Yes sir, I can boogy

They take you by surprise. Gloomy fate. Dingy Evel. Tragic disaster. Like a collision with a deer unexpectedly crossing the narrow highway early in the evening. As the pick pocketer stealing your phone and bank cards from your backpack in an instant.

You know them. Gloomy fate. Dingy evil. Tragic Disaster. They are always up in the air. They float around you like ultra-fine mold spores. But so long, so often, things go well. The sun rises, you get out of bed, you have breakfast, you start your car, you listen to the radio (a war has broken out, a famine is raging). You enter the office building. Your world is boring but clear, safe, familiar.

Until they hit. Hard. Ruthless. Relentless. Gloomy fate. Dingy evil. Tragic Disaster. When it happens, you admit that you have been naive. Unsuspecting. Gullible. You were like a child looking forward to his birthday. Expecting presents, cake, a party, visits.

When my youngest sister told me she was pregnant, we were all surprised, relieved. But above all, intensely happy. We knew it was their great wish. To have children. Or at least, a child. My youngest sister and her boyfriend were open about the fact that they were not succeeding. Whatever studies were done. Whatever treatments she had to undergo to make the pregnancy come about. They kept family and friends informed through app and video calling.

We all sympathized with them. However, since it did not work out for them for so long, their fight, their struggle became something that happened in the background. Like you have an infected toenail. Or migraines. Or earache. It is there. But life also goes on.

Until that day five months ago. When a wave of joy went through their family and their group of friends. It worked! She had gotten pregnant! And just as happiness and delight changed their lives drastically, something changed in my life too. A kind of new hope, a new expectation also took possession of me. As if miracles were something that was now also within my reach.

The euphoria, the rapture about the new life, lasted until last week. Until then, photos were shared of ultrasound scans, of bellies that gently bulged, of radiant parents-to-be, of second-hand clothes, cloth diapers, cuddly toys, stare op de art pacifiers.

Until the gloomy fate stroke. Dingy evil. Tragic disaster. In the middle of the night, we were startled by the raw messages. There had been blood loss. The re was a desperate race in the car to the hospital.  Once under treatment it turned out that nothing could be done. The baby was stillborn. Small as a toy doll. Beautiful as a work of art. Soft as velvet. Silent as an oval diamond.

The horrible message cut through my heart like a scalpel. First, there was the sharp sadness of my sister and her boyfriend. And the powerlessness about it. At the same time there was also the heavy disappointment, the deep disillusionment with life itself. The news of the baby had colored my existence. The expectation, the prospect, the promise. It all felt like redeeming sunlight after days and weeks of rain, sleet, fog and strong winds.

It's been two weeks now when they lost their baby. And it has been seven days we had a little ceremony. Very modest, pretty sober. With candles, fresh flowers, songs and encouraging texts. We all said it was good, valuable. We all pretended it helped.

Dutiful as I am, I just went to work after all the sad news. Like today. It has been a long stretch of pointless meetings, fruitless discussions, ridiculous presentations, and silly conversations. My brain is a ball of polyester yarn. Everything feels dull, boring, dim. To make matters worse, I left the office way too late. Which means I'm now stuck in a sluggish, slow-moving traffic. In the meantime, it is raining mercilessly hard. The droplets hit the asphalt and the roofs of the cars like nails. The sky is gray as a garbage can.

To kill time, I turn on the radio. There is an inserted news bulletin. At first, I do not take notice of the stern female voice. When she starts warning landslides could occur due to the persistent rainfall  - and as a result - roads could be blocked, she got my attention.

At the same time, a red light comes on in the dashboard. The left front tire is deflating. I furiously slam my fist against the steering wheel. What am I going to do? Do I take the risk and continue driving? The car vibrates like a giant alarm clock is going off. I take a deep breath and steer the car into the direction of parking spots at the next gas station I come across. I have difficulties finding a free place. It is chock full of vehicles. Trucks, vans, passenger cars.

It keeps pouring. From my dry and safe car, I try to contact roadside assistance. There is no response. My anger slowly turns into worry. After failing for the fifth times to reach the roadside assistance, I grab with my two cold hands my desponded head. I feel the thick, greasy hair curling between my fingers. When was the last time I took a shower? When was the last time I slept well?

I see a group of men taking shelter under the roof at the gas station. They smoke, drink pints of beer, eat sandwiches. I decide to take a chance. I grab my backpack, open the door, jump outside, slam the door behind me, take a deep breath and sprint to the building,

The men pretend I am the local gas station attendant. They stare at their mobile phones, munch cheap pork sausages, throw cigarette butts into the oval water pools, glare at the dark clouds.

Maybe because I give such a sad impression, maybe he needs a new conversation partner, a man with short black hair, a faded drooping mustache and narrowed eyes, approaches me and introduces himself as Wiktor. Do I want a cigarette? A sip of his beer?

To my surprise, I accept the cigarette. I never smoke. But perhaps I sense it. It is better to belong to a group now. To avoid being that know-it-all individualist. When we are standing next to each other, Wiktor points to my BMV. “Kaput?” he wants to know. Now I see it for myself. The front tire is as flat as a torn beach ball. I gesture as if I was trying to reach roadside assistance. From the mixture of Polish, German and English words I understand that there are no emergency services just driving around. Far too dangerous because of the landslides, the heavy rainfalls, the roadblocks.

Only then do I take the time to read messages on the various news sites. There have been warnings of severe weather for days. The code red applies to the entire country. Already the entire week. And all this time I have been ignorant. I have fallen into a trap. I can't go back to my house tonight. The roads are destroyed. Rivers overflow their banks. And in the same go, I also read that all hotels, resorts, and lodgings in the area are full of stranded travelers.

Wiktor correctly assesses my hopeless situation. He beckons me to come with him. Do I have another choice? I get into the truck with him. We drive fifteen minutes, at most. Then he steers the way-worn vehicle along the side of the road, and we stop at a barn. But when we run to the entrance (the rain is still pouring down like in the days of Noah)), the outbuilding turns out to be a hotel. Wiktor speaks to the receptionist in Polish (Ukrainian? Bulgarian?). During his explanation he points at me. He holds up two fingers.

We get a pass for our room. After we have both freshened up a bit, it is time to have something to eat. The food is served in a large living room. Almost all tables are occupied. Most men greet Wiktor. People ignore me. My host explains to me what is on the menu. Dumplings. Herring. Sauerkraut. Crispy potato fritter.

I try the last dish. While I swallow the food with long teeth, people drink, laugh and sing. Especially when three women join the group, the buzz turns into laughter. I notice that Wiktor is feeling more and more at ease, while I quietly sink away. Gloomy fate. Dingy evil. Tragic Disaster. Lifelike, they grab me and throw me into an immeasurably deep ravine. I close my eyes, feel the tears burning. Will it ever get better? Where is my hope? Where are the miracles? Why is everything exactly as it is? So dull, boring, dim.

Until I see Wiktor toddling towards the old piano. He adjusts the stool and starts playing. Playful, light, honest. The boogie woogie. I relax, wonder. It is as if someone is standing next to me, whispering, “You know, this life will become more bearable someday. With a bit of luck, even faster than Trump's presidency.”