It
was New Years Eve in Germany, and in most of the world for that matter, and we
wanted to celebrate. Hans and Suzanne were kind enough to let us out of the
confines of Stalag 9, (the A-frame house in Obertshausen) for the evening and
had even offered to babysit for Janelle, so we didn’t even have to hire some
teenage friend of Maria’s who most likely wouldn’t be available because of the
holiday. I bundled up with two sweaters and the leather jacket I had acquired
in Paris and Maria was wearing two pairs of black tights, two jumpers, and a
black and white poncho that reminded me of a road sign with its zigzag diagonal
pattern. We drove her step-brother’s orange junkheap – an early 70’s Merkur
that had rust holes in the floorboards so big that if you lifted up the mats
you could stick your feet through and drag them on the road and stop the car
like Fred Flintstone. At least the heater worked well.
The main street of Sachsenhausen is Schweizer Straße, a
cosmopolitan boulevard with bars and two of Frankfurt's most traditional cider houses, Zum
gemalten Haus and Wagner. Ciderhouses that
produce their own Apfelwein (applewine) can be identified by the presence of a
wreath of evergreen branches hanging outside the location or a similar image
included on their signpost. The Textorstraße and the old town or Altstadt have the
best known ciderhouses in Frankfurt, but such pubs can be found all over
southern Hesse. We parked the holy roller or Orange Crush on the outskirts of
town and immediately bought a few cups the scalding hot beverage in one of the
ciderhouses then headed to the bars on Schweizer
Straße in the American sector where US soldiers would frequent because
the bands played the hits of the 60’s and 70’s from back home which was
beginning to make me feel homesick.
In the first nightclub called simply, The English Pub (pictured), the band was playing a cover of the
recent hit by Tina Turner, What’s Love
Got To Do With It and we bellied up to hand carved wooden bar where two
obese German’s who both looked like Sgt. Schultz from Hogan’s Heroes, were
drinking and shouting at each other in strident tones. I thought that any
minute a fight was going to break out between them but Maria assured me that
was the way they always acted and there was no need to worry. I ordered a local
beer that was served in a two foot high, beveled glass mug and proceeded to get
pleasantly plastered while Maria stuck to the Apfelwein not wanting to mix her
alcoholic intake. I, being a professional drinker, had no qualms about mixing
my booze but I was out of my element and should have followed her lead on that
one. After about an hour of listening to everything from Credence Clearwater’s Fortunate Son to Don McLean’s American Pie (a favorite in these parts), we decided it was time to venture on.
She wanted to go to a disco and do a little dancing, which is not my forte, but
it was New Years Eve and I was fairly wasted so I agreed to go, even if I
resembled a drunken orangutan when I danced—I could only imagine how ridiculous
I was going to look being three sheets to the wind. Maybe it would improve my
skills?
We wandered into a club that was packed tighter
than a sardine can with people from all over the world. I could hear French,
German, Dutch, Italian and Russian being spoken and we hadn’t even made it to
the dance floor yet. Of course there was a giant mirrored disco ball hanging
from the ceiling reflecting the blue and red lights which was not helping in my
state of inebriation. I went to the bathroom thinking I may throw up but only
leaned over the toilet seat hyperventilating. I staggered over to the sink,
washed my face and hands and then pulled myself up by the bootstraps and
rejoined the festivities. What I needed was a shot of Pernod to set me right. Ever
since Paris it was the only drink that would settle my stomach and after a few
sips I was back to abnormal. When I came back from the bar I saw Maria speaking
with this French dude clad in black leather. It was obvious he was “chatting”
her up and when he realized I was with her he offered us a peace pipe in
reconciliation. He said it was hashish from Afghanistan and it was very strong
and advised us to only take one hit. We did. Oh my God, the room was spinning
like a centrifuge. I felt like I was on one of those circular rides where you
lean against the inner wall and then the floor drops away while you spin faster
and faster. I always hated those rides.
After midnight rolled around, and it was now 1985
we were too wasted to notice but knew something must have happened when the
room exploded with cries of Happy New Year in at least ten different languages.
I turned around to kiss her and saw that she was slumped down on the floor
looking like a ragdoll or a marionette with its strings cut. I propped her up
in the corner so she wouldn’t get trampled to death then I stumbled and weaved
my way to the bar and got two large glasses of water. It seemed to help but
Maria was feeling claustrophobic and had to get out of the crowded club.
Somehow I managed to regain the balance to help her up from the floor and led
her out to the frozen street below. We were lost.
“Where the hell is the car?” I shouted. She just
gave me a blank look.
“I don’t fucking know,” she said as I threw up my
hands and paced back and forth.
“This is your town, you should know better than
me. C’mon Maria think.”
She started to cry. “Oh that’s really going to
help,” I said as I tried to think.
“We parked on Schweizer, didn’t we?”
“I think so, but I’m
all turned around. We shouldn’t have smoked that hash. I can’t think straight
and I’m freezing my ass off.”
“The best thing to do
is wait until later when the crowds thin out and that orange beast will stick
out like a sore thumb. Come on lets go get some coffee.”
“Okay, yah...”
We weaved our way
through the crowded street and found an all night restaurant a few blocks away.
It wasn’t a Denny’s or a Waffle House but the coffee was hot and they were
serving breakfast. I ordered some eggs over easy and she had some toast. After
an hour or so we started to come back to the planet Earth. At around three in
the morning we paid the bill and thought about venturing on to find the Orange
Crush. The snow was almost blinding and we couldn’t see ten feet in front of
us.
“Maybe we should get a
hotel room?” I asked.
“There won’t be
anything...it’s New Years’. Remember?”
She began to cry again
so I hugged her and tried to reassure her that we were going to be okay. We
went back into the restaurant and sat in by the fire waiting until the snow let
up—if it ever would. At least we were warm and cozy and I didn’t know about her
but I wasn’t high anymore. After an hour or so we noticed the snow was
dissipating so we gathered ourselves up and went outside. We couldn’t believe
what we saw. The Orange Crush was right across the street half covered in snow.
We looked at each other and then looked at the junkheap and then back at each
other again then laughed hysterically. We were saved. After scraping the ice
off the windshield we climbed inside and it fired the beast up. It might not
have been the best looking car in the world but at that moment it was a Rolls
Royce or a Jaguar. The heat worked and that was a good thing—a very good thing.
If this was any indication of how 1985 was going to be, I knew it was going to
be a bumpy ride. I had no idea at the time how right I was going to be.
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