Jan Urban | Author

HER GREEN WATERING CAN

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Her green watering can hovered lightly, and from its spout streamed a thread of crystal water. In that narrow arc, the sunlight glanced as if meant for me alone. It looked like a miracle, wrapped in blinding light. And those slender fingers, performing their sacred task… that was truly a beautiful hand, rising through the window into the morning light.

"Fritz, see to the customer."

I'd been working in that shop for a few weeks now, and for just as long, it had been getting on my nerves.

Never shop in this store—you'll meet a man who'd lick your very heels if it meant you'd buy more. Believe me, it's unbearable. I've been watching him since the day I arrived. And sometimes I think he isn't even human.

"Fritz! And fix that hair of yours. An ‘independent' haircut? Mein Gott!"

I went. Bootlick had raised his voice, and I didn't want him whining to my parents — they're the ones who got me the job, because that big shot's a friend of theirs, which I still don't understand. To them, I must've looked like a layabout, sitting at home with no work. The truth is, I felt like one myself.

I understood that Bootlick was the boss here, and bosses issue orders. So I did as I was told, and made sure he wouldn't notice I was watching Miss Burke.

Miss Burke… now she's a phenomenon. She's the only thing that makes this job bearable.

I first saw her a few days after I had started working here. The shop was empty. The boss had disappeared into the storeroom. I sat on a chair by the glass wall that looked out onto the street. It was pure chance. At that very moment, I happened to lift my head, and there she was, in the window. She held a green watering can. She was watering flowers. To tell the truth, at first I only saw her hand, holding the can, tipping the water. But in time, I started noticing the details. I realised the flowers were geraniums.

She looked out onto the street. Something broke open inside me.

She glanced left, then right, then down, and vanished once more behind the curtain.

I'd seen enough. And still, I wanted more.

"This exhausts me! See to the customer. Bitte!"

Was he serious?

As he walked off, he threw up his hands and sighed to himself:

"Bitte!"

He didn't care who else was in the shop. The man was a complete idiot.

An old woman stood by the toys. I recognized her, she came by now and then to buy a gift for her nephew. I greeted her.

"Fritz, help me out," she said.

Bootlick was parked at the register, ready to leap the moment my salesmanship showed the slightest crack. He pretended not to be watching, poor fool.

"They never buy the boy what he really wants. No wonder he cries. What he wants is a soldier," she said, looking at me.

"Fritz, you know those little soldiers, the battery ones, the ones that crawl."

"Of course."

"Well, he wants one like that."

"We've got them. All kinds. Camouflage, rifles, everything. Kids are crazy about them."

She turned the toy over in her hands.

"Mhm, mhm," she murmured to herself.

I was certain Bootlick was watching, nearly bursting his nerves, just waiting for her to take the damn soldier. Bitte!

"And it runs on batteries?"

"No. It's wind-up."

"I'm supposed to wind it? The soldier?"

"Not the soldier, only that ring. Like a watch," I said.

She kept turning it over in her hands.

"That's fine. At least it saves on batteries."

Exactly. It can crawl day and night, until it breaks down.

"And does it shoot?"

"It doesn't actually shoot. It just makes a sound."

"Well, that's what I meant, Fritz. Ah. That's good."

I took it out of the box, wound the little ring, and set the soldier down on the floor. It began to crawl, firing now and then. The old woman watched, delighted.

"That's exactly it. That's the one he wants. And I'm getting it for him."

I let out a breath.

Bootlick was probably melting behind the counter.

"Shall I wrap it for you?"

"Yes, Fritz. Wrap it."

I picked the toy up from the floor, placed it back in the box, and headed towards the counter.

"Fritz, will it crawl on sand too?"

"Sorry?"

"That soldier. Will it crawl on sand? My boy plays in the sandbox all the time. He'd be heartbroken if it got stuck."

"Well… a real soldier ought to crawl through sand."

"You know what I mean, Fritz. Will it actually work in sand?"

