He looked petrified. A youth in his late teens, standing in the checkout queue inside the Karstadt supermarket, near where I live. Upon first seeing him, I thought he had stolen something and was worried about being caught. This was not the case as I was later to find out when we spoke together in a nearby outdoor cafe.
Richard: "I never know when it will attack. Most of the time I can guess, can feel it coming, yet sometimes it happens when I think all should be fine. Then again, at other times it does not happen at all, even when the time is ripe."I had been standing in the second queue, running parallel with the one he was in and couldn't help but watch him, intrigued as to the reasons for his restless state. His eyes were darting everywhere, as though seeking for an escape route or a safety hook. Every few seconds he raised his hand to his nose and rubbed it mindlessly. He glanced at people nearby, at the man behind, at the pensioner infront, at people in the neighbouring queue. Perhaps he was painfully shy, I thought, or had not washed for weeks and smelt like the inside of a pig farm. As nobody was keeling over next to him, I thought the latter assumption unlikely.
Richard: "The intimidation you feel when about to converse is immense. Your self-respect leaps out of the door and you're left with the phantoms of past faliures. The vivid image of a finger squashing a fly onto the window pane for all to see always comes to mind. The innards of your soul are laid bare, to be glared at, inspected, and if inclined that way, mocked."He placed the things he had in his basket onto the conveyor belt, picked up a plastic carrier bag and placed it over the small pile. With nervous looking movements he then placed the divider stick between his and the following person's items. There was nothing else to do after this but wait for the elderly lady infront to finish counting out her small change. She was a talkative old dear, something about the stifling heat was on her mind and she cheerfully relayed that fact to the woman behind the till who in turn wished that she could be sunbathing, by the Baltic Sea, instead of working on such a glorious day. Indeed, if the queue behind had been non-existent, they would have chatted quite happily for a good while longer.
The youth was tall, of average build, with a reasonably handsome face. Pale blue eyes looked out from beneath short curly brown hair. His Romanesque nose was rather large but it didn't look ill-fitting on his long and boney visage. He wore knee-length, cream-coloured shorts and a white t-shirt, with a discrete German flag logo on the upper back.
Richard: "People stare, sometimes confused, other times annoyed, most times, with a seemingly icy coldness. They think you rude, you see, for not bothering to say 'hello' or 'thank you'."The elderly lady walked off, after wishing the woman behind the till, a lovely day. The youth stepped forward.
Richard: "Everyone thinks of a stutterer as someone who repeats the beginning of words like a machine gun firing in the heat of battle. Alot of them are like that but not all. There are also the silent ones, where the very sound of the word won't venture forth when needed and you end up like a whale beached high and dry on the sands".The woman behind the till began sweeping the price codes through the machine, as she did so, she looked up and greeted him. Silence. The woman had looked back down after her first utterance to continue with the work at hand. A few seconds went by, she looked up again and repeated the greeting. Again silence. I could only see the back of his head by now and so could not see his facial reactions. The woman looked up at him, her eyes burning into his, questioning his sanity. She made an adjustment of her glasses, to make sure the anomaly before her was real. He knew the procedure, just like he knew the pain he would feel when he reached the sanctity of home.
Richard: "She could see my tonsils, I was sure of it. There I was, like a fish gasping for air, my mouth open, trying to utter a reply. Nothing would come. In the end I closed my mouth and gave in to the inevitable. People were watching."He had completed the task of filling his shopping bag by the time the woman told him the total price. Her manner was by now, condescending. She told him the amount due in a way that an infant school teacher would lecture a child on how not to steal someone's packet of crisps at playtime. He gave her the money and prepared himself to receive the change and the receipt. I could see that his shoulders had lost some of the tension that they had had before, now they drooped slightly, his head was bowed. The change was given back, the woman's eyes peering over her glasses as she placed the money, not into his hands but on a raised counter just infront of him. She turned away almost immediately to begin sorting the next customer's items. He tried to say 'thank you', I could see him pause for a good three or four seconds, his side profile now visable, his mouth opening and closing like those of actors on television when the sound is turned off. He eventually walked away, gazing towards the ground.
Richard: "Every day is like climbing a mountain. The normal banter between people which is second nature to everyone else, is cordoned off to me. Let me give you an example. Imagine an invisable gunman, who only you can see. Each time you are meant to speak, he points his gun at you and tells you that if you speak that word before 5 or 10 seconds, sometimes 20 seconds are up, he will blow your brains out. That's how it is. Imagine what a fool you would feel in front of strangers, even friends."By the time he left the supermarket, I was being served myself and as I only had a couple of items, it didn't take long before I too, was outside. It was then I saw him, sitting on a bench nearby, his head in his hands. I wasn't sure if he had tears in his eyes or whether he was just trying to compose himself before going to his next destination. His face was red, his whole stance was defeated. There was nothing else I could do but go up to him, to leave him alone after what I had witnessed seemed unacceptable. At first he was startled as I sat next to him and introduced myself, his mouth and eyes opened wide with the stress of suddenly being placed into a speaking situation, without warning. I told him not to worry and explained that I had seen what had happened inside the Karstadt. His face relaxed somewhat, he turned very slightly in my direction. I explained to him that I knew what his problem was, that if he needed to talk about what had just happened, he could. He relaxed further, obviously relieved that I understood his predicament. We conversed for a few minutes then agreed to sit on the inviting wicker chairs in a nearby outdoor cafe, where ice cold beer was avaliable.
