat at the table. She took a bite of collard greens.

  “How can something that smells like a dead skunk taste so good?”

  “It’s one of those mysteries of the cosmos, I guess.”

  Clarice laughed, then looked at my plate. “What? You’re not having any chicken?”

  “I’m trying to watch my weight.”

  “You look fine. Don’t go turning into one of those skinny bitches on me!”

  “Okay. I’ll have a leg.”

  I went into the kitchen and took the smallest leg from the box. I wondered why one leg actually was smaller than the other. Was this some kind of mutant, fiddler-crab chicken?