Journey || Erik Durm

♀

CHARLOTTE:

           IF our lives were based on a game of probability, I had nothing to blame but my choices for my plight. Yet it was difficult to register what exactly had become of me. Perhaps that explained why I was standing before a coffeehouse in the heart of Berlin, a suitcase on each of my hands, contemplating going in. Every fiber of my being desired to chime in for a coffee and an eclair, but life had a brutal and uncanny tendency to be relentless. If I did so much as peek at my wallet, reality would ascend like a deluge of hapless tidal waves to pull me under.

Warm coffees and eclairs had become treasures atop the soils of a faraway shore. Meanwhile, I was struggling to stay afloat.

Go on, Charlotte, my conscience ushered. The shop looks wonderful, doesn't it?

It did. Even from a distance, it resembled a haven frequented by those who sought comfort. Despite the time of nearly midnight, people streamed in and out of the café like a waterfall, peacefully gravitating in and out in inertia. From atop the boulevard, I had visions of the place sheltering me in my darkest hours. So I did the one thing every hopeful and exuberant teenage girl does: I walked in.

Only when I sat down, burying my face in the refuge of my hands, did the reality of my situation truly dawn upon me: I had nowhere to go, literally. I momentarily stopped breathing.

I wanted to scream—to cry—but I was immobile. Then a waitress approached me in the coquettish way they tended to in pretty places like these. "Ready to order?" she asked me.

Unable to formulate a coherent sentence, I stared at her glumly. Where was I going to go now? Where did people go when they were homeless? Homeless shelters? Where could I find one of those?

"Hey," the waitress persisted, a warm gesture materializing on her face. "You okay?"

I swallowed, my solemn eyes meeting hers. "No."

She faltered. "No?"

I sighed lingeringly, snapping my eyes shut.

"You can talk to me if you're upset about something," she continued. "But please order something so it doesn't look like I am slacking."

"I'll order later then. Thank you," I told her.

"Take your time," she replied. Then with a brief nod, she ambled away, leaving me alone to endure my unnecessarily dramatic self. Lamenting, I rested my chin on the table once more.

How could I have let myself get into this mess? I suppose I should have seen the signs: Manila's frequent reprimands, her habit of knocking on my bedroom door every morning in search of rent, and the spontaneous drainage of the hot water supply. Maybe I had been ignorant. Maybe this was long overdue.

And now, first and foremost, I needed a stable job. Manila would most likely reconsider taking me in as a tenant if I had a source—any source—of income.

Maybe I should go into the drugs business, I thought. After all, working as a supplier for an international drug cartel always looked quite adventurous, especially in Hollywood movies. I considered it for a moment before realizing that I did not want to die—not yet.

Dejected, I raised my head from where it was buried, taking the sudden initiative the examine the diner. I was hoping for divine intervention despite having absolutely no faith in God.

Scenic photographs, vintage side-street views, and landscapes were hung upon the walls, quotes hanging by the perimeter and written in dark, vinyl lettering. The coffeehouse may have been a personified heaven, exemplified through a retreating aroma of Earl Grey. As my eyes savored the scenery, I found my point of interest landing on something in particular: an employees wanted sign that was plastered on the front door, designed plainly in the default red and white that typically accompanied those signs.