Richard: "Many people who know me don't even realise I have this problem. They expect the machine gun fire and so when there are pauses or complete quietness they assume you don't have much to say or are uninterested, tired or just downright boring."For over an hour, he explained the troubles he faced with the speech impediment he had. At first, there were many pauses as he attempted to say certain words, sometimes it was obvious that he substituted a different word for an easier one. As time went on, his speech become more fluent, as he relaxed, probably under the effects of alcohol as well as knowing he had an understanding ear listening to his words. Towards the end, just before we parted company, his speech was virtually perfect.
Richard: "To start each new sentence is like blowing up a balloon. It has to be timed, thought out in advance to see whether the first letter can be uttered or whether a more softer letter in a different word would be easier to get out. After ten minutes you are both mentally and physically exhausted. Not to mention that the flow and enjoyment of the conversation is lost."I asked him a number of questions, about his family and their reactions, about his friends, about any help he had received. Once his speech had improved and his happiness had increased, we talked about football and the other usual things chaps talk about. I couldn't help but worry though, even when I saw his smiling and cheerful face light up as he recognised the fluency of his own voice, about his general wellbeing. He had relayed some things that didn't sit comfortably. I saw a desperatly unhappy youth, isolated, very much emotionally alone.
He started cutting himself a couple of years ago. He had come across the phenomenon quite by accident when trying to keep his mind off having to announce his name in front of a group of strangers at a conference he went to, for young people interested in a Graphic Design career. As people in the room had one-by-one called out their names, he had dug his finger nails into the soft skin of his sweating palms, the pain had been excruciating, it had had to be. He had made a fool of himself nevertheless by faltering on the first syllable of his name but it had relieved some of the tension of waiting. A little later he had gone to the toilets to wash the blood from his hands and clean the wounds. The knowledge of some kind of relief through pain never left him thereafter. He used to cut his upper thighs when in private, with razor blades but his mother had found out and her reaction of fear and worry had led him never to repeat the habit, if only for her sake.
Richard: "I feel like a rat that is drowning in a barrel of milk. Each terrified stroke it takes, seals it's fate even further. The eyes of the repugnant beast looks up, for help, seeking assistance in the void above but none comes."~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Richard was born in Berlin, in 1986. At the age of nine, he developed a servere stammer which rendered him almost mute for some years. Over time, through therapy and even hypnosis, it improved dramatically. Nowadays, in most situations, he can get away with being seemingly fluent, even though he still has to juggle the words he uses in order to appear articulate. There are times however, when it's very difficult, the times where he has to say a certain word, one that can't be substituted or delayed, at a certain time. Like replying to a greeting in a shop, or being asked to give his name or address. Richard's parents worry about their son, they fear that his lonliness might get the better of him. His mother wishes she could have the speech impediment instead of him. They both know his depression is getting worse.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I usually like to leave the windows open at night during the hot summer months and yesterday was no exception. There is more often than not a little breeze which aids the process of sleeping in such muggy conditions. One might think that nothing at all negative could come about by leaving the windows wide open, being on the 3rd floor, during the darkened hours but there are a number. Well, two to be exact. Both are to do with sound.
I watched him yesterday evening, watering the flowers in his window box. An elderly man, probably in his late 70's, maybe early 80's. He lives in a flat that overlooks the courtyard that we share. His window is located at a 90 degree angle from mine. It was warm, the sun was setting and the last beams of light felt lovingly, the soft red petals. I was looking downwards, his level being two floors below that of my level but not the lowest. His shiney scalp glowed against the backdrop of the darkened room behind.
It is one of life's odd occurances, which adds confusion to an already puzzling world. You're sitting in the sunshine, sipping wine whilst talking to a group of friends. Every now and then you glance up at the nearby trees and study the intricate framework of leaves and branches. Cars hum past, dogs bark, birds sing but after a while you become distracted by the piece of cloth in your hands which you can't see but can only feel. As you watch the lips of the people talking, you start to introspect and discover that the soles of your feet do not feel the ground beneath them, even though when you look down, they are flat on the pavement. As the waiter comes out and asks if there is anything else desired, there comes the sudden realisation that when you turn your head to greet him, your cheek is burrowing deeper into your pillow. His voice looses clarity and gradually the scenery merges into that of the bedroom in which you are sleeping. Upon waking you are left dazed, thrown into an existential disarrangement, unable to remember the night before.
He looked petrified. A youth in his late teens, standing in the checkout queue inside the Karstadt supermarket, near where I live. Upon first seeing him, I thought he had stolen something and was worried about being caught. This was not the case as I was later to find out when we spoke together in a nearby outdoor cafe.
Fat, tattooed, bald, bulldoggish and as white as the ice cream sold on Morecambe Bay promenade. That's the usual image that first comes to mind when imagining an English football hooligan. This stereotype is in most cases true. As a French friend of mine likes to point out, it's how the typical English football fan is seen in the eyes of the average Continental European. His words should be taken lightly though for my dear friend also thinks fish and chips is the main evening meal for all British households. I keep informing him that it is not, it's 'Chicken Tikka Masala'.
