Under the bridge
In the town where I work there is a underpass crossing a heavily frequented road and a railway; a small spring with iron-rich water is filling a basin there intended for Kneipp-Water treatments. A closed down bowling alley looms close to the way, and a small pathway leads from a bicycle track over to the nearby park. When I started to work there a man lived under this bridge; he had all his belongings down there, sitting on a big pile of clothing - usually he read a Lucky-Luke comic and drank a beer when I came back from working in the late afternoon - sometimes he commented onto the fact that I always run. He was somewhat famous in this town; there had been a newspaper article about him and his wish to just stay were he was, and people often gave him food - I believe that he was solemnly living from such gifts. People from the local drug scene somewhat gathered around him, and sometimes things got a bit gross down there - screaming guys, violence, drunkenness - but he remained serene, and what else should he have done instead? We often exchanged a sentence or two when I passed; he said that I remembered him to the US-Soldiers running in Nuremberg, where he had spent his youth. I in turn sometimes had the fantasy of him lying on a trapdoor leading down into a great cave, to catacombs or into a bizarre otherworld - this might be because he never moved away from his very same spot - later I learned that he could hardly walk, and nearly never did. He was lying there for years; before and after I met him. In autumn, as the water rose he was lying on his dry island; in winter he buried himself under layers of cloth - but he stayed there, no matter what. One day he lamented about strong pain in his stomach. I asked him if it wouldn't be better to go into a hospital, but he rejected it - he said that he hated hospitals, and also: What would happen to all his things if he would go? I believe that I'm experienced enough to see if there is no way of convincing someone of such a thing, and it seemed absolutely clear to me that he wouldn't leave there voluntarily. I'm working with psychically ill and addicted people, and I can tell if somebody wants to stick to his way of life. Over the months to come he grew weaker but still responded to my greetings when I passed by - our short dialogues however became more and more rare. On a rainy summer day he suddenly disappeared, leaving all his stuff behind. No trapdoor could be seen but a pile of garbage. Nobody could say what had happened to him. At first the spot under the bridge was orphaned, but after a day the people who before had sometimes gathered around him tried to claim the space - they were soon pushed away by the city that also disposed everything that wasn't taken away by then. A week later nobody who didn't knew could have guessed that someone had lived down there for many years. The reactions to both his person and his disappearing differed widely, and ranged from a sincere wish to help over curiosity to ignorance and even malice or hate. Some saw his existence as a proof of a failing of the state; others emphasized his right to pursue his individual freedom by lying down there in a correctly working state. Some welcomed his disappearing, hoping he would get help somewhere now. Some welcomed his disappearance since he was away. I knew a women that had avoided the place - not because of him but because of the people around him - but at his disappearance she had already left the region for good herself. It is my believe that he should have had the right to die down there if he wanted - but did he really want it? I doubt it. He probably wasn't old Nietzsches Übermensch, living and dying as he liked - most people really aren't. He wanted to stay there drinking and reading his comic books, and all that's left for me is to hope that he enjoyed it while it lasted.