come in—it would’ve looked weird to just go down to the platform and then come up again before a train came. The subway seemed much louder than usual, especially compared to the quiet ones who’d been on the tracks a few moments before.
Fifteen or twenty people got off, and we went up the stairs with them. Jerry wiped his nose again, and sniffed. “Subway people feed them?”
“And my Dad.”
“I thought they only came to virgins.”
So had my Dad. “I dunno,” I said. “Maybe they can’t afford to be so picky anymore.” That was one thing Dad had said. I didn’t tell Jerry the other, what Dad had said the first time one let him touch it—him, a man who empties garbage cans for a living, and comes home smelling like what the city throws away. He’d looked at his hands like Jerry had, and finally he said, “It must be love.” And he’d sat down and watched baseball that whole night and said not another word.
“You feed them every night?” Jerry said.
“When we can. Sometimes it’s every other night. My mom gets suspicious and thinks Dad’s out messing around, or I’m sneaking off doing drugs or something.”
“We got up to the street. Jerry snorted at the thought. “ You do drugs? You wouldn’t know which side of your nose to stick the joint up.”
That was true, so I punched him a good one in the arm and he yelped. When we were about halfway to my building, Jerry said, all of the sudden, “What about the survival of the fittest, though? Maybe only the strong ones should live, to make more strong ones…”
I thought about that for a moment. “Well, yeah. Normally. But this isn’t normal. They were here first. Then we built all this around them.” I waved my arms at the city in general. “Maybe there’s nothing wrong with helping them handle it. They’re an endangered species.”
Jerry nodded and wiped his nose again. “Survival with the fittest,” he said.
He was smart. That was one of the reasons I didn’t mind him following me sometimes. Maybe even this time had been a good idea. “Yeah,” I said.
“You gonna feed them tomorrow?”
“I think so. Dad’s still sick.”
“Can I come with you?”
I looked at him. “If you go to the A&P first. I’ll go to the Shop-Rite, and meet you. We’re have twice as much.”
“Great.” He looked down the street at my building. “Race you?”
“Okay.”
“Go!”
After about half a minute he tripped me. I’m used to always having my elbows and knees skinned, but I don’t think Jerry’s real used to having black eyes. He was going to have some explaining to do at school the next day.
As long as it didn’t make him late for feeding time, though, neither of us cared.
About “A Swiss Story”
This is another of those stories you’d now have a hell of a time getting past BS&P if you tried to tell it in the clear.
As regards some details in the text: Anton was a real Swiss bartender, but that wasn’t his real name, and he didn’t work at the Drei Könige. Mike the hotel manager is real too, but his hotel was elsewhere in Switzerland (before he went off to work in high-end hotel and event consulting somewhere in the States). Bellow was real, but he worked at the Hotel zum Storchen in Zurich, not Basel. Peter, of course, is at least as real as half-a-century-plus of busy life and twenty-five years of marriage can make him. The jacket is real, and has its own fandom. And the Vogel Griff is very real indeed, three times each year, usually in January unless Fasnacht is very late. Google for it and you’ll see.
A Swiss Story
January is a peculiar time of year to be in Basel. In the grim grey weather, the locals sometimes seem to wonder why they’re there themselves, let alone why a tourist should come to their city after Christmas, and almost a month before Fasnacht, their hyperenthusiastic version of Mardi Gras. You get odd looks when you speak English there in January, followed by almost sympathetic expressions; the
Fifteen or twenty people got off, and we went up the stairs with them. Jerry wiped his nose again, and sniffed. “Subway people feed them?”
“And my Dad.”
“I thought they only came to virgins.”
So had my Dad. “I dunno,” I said. “Maybe they can’t afford to be so picky anymore.” That was one thing Dad had said. I didn’t tell Jerry the other, what Dad had said the first time one let him touch it—him, a man who empties garbage cans for a living, and comes home smelling like what the city throws away. He’d looked at his hands like Jerry had, and finally he said, “It must be love.” And he’d sat down and watched baseball that whole night and said not another word.
“You feed them every night?” Jerry said.
“When we can. Sometimes it’s every other night. My mom gets suspicious and thinks Dad’s out messing around, or I’m sneaking off doing drugs or something.”
“We got up to the street. Jerry snorted at the thought. “ You do drugs? You wouldn’t know which side of your nose to stick the joint up.”
That was true, so I punched him a good one in the arm and he yelped. When we were about halfway to my building, Jerry said, all of the sudden, “What about the survival of the fittest, though? Maybe only the strong ones should live, to make more strong ones…”
I thought about that for a moment. “Well, yeah. Normally. But this isn’t normal. They were here first. Then we built all this around them.” I waved my arms at the city in general. “Maybe there’s nothing wrong with helping them handle it. They’re an endangered species.”
Jerry nodded and wiped his nose again. “Survival with the fittest,” he said.
He was smart. That was one of the reasons I didn’t mind him following me sometimes. Maybe even this time had been a good idea. “Yeah,” I said.
“You gonna feed them tomorrow?”
“I think so. Dad’s still sick.”
“Can I come with you?”
I looked at him. “If you go to the A&P first. I’ll go to the Shop-Rite, and meet you. We’re have twice as much.”
“Great.” He looked down the street at my building. “Race you?”
“Okay.”
“Go!”
After about half a minute he tripped me. I’m used to always having my elbows and knees skinned, but I don’t think Jerry’s real used to having black eyes. He was going to have some explaining to do at school the next day.
As long as it didn’t make him late for feeding time, though, neither of us cared.
About “A Swiss Story”
This is another of those stories you’d now have a hell of a time getting past BS&P if you tried to tell it in the clear.
As regards some details in the text: Anton was a real Swiss bartender, but that wasn’t his real name, and he didn’t work at the Drei Könige. Mike the hotel manager is real too, but his hotel was elsewhere in Switzerland (before he went off to work in high-end hotel and event consulting somewhere in the States). Bellow was real, but he worked at the Hotel zum Storchen in Zurich, not Basel. Peter, of course, is at least as real as half-a-century-plus of busy life and twenty-five years of marriage can make him. The jacket is real, and has its own fandom. And the Vogel Griff is very real indeed, three times each year, usually in January unless Fasnacht is very late. Google for it and you’ll see.
A Swiss Story
January is a peculiar time of year to be in Basel. In the grim grey weather, the locals sometimes seem to wonder why they’re there themselves, let alone why a tourist should come to their city after Christmas, and almost a month before Fasnacht, their hyperenthusiastic version of Mardi Gras. You get odd looks when you speak English there in January, followed by almost sympathetic expressions; the
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