With his foot drawn up against the other chair, the one over on the other side of the table, he leaned back and drank down his beer. Cody next to him, Shawn off at the other end of the almost, near empty guesthouse in Babenhausen Germany.
Shawn shot into view, he seemed motionless, staring, uncertain why he sat at the last table (he really had went there on his own, possibly they, his brother Cody and him were kicking each other under the table, and that of course irritated the father, and Shawn knew it might be best he simple get away from Cody), a window to one side, he was graphic if whatever came by, walking down the sidewalk, or over the cobblestone street, yet he never view of seeing up to see, who might be seeing in.
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Cody sat by his father, it was a quite evening, it was a month since they had been back from Luxembourg, and their father had gotten paid from the Army, and was taking the boys out for an evening meal, although it was a weekday.
A Cobbled Evening in Babenhausen Germany
The German world was a tinge alien to the twin boys yet, Cody and Shawn; the raddled twilight had died away.
“They are Germans,” said the father to Cody, who had asked him why he could not understand what they were saying when they talked. Then the father rose to his feet, and informed the proprietor he wanted someone else beer. He said “Yes sir,” in English, Cody was surprised he heard words he understood, being quite distinguishable from the German language. He said without moving.
At that moment, the church bells down the road, over the old stone bridge, started ringing, thus, the vacuum of the near-night was filled.
Unmotivated, the father, ate his sausage and French Fries, while washing it down with his beer, as did his twin boys: sausage and fries and coke, and beside the three, tenderly born into this world, Cody and Shawn who were used to kicking each other under the tables, at cafes and restaurants, glowed at one another, giggled a bit, and made faces at the other, a cobbled evening indeed.
The mass behind the city walls, nearly no sound, just a few cars driving by the guesthouse, three blocks away, from their apartment.
Simple as it was, it was appealing for the father to watch the city darkening, its mass, flowing back over the cobblestone streets and boulevards into a fading scene for the night, with one long quiet inhalation, the father immune to the world at large, possibly because of the alcohol, possibly because of the free falling tumult he lived in, or rather the evening effaced for humanity sake so it could rest.
Folks, in this West German City of Babenhausen, were unlike those of Dieburg (so the father got mental as the night waned on), where the Twins with their father had lived prior to appealing to Babenhausen. Separate he claimed, for those in Babenhausen no longer held grief or dark shadows over the American Soldiers’ presence, the city was silent on such matters of Wwii, allowing no rising tiers to originate a gargantuan beehive, nor was there no longer the blind following a demolished Nazi regime.
Here in Babenhausen, the soldier was more the host; no memorandums to the old way.
The father now grabbed the hands of his two boys, cleaned shaven, cut hair, to a neatly trim, polished black Army boots, brass belt buckle shinning, he looked splendid and shinny, a Buck Sergeant, quite distinguishable from civilians, mostly because of his uniform. He knew like the old time Germans knew what war was like, he had come out of the battle zone of Vietnam, his war. Now he was in a gunless city.
He held the hands of his two boys, and moderately they walked to the apartment, down along the cobblestone street. possibly he liked the Army for the very calculate it never lost you, it never forgets either, it kept a record as close as he kept an eye on his twin boys-no matter how inconsequential.
On the way back to his apartment, he didn’t see any soldiers: no sergeants, or corporals, or even privates, mostly they were on the Army base, a mile away, in barracks, or Army Housing, he favorite the German Economy, although he was waiting for housing to open up for him at the Army Base, it was a lot cheaper.
The boys got to the apartment with their father, walked up a flight of stairs (it was furnished), toys lying about in the hallway of their apartment, they walked colse to them; the father put the boys in bed, and sat on the leather couch. Fell to sleep, a cigarette in hand, and when he woke up, he had put a few burn holes in the sofa. He shook his head, knowing it would be precious when he left, his whole deposit, they’d charge him, which amounted to a whole new living room set, and not allowing him to take the old. ‘Oh well,” he thought, “it’ll pass,” and it did.
Written November, 3 & 4, 2008 (originally written at the “La Mia Mamma,” Restaurant, in El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru
A Cobbled Evening in Babenhausen Germany
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