I could feel Bootlick's stare boring into my back. I stood there, holding the box with that stupid toy inside, turning over this stupid question whether that stupid plastic soldier could crawl on goddamn sand.

Bootlick would say yes.

I didn't know.

"I…"

"Of course it can," came a voice from behind me. "Top quality. Imported all the way from Japan."

He swept past me like a gust of wind. I'm pretty sure he shoved me. And right then, I knew — if I set that soldier down in sand, it wouldn't budge an inch.

That's what he loved: tricking old people.

"Fritz, wrap the lady's toy."

I did. And while I wrapped it, I watched him leading the old woman through the shop, holding her by the elbow like some dutiful son-in-law, coaxing her into buying a vase because it was an import from France.

I could already see him coming over and saying, "You didn't know whether the soldier crawls on sand? Well, now you do. Verstehst du?"

I looked up at Miss Burke's window. It was slightly ajar, but the curtains were drawn. No matter.

The sun was shining on the geraniums, and tomorrow, they'd need watering. I couldn't believe she'd let them die.

We'd just received a shipment of porcelain. Import from Germany.

I thought about Miss Burke. Any moment now, she'd appear at the window. But just then, Bootlick barked at me to start shelving the porcelain. Was he serious?

He vanished into the storeroom. The shop was empty.

The curtain rippled. Miss Burke opened the window. The breeze brushed her face. In her hand, she held a green watering can. With a graceful motion, she poured water over the geraniums. She looked out onto the street. Rested her head in her hands. She seemed lost in thought. I had never seen her like that before.

My heart quickened.

Her eyes landed on me. How did she find me? She was looking straight at me and I was looking back. I didn't know what to do with a moment so close, so bare.

Then she smiled. She looked like a flower.

But something changed.

Miss Burke turned sharply. The curtain rippled. A man appeared.

He seized her by the arm. She pulled away. He stepped in and struck her across the face. She flinched. A flowerpot dropped from the window. He pulled her close and they vanished behind the curtain.

"Neeein!" came a shout from the storeroom. Something shattered.

"Fritz! Quickly!"

I ran in. Bootlick stood over a pile of porcelain shards.

"Fritz! Why didn't you help me? And now look what's happened."

He threw up his hands. Covered his face. I wasn't in the mood to laugh.

"What a loss, what a loss. Who's going to pay for this now?" he said.

"Shards bring luck, "I said.

He fixed his gaze on me. It was a look that said: Don't spout nonsense. Clean it up.

"There's the broom," he said.

I couldn't get Miss Burke out of my head.

At first, all I could see was her smile — a smile that belonged only to me. Then came the terrible scene, the one that knocked the breath from my chest.

Who was that man?

What had just happened?

Who dared lay a hand on Miss Burke?

"Didn't shelve the porcelain. It wears me out, Gott!" came his voice from the shop.

A sudden fury overtook me. I gripped the broom so tightly it nearly snapped. My eyes drifted to the shotgun standing in the corner behind the door. Why did he even keep it here, that blockhead? I looked down at the pile of shards. Then at the broom cracking in my hands. I pictured myself storming out towards Bootlick, who'd be wringing his hands over the unshelved porcelain.

"Easy, you sack of nothing. Easy," I'd say.

He'd look at me with wide, frightened eyes. His lips would quiver, like he wanted to speak.

"I should clean this too," I'd say.

And then I'd jab the broom into the shelf and yank. All that fine German import shattering across the floor. All that Japanese stock doing somersaults underfoot. Every bit of junk in this place turning into an even bigger piece of crap.

And over it all — the miserable soul of a man about to die, in whom I would gladly recognize Bootlick.

"After your break, shelve it like I said," he told me, once I'd cleaned up the mess he'd made.

During lunch, we locked the shop. I sat down in my usual chair, the one that gave me a clear view of that ill-fated window.

When I looked up again, it seemed as though nothing had changed. But it had. I saw the fallen flowerpot. More shards.

