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<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"The Boy had put us in his coat pocket. We snuck out of there and jumped down between the forest of winter boots. Disappearing from sight. Down the drainpipe, along the red brick of the Oberbaumbr\u00fccke, until we reached the covered pavement underneath the U-bahn tracks. Two-thirds of the way is a tent that H. calls his home for winter. Locals know to walk on the other side of the bridge to avoid the scent of urine.<\/p>\n
We could have stayed above among the hustle and bustle of the U1 amidst grey-layered winter. We could have tucked ourselves in a corner and eternally made our way back and forth between Uhlandstr and Warschauer. Among the crusty punks and the perpetually showered-looking businessmen, the tourists and the peddlers, the \u2018hit the road jack\u2019 hustlers, the party kids in black with fanny packs across their chests, and the millennials with their roll-top backpacks who work at one start-up or another.<\/p>\n
A family of rats could have adopted us around Hallesches Tor and we would have all lived off of D\u00f6ner scraps and discarded Mett Br\u00f6tchen<\/i>. We would be the runt of the litter with our beige fur and the brown spots around our rear. But the rats would have taken us in. Been kind, made sure we had plenty of food and weren\u2019t trampled by the commuters and other beasts. We would have been the merry swine among a brood of black vermin. It would be a bleak sight but it would actually be joyous.<\/p>\n
We could have been spotted by a middle aged Turkish man, who would have picked us up, put us in one of his plastic bags, and taken us home to his flat in Britz he shares with his family. His daughter could have spotted the sign the Boy and his father had hung up on her way back from the club, and had rang the attached number.<\/p>\n
Just as likely we could have hurt our paw when we made our way down the bridge wall. H. could have found us and constructed a minuscule bandage out of a piece of wet cardboard and tape, instead of eating us. He could have kept us in his tent. He would let us sleep inside the hard plastic cup that he had collected during May Day and should have handed back in for money, but he had never found the correct place to collect the Pfand<\/i> from.<\/p>\n
But what actually happened is that as we run past the tent under the bridge a bandaged hand grabs us and roasts us for dinner over a Bic. There couldn\u2019t have been much meat on our frail bones, but it provided a dose of protein in a diet of Sternis and glue. We should have stayed in our young owner\u2019s pocket. We should have enjoyed the ride to Charlottenburg. To the renovated apartment the Boy\u2019s father shared with two DJ\/designer 20-somethings and an art student named Phoenix.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The Boy had put us in his coat pocket. We snuck out of there and jumped down between the forest of winter boots. Disappearing from sight. Down the drainpipe, along the red brick of the Oberbaumbr\u00fccke, until we reached the covered pavement underneath the U-bahn tracks. Two-thirds of the way is a tent that H. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":15534,"template":"","categories":[42,10],"class_list":["post-15599","stsp_text","type-stsp_text","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-issue-17","category-prosa"],"yoast_head":"\n