The Bawdy Cloister

Statue of The Brothers Grimm in front of the Rathaus in Hanau, Germany

I just learned that Terry Gilliam is set to release a movie based on the Brothers Grimm early next year. Can’t wait. I went to high school in Hanau, Germany, the Grimm Brothers’ hometown. News of the movie sparked a few memories. Hanau is where I first tried story telling myself. I thought I’d dust one off from that time period and give it some daylight. I've since come to terms with my abilities and steer clear of fiction:

Hands Tied

My head was about to disown me. I spent two hours restocking the “Thrasher” shelves which are only illuminated by black lights. So I wasn’t in the most refined state of mind when this young man found his way up to the counter with a Front 242 CD. Hell, it could have been Ministry; I honestly don’t know or care. It’s all noise to me. The guy was apparently one of those Nazi skins. He wore the oh-so-common Doc Martin footwear, a pair of elastic waisted Levis, and a T-shirt I swear had drool stains around the collar. He had a small swastika stud on the side of his nose that I initially mistook for a zit.

“Ist das alles?” I spoke in my husky winter dialect.

“The hell you just say? This is the U.S., man. Speak English.” I decided to leave the conversation at that; he wasn’t worth losing my voice over. Before long I found myself off the clock and in Dalton’s bookstore.

Emily had another twenty minutes to go. She’d worked double shifts all week and they were beginning to take their toll on her. Her complexion, pale, still seemed healthier than that of a librarian. Although I hadn’t browsed through the store in weeks, I knew pretty much what they kept in stock. I did notice one difference; Kerouac was now categorized under “Literature” rather than “Fiction.” Walden’s had listed him that way all along. Emmy and I both agreed Waldenbooks was the better store, but she never bothered to apply there.

“I’m ready, Jake.”

“Coffee?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Barnie’s or cheap?”

“I don’t care, just as long as it’s strong.” I swung her backpack over my shoulder and we headed to the Food Court.

Emily settled at a table while I went to get two cups of Joe from the blackest, most shallow pot I could find. I came back to find her hovering over a collection of Dylan Thomas short stories.

“That any good?” I asked placing a cup in front of her.

“Not bad.” She sat up, reaching for her coffee, “then again, I’ve always been partial to Irishmen.” She smiled at me then went back to reading.

“Born in Swansea, Wales on October 27, 1914,” I read aloud from the back cover just before getting kicked in the shin. I pulled a Calvin and Hobbes treasury out from her pack and flipped through the pages. Emmy smirked. She had once referred to me as a “passive intellectual.” Books have always bored me, but I can’t stand illiterate conversation. Any literary knowledge or philosophy I possess can be attributed to the years I’ve spent being Emmy’s sounding board.

“There you go again with your earth-shattering sighs, Jake.”

“I’m sorry. Are you about ready?” Emmy closed her book and packed it away. I stood up and helped her into her coat. The night was bitter cold, and though it wasn’t snowing, the roads were slick.

“Look in the glove compartment, Em.” Emmy opened it and pulled out a copy of Plath’s Winter Trees.

“Happy Birthday. I had to special order it.” Emmy stared at me, her forest green eyes wild with excitement.

“Thank you.” She looked at the book then back at me, “Let’s go back.”

“Back where?”

“Back then.” She lifted the book.

I began to breathe heavily, “You know we can’t.”

“Why not? Let’s go; I mean it.” She was determined.

I sighed, “All right.”

I pulled over at North Hampton Cemetery. After stumbling out of the car, I walked between the monuments. I turned to Emmy; her cold granite stare seemed harder than ever.

“Happy Birthday, Em.”