The following piece describes a particularly bizarre experience I had on my way home from the 2014 International Book Fair in Frankfurt. According to the German Federal Railway Authority, railway suicide was the preferred method of self-annihilation for 875 Germans in 2009. “Hundreds kill themselves among German railways each year, and train drivers will likely see an average of three suicides over the course of their careers” (Julia Jüttner, Spiegal Online International).
Stopped
It was quite quintessentially Germanic — stereotypically speaking, that is. The bus shuddered at the caustic cadence within as Pils and perspiration dribbled down its sides and steamy breath smoked the windows. The sky blinked bemusedly at the rowdy revelers below, one cloudy lid closing for a moment over its ivory iris.
It started several hours before when the flock of silver-haired, slightly-less-than-sixty-somethings stumbled on the train soon after Frankfurt. Chairs jostled with shins for the right of way as bottoms bounced into seats while an endless refrain lurched from lip to lip. The other passengers’ hope for some shut-eye quickly left at the next stop.
Suddenly squeamish at the thought of blood, the train screeched to a standstill several kilometers from the scene. The bulletin buzzed fairly swiftly through the convoy’s connecting cars—there was a body on the tracks. Softly shredded between steel slats and unwilling wheels.
A balding bowling pin, the tweed-trimmed ticket master waddled worriedly down the aisles, waking stubborn snoozers still endeavoring to sleep, demanding to know their final destination.
“Nürnberg.”
Then a dispatch crackled through the intercom, disclosing the data that every traveler dared to hope would not come true: this train would go no further that night. Coded Personenschaden, a routine blip in the system, the driver had already anticipated time number two. Most others he knew saw at least three.
The tipsy troupe tumbled out of door ahead of the rest and turned upon the hapless train conductor. More exclamatory than inquisitive, their questions a belligerent ball battered against a brick that just wouldn’t break. The inebriated interchange went something like this:
“Where is the bus!”
“I don’t know!”
“When will it come!”
“I don’t know!”
“How long will it take (‘til you know)!”
“I don’t know!”
“Well, what do you know!”
“Nothing!”
The disgruntled driver dismissed their intoxicated ignorance with a wave of his hand and shuffled on ahead of his stupefied sheep, steering them to the empty bus stop. After further hassling hilarity, the company concluded at last that in any case, the whole inconvenience was terribly entertaining, and a few more bottles of beer magically materialized, ensuring an encore even more enjoyable. As the bus lurched along the remaining length of road, the discomfort of the disconcerting incident quickly dissipated, forgotten in the furtherance of the frenetic festivities. Prost!