THE OTHER VOICES
UTF started with my stories, memories, fuck-ups and questions.But it was never supposed to be only about me.So this is where other voices get a place by the fire.You don’t have to be a writer. You don’t need a following, a clever angle or a fucking personal brand. You just need something worth telling.A FEW RULESTell the truth as you remember it.
Use your real name, a first name, a nickname or no name at all.
Sex, drugs, grief, stupidity, love, failure, shame, joy and all the other glorious mess are welcome.But there’s one rule that matters more than all the others:There has to be genuine humanity in it.
Show the fuckness. Just don’t add to it.Don’t use another human being merely as a prop to make yourself look bigger. Protect people who need protecting. Change names and details where necessary.Other than that?Pull up a chair. The fire’s on.
Ten Minutes in Hamburg
by Stefan
I was eighteen and doing my civilian service for the German Muscular Dystrophy Association in Hamburg. My daily routine consisted of driving people with muscular dystrophy from A to B. Between trips, there was always some downtime. This story happened during one of those empty drives.
I was driving near the Atlantic Hotel.
Heavy traffic.
Five or six lanes.
Cars everywhere.
And then I noticed her.
She was sitting in a car in front of me.
Her hair pinned up.
A colorful necklace around her neck.
And a smile that immediately caught my attention.
The light turned red.
We stopped almost side by side.
I started gesturing until she noticed me.
She laughed.
I got out of the car and approached her.
To this day, I can't remember exactly what I said to her.
All I remember is that she gave me her phone number.
For the rest of the day, I was electrified.
At the time, I was living in a shared apartment with two friends.
We were eighteen. Our hormones dictated a large part of our lives, and our conversations revolved almost exclusively around women.
So I called my friend Murat.
“Dude, you won’t believe what just happened.”
I told him the whole story.
The woman in the car.
The phone number.
The date.
The anticipation.
After work, I drove home, jumped in the shower and put on my best clothes.
A pair of blue corduroy bell-bottoms.
An ancient T-shirt that belonged to my father.
Across the chest was the VfL Jesteburg logo in lettering that almost looked like runes.
And my red, yellow and green Rasta necklace.
I was perfectly prepared.
We met that same evening.
I picked her up.
And after only a few minutes, I realized that something wasn't right.
I was too restless.
Too direct.
Too focused on making the evening end a certain way.
Our entire date lasted maybe ten minutes.
Then she asked me to drive her home.
So I did.
The drive home was considerably longer than the date.
Samba in Cologne
by Stefan
I was driving through Cologne in my ridiculously over-customized BMW when I saw her.
She was standing alone at a bus stop on the other side of the street.
Later, I found out that she was from Ecuador.
At the time, all I knew was that I wanted to meet her.
I made a U-turn, pulled up at the bus stop, rolled down the window and told her I had a question.
She walked over to the car.
“Can you dance Samba or Salsa? I’d really like to learn, but I don’t have the right dance partner. Would you teach me?”
She smiled.
“Sure.”
I asked for her phone number.
A few days later, we met at my place.
At the time, I was living in an apartment right next to Cologne Zoo.
Four-and-a-half-meter-high ceilings.
Big rooms.
Anyone walking through the door for the first time usually stopped for a moment.
I cooked.
Salmon.
Salad.
Dessert.
We sat on the balcony, ate, talked and drank wine.
You could hear the animals from the zoo. Strange calls echoed between the buildings through the warm evening air.
We talked about her home, about South America, and eventually about dancing.
So we got up.
She showed me the first steps.
