The Exhibitionist in the Long Coat
Nobody ends up on the U-Bahn by choice. You end up there because the alternative is worse. Berlin, late summer, train half-empty—one of those days where everything goes mildly wrong in sequence: the hair, the escalator step, the crash that arrives at 11 a.m. instead of 3. The kind of day that has it in for you specifically.
The guy selling the Motz boarded two stops in: one leg, an eyepatch, a dog, and the practiced patience of someone who has mastered the art of being both completely visible and completely ignored. I know that particular social freeze. You hear him coming, you feel the obligation bearing down, and your eyes locate the middle distance with practiced efficiency. You do the math—coins, conscience, what you spent this week, whether any of it matters—and by the time you arrive at any conclusion, he’s three seats past you and you have once again succeeded at looking like a very specific kind of asshole.
Then a quartet of musicians set up at the far end of the car and performed a slightly shambling, earnest Beatles medley for whoever remained. This was when the ticket inspectors appeared. They announced themselves, worked their way toward us, and immediately got mired in negotiations with the band, who required several minutes of gentle persuasion before they’d pause the concert and produce their passes. The inspectors never made it to my end of the car. I’ve bought a monthly pass for six months and been checked exactly once. I keep buying it anyway.
There was a man standing near the door who’d been there since Alexanderplatz. Something off about him—a particular restlessness, eyes that wouldn’t settle. Long winter jacket, wrong for the weather. He waited until we were between stations, opened the jacket, and aired a very cold, very anxious little penis at nobody in particular, then had everything sealed back up before the brakes announced the next stop. The whole thing lasted maybe four seconds. The speed of it suggested prior experience.
I had my transit card in my hand the entire time, having pulled it out when I spotted the inspectors. I was so fixated on the jacket situation that it didn’t occur to me, in the moment, to wonder where he kept his ticket—or whether he had one, or how he would have produced it without the encounter becoming considerably more complicated. This question now bothers me a great deal. I genuinely wish I’d asked.
Also: I downloaded the new Tokyo Hotel album through entirely legal means. I just wanted that on the record.