I stepped outside. Walked over to the little mound of soil where the geranium lay. What was I supposed to do with it? I wasn't going to take it home. I had the feeling Miss Burke cared about her flowers. The pot was cracked at the base, but mostly intact. I gathered a bit of soil and nestled the plant back in.

I climbed the stairs, holding the flowerpot in both hands like a candle at holy communion. I remembered her smile, the one that belonged to me alone. And then the doubt came: maybe this wasn't the right thing to do.

But I… I just wanted to return her geranium. Then I'd go back to work. That was all.

The doorbell didn't work. So I knocked.

I heard footsteps. The door opened. It was him. The man from before. The one who'd hit her. He had to weigh at least a hundred kilos. But he wasn't fat. It was the muscle that unsettled me. His shirt clung to him, stretched tight across his shoulders and arms. He chewed gum, but when I stood there in silence, staring at him, his jaw slowed and stopped.

His eyes dropped to the flowerpot in my hands. His brow tightened.

"Good day," I said.

He didn't reply. And so I quickly continued:

"I saw this flowerpot broken on the ground, and I think it must've fallen from your window. One seems to be missing up there."

I held out the geranium. His brow creased deeper. Then his face began to brighten. He brayed. Like a horse. The sound echoed through the hallway.

A few crumbs of soil fell to the floor. Then he muttered "Jesus" and slammed the door.

His laughter stayed with me a little longer. Only after a while did it fade.

I walked down a few steps, grabbed the pot and hurled it, with all my strength, at his door. No one's putting that back together now. And let that boar sweep up the soil.

I flew down the stairs. Behind me, the door exploded open, and I heard a roar like a bear:

"I'll tear you apart, you little shit!"

I reached the street. His voice fell away behind me.

And I believed him.

 

I shouldn't have waved at her. But I couldn't help myself.

First, she smiled — even more beautifully than yesterday. Then she waved back. She watched me the whole time she watered the geraniums. One of the flowerpots was gone now, but it seemed to me she lingered longer than usual. Maybe because of me. Maybe she knew I was the one who'd tried to return the fallen geranium. That's why she waved. She liked me. I felt it.

Whatever it was that had begun between us, one thing was certain: we had grown closer.

If only I knew her name. One day I'll ask her.

"Your hair…" Bootlick hissed. "Your hair, mein Gott!"

I fixed it in the storeroom mirror. I wondered if Miss Burke liked my hair. If she didn't, surely she would've stopped noticing me. I wanted to know what kind of figure she had. She definitely had long legs. I imagined her in dresses. She was a real woman.

My thoughts were cut short by a voice from the shop. I knew it instantly. It filled me with dread.

I peeked through the door and saw the man with the tight shirt, all muscle. He headed straight for Bootlick, chewing gum with that nya-nya-nya sound. He looked like a titan.

"Good day, young man," Bootlick greeted him. "What can I help you with?"

"Do you sell flowerpots?" the man asked.

That was when I realised I watched a conversation between the two thickest men I'd ever met.

The fear ebbed. He hadn't come for me. I just hoped Bootlick wouldn't call me out front.

"Of course we do," Bootlick said, smiling like a salesman in a brochure. "Right this way, sir."

He led the man between the shelves. I didn't catch what they said. Soon they returned, the man holding a flowerpot.

Still grinning, Bootlick asked, "Will there be anything else?"

"No."

Bootlick's smile stretched even wider.

"If I may suggest, just yesterday we received first-class porcelain vases. Direct import from Germany. And it's a bargain, really. What do you think?"

The man frowned.

"I shit on your porcelain," he said, and walked out.

Bootlick's grin wavered but didn't vanish. He had to hold it for the sake of the other customers.

"Arschloch," he muttered under his breath.

"Fritz, where the hell are you?"

I nearly laughed out loud, but made sure I was nowhere in sight.

 

Later that afternoon, after we'd closed up, Bootlick called me over.

"Fritz, it's time I paid you for your first month."

He handed me the money. I counted it. Then I counted it again.

"You gave me less," I said.

