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  • The Wild Gal from Ohio
  • Joachim Ringelnatz (bio)
    Translated by Catherine Riccio (bio)

I want to tell you about one of those god- and man-forsaken railroad junctions, where the average visitor might lose his mind if he isn’t a virtuoso at sleeping or if he lacks a poetical understanding of the waste land’s lyricism.

As I opened the door to the waiting room, I prayed to some supernatural power that I wouldn’t be launched into a group discussion on the quality of beer, gambling odds, or domestic politics.

However, there was only one single visitor there, a dignified fellow. He looked like a baron, a military officer, or a man of the world, and with a curt movement of his head he immediately gave me to understand that I might as well be one of the invisible spirits. I felt entirely the same way, and I tucked myself into the farthest recess of the room with a similar Noli me tangere in my expression.

The “garçon” took pains to push my disagreeable mood to its limit with all sorts of provocations, which I am planning to turn into four musical comedies and one tragedy. Then gradually he fell asleep by the newspaper stand, and at once all was peaceful in the empty hall. Only a steady melancholy rain struck the windowpane.

The genteel baron stared motionless at a bottle of Burgundy. I had the feeling I could have composed a poem rich in atmosphere if he weren’t there. I placed my hands over my eyes in order not to see him anymore, and I became aware through my splayed fingers that the lines on his face were very lively and really more determined than smug, that a bright scar on his temple did not seem wicked, and that he wore an ostentatious, exotic ring.

Solitude leads the way down to the cellar of the mind. It is, naturally, worthless for a man who stores nothing there. However, for a man who is smart enough to keep a small flask, or even numerous large casks, down there—most of which is only sold in small quantities on draft upstairs—whiling away the hours in those refreshingly cool depths isn’t difficult.

As for myself, I was also determined to bring up my flask of spirits in order to improve the native Zeltinger wine, priced for wartime, which the train stop’s restaurant had served me.

The baron proved to be quite a likeable man in the end. He seemed to be of a similar doleful humor and sat, like myself, bent over his glass—studying cigar smoke and ashes. [End Page 151]

Then the door swung open. A third man, older, weather-bronzed, and in hunting attire, paused expectantly on the threshold.

The baron immediately made a curt movement of his head to tell the hunter that he might as well be one of the invisible spirits, and I maintained an emphatic Noli me tangere in my expression. The hunter, however, availed himself of an even more exalted form of communication. He looked neither at the baron nor at me, but rather positioned himself with geometric dexterity such that he turned his back on both of us at the same time. He stopped the irritating greeting of the waiter mid-sentence, addressing him as Birdbrain.

I felt my poetic mood considerably disturbed by the unkempt beard, the eyes that gazed around boldly, and the Meerschaum pipe that puffed smoke into the room like a locomotive.

Only when the wild man was calmed with a glass of hot milk and the subservient Birdbrain took to his newspaper corner again, did the status quo return. This rapport assumed an entirely peaceful quality as time passed. It was as though we had silently come to an agreement to be considerate and simply ignore one another.

The stove began to crackle mysteriously; it seemed to call for attention. Sunk deep in reflection, we didn’t move. Only when the waiter rearranged his legs did three tired heads lift themselves up for a moment. Then we remained as still as death.

What does one really think about in such a...

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