Hr. Grungo bryder sig ikke om sit navn

Phoenix, Arizona

Her vinder jeg endnu en kick-the-can-contest (over mig selv).

Jeg er en pige, på 12 år og jeg hedder Matilde. Min mor hedder Maren og min far hedder Søren. De komme begge to fra Gedser ligesom mig. Engang så jeg en fugl flyve over vores have med noget i næbbet. Mor sagde at det nok var en orm den havde fanget, men jeg synes det glimtede og så kan det jo ikke have været en orm. Nogen dage efter fandt jeg også en ring ude på vejen og jeg tror det må være fuglen som har tabt den. Mor siger at jeg godt må beholde ringen hvis der ikke er nogen som kommer og spør efter den men jeg vil hellere have at vide hvem det er som ejer den. Så hvis du kender en som har tabt en ring i Gedser så kan du sige til dem at de godt må ringe til mig. De skal kunne fortælle mig hvordan ringen ser ud og hvad for nogen bogstaver, der står på den. Der står nemlig nogen bogstaver på den som jeg tror kan være forbogstaverne på den som har haft ringen før.

Hilsen Matilde

Berlin

Passager #19

…fuck it, I say. If I don’t make it, I don’t make it. The plane is gonna leave in five minutes and I bet they’re already calling my name in the airport: “Mr. Thomas Johnson to Gate 9 immediately, Mr. Thomas Johnson to Gate 9 immediately.” Once I would have been terrified of missing a plane but now the thought suits me fine. It makes me feel like a criminal in a movie or something. Cynical as hell. If I ever were to star in a movie it should be in a movie about plane crashes. Ha, ha. I know it – I’m not very good at sounding cynical. My laugh isn’t nearly terrifying enough. But maybe I could practice and get better? Like an actor. Aw, no – who am I kidding – I suck at acting and it only brings up bad memories to even think about it. Me in high school. Me at an audition for a play. Laughing director, laughing school mates and laughing headmaster. I didn’t know you were supposed to sing. I did it, though. I should be proud of myself but somehow it’s not possible when I keep visualizing all those laughing faces. Maybe that’s where it all went wrong. The feeling I got almost drove me to suicide. I swear it did. Later that same night I stood in a dark alley and kept knocking my head against a brick wall. Got some bad scars and mom wouldn’t believe it when I told her I crashed on my bike. At first she wouldn’t, that is. When I kept denying that there was some other cause she insisted that I’d get a helmet and never ride without it. Fuck me. Those weren’t the days when young boys on bikes wore helmets. I could just as well have bought myself a scarf. Anyway, I’m at the airport now. Should I run? It would be sort of stupid to not catch the plane. Stupid, stupid. But do I even wanna go home? Home to what? A lovely wife and a pair of nice children? I’m not a family man and I’m never gonna be a family man. I’d rather spend a week drowsing in an airport than go home right now. Still, I’m going. I’m gonna catch the fucking plane if I don’t stop walking right now! And there she is, the stewardess. Smiling. Not angry or anything. How am I doing? Fine, thank you mam. Here’s my ticket…