He looked at me with exaggerated surprise.

"No, that's exactly what you're owed."

I counted it a third time. Was this a joke?

"No, it's short," I said again.

He took a deep breath.

"I gave you exactly what you deserve. The shop had a loss, remember?"

"What loss?"

He threw up his hands.

"You don't remember what you swept up? Hm?" He waved his hand in a you-remember-now-don't-you way.

I stared at him like he wasn't real. "But I didn't break that vase."

He didn't answer. Just scribbled something into his notebook.

"Do you hear me? I didn't cause any damage! Why did you give me less money?"

He sighed again.

"It wears me out."

And the look in his eyes said it all: That's enough. You can go.

Every time I ride the train, I get this strange taste in my mouth. Reminds me of the taste of iron. I hate it. As if someone were trying to poison me.

It was past midnight. The train was emptier than in the mornings, when I usually ride it to work. I wasn't tired. What I felt was something else. A restless pulse of excitement. And anger. All for Bootlick. The way he'd cheated me, so shamelessly.

He wasn't going to get away with it.

The trip into town doesn't take long. As soon as I saw the city lights through the window, I began scanning for the nearest exit. In a plastic bag, I'd hidden a spray can — I would spray a message on Bootlick's shop.

As I walked down the corridor towards the doors, I heard noise coming from one of the compartments. Laughter. Loud.

I moved closer. Looked inside. And froze.

The man who had hit Miss Burke sat there. He looked half-drunk, fully amused. Surrounded by a few girls. Two were pressed up against him, his arms draped around their shoulders.

I couldn't believe it. He kissed one, then the other, like it was nothing. It sickened me.

Who was this bastard, this animal, who could strike Miss Burke and still carry on like this?

He saw me.

The smile vanished from his face. His eyes darkened. He pointed at me and snarled:

"You…"

His teeth bared.

I ran down the corridor. Behind me, the door slammed open.

"You're not getting away this time, you little shit!"

The train was still moving. No way to jump. I fled into the next carriage. I didn't see him, but I could feel him behind me. Close. The few passengers onboard just watched. Silent. Blank. I made it into another car. Through the glass door, I saw him — and he saw me.

A standoff. My heart was pounding. I wondered what would happen if he caught me.

What if I just stopped and apologized?

Never.

He was a damn pig.

 

I reached the end of the carriage. Opened the door. I could hear the train tearing through the air. It was still moving fast. I'd break every bone in my body if I jumped.

I slammed the door. Opened the next. A bathroom. I slipped inside and locked it.

For a moment, silence. I took a breath. The place reeked of shit.

Then came the pounding.

"Open up, you little punk. I'll rip your head off!"

He was yanking the door.

I couldn't believe how much the doorframe could take. It felt like this guy could flip the whole train car if he wanted to.

I opened the window. No chance, I'd never fit through. Everything was starting to wear on me.

Then something massive struck the door — it bent inward. One more blow like that and it was over.

"I'm gonna kick your ass!" he roared.

Another slam.

"You'll see!" he shouted.

He was strong as a bull. That must have hurt Miss Burke very much.

He wasn't stopping. The door burst open. He stood before me, fuming, face dark, wearing that finally-we-meet face. His massive hand closed around my throat. I couldn't breathe.

"You're dead," he growled.

Horror seized me.

With all my strength, I hit him with the spray can in the head. He flinched and his eyes narrowed. His grip loosened. I hit him again. Blood appeared. I shoved him forward. He barely moved. He was like stone. He roared. He was winding up to kill me with a single blow.

I aimed the can at his face and pressed the trigger.

The paint struck his eyes. His whole face turned into a red mask, howling with rage. He clawed at his eyes and groaned. The smell of paint hit my nose.

The train stopped. I bolted.

My heart was pounding and my mouth was bone dry. I sat down on a bench on some street or other. I had to pull myself together. I still had work to do.

 

Arbeit macht frei.

That's what Bootlick kept reading, again and again, as he stood outside his storefront, glaring at the graffiti sprayed across the glass. He cursed, barked orders at two men, urged them to scrub faster. Flailing his arms. Throwing out insults. Then he stormed back inside.

"The nerve of some people!" he muttered. "If I ever find out who dared…"

He vanished into the storeroom. Didn't even see me.

I'd been watching the clock for a while. Time was slipping past. But Miss Burke still hadn't appeared.

And she didn't appear later either. Her geraniums hadn't been watered all day. She couldn't have forgotten them, I told myself. I didn't believe it. No, that wasn't like her. Maybe something had come up at work? But what did she even do? I'd never seen her leave the house. I wanted to see her in a dress. I was sure she'd wave at me. I thought about her all day.

I looked for her again the next day. Watched the clock. Her window stayed shut. The curtain didn't stir. If she kept this up, the geraniums would wither in a few days. I missed her. Maybe I should go to her. Ask if everything was alright.

But there was always the chance I'd run into the man with the red-painted face, and next time, I might not get away.

The third day was even worse. I felt very lonely. Had she gotten angry with me?

But I hadn't done anything wrong.

My head was so heavy, I had to hold it up with my hands.

And then Bootlick appeared.

"Just sitting here, doing nothing. You're good for nothing!" Bootlick barked.

His voice rattled in my skull.

"Loafer! Nothing but a loafer!"

He stared straight into my eyes like he meant it.

He threw up his hands. "Oh, Gott!"

His spit sprayed all the way to my face.

"Here," he said, shoving a box into my hands. "Unpack this. Carefully. Then put it in the display window."

I started to unbox.

"Not like that, Gott! Put it on the floor! What if it breaks? Who's going to pay for it?"

It's already wearing me out."

I set the box down. Unwrapped the vase. It was so large. I liked it. It had a curious design. I'd have bought it myself.

Bootlick raised his hands to the heavens.

"Bitte… Just put it where I told you."

I held out the vase to him.

"Put it there yourself, you dumbass," I said.

His face twisted strangely.

"What did you say?"

"I said, put it there yourself, dumbass!"

I was still holding it out to him.

He opened his mouth to speak. But he didn't do as I said.

I smashed the vase on the floor.

He jolted.

"What are you staring at, huh?" I said. "Want me to grab you a broom?"

I walked to the storeroom.

I grabbed the broom. I wanted to hurl it at him. But then I saw the shotgun behind the door. My eyes locked onto it. I took it.

"Bootlick!" I roared. "Aaaaaaa!"

He froze. Terrified.

He couldn't get a word out. I drove him back with my scream.

"Aaaaaaa! Bootlick!"

He collapsed. Slumped into a shelf and slid to the floor. Crap came tumbling down, just more of what this dump had in every corner.

"Who's going to pay for it now?" I asked, placing the shotgun between his eyes. "Huh?"

Bootlick twisted his mouth into an odd grimace. He sniffled like a little boy. On the verge of tears.

I burst out laughing. Laughed so loud the whole street must have heard.

I couldn't stop. I laughed like a madman, harder than ever in my life. Tears filled my eyes. I could barely breathe.

"Fritz. Fritz!"

I snapped awake. Someone was tugging at my shirt.

"Must I keep reminding you? It's wearing me out."

I rubbed my eyes. There was no sign of Miss Burke in the window. No trace of her at all.

"What are you always staring at?" he asked.

I didn't answer. I saw her. Out on the street. In a dress. She looked exactly as I'd imagined her. A slim figure. Hair flowing down her back. Walking upright like an aristocrat. Miss Burke. You had me worried.

"Her husband died. That's why she's in black."

I turned to see who was speaking. Bootlick. He sighed.

"The train hit him. He couldn't see it coming. Someone had sprayed paint into his eyes. Mein Gott."

I went back to my work.

He wasn't of the kindest, but…"

His voice faded.

I began shelving the wooden animals. Carefully. One by one. Handmade. Domestic product.

I shouldn't be sitting around so much.

It's already wearing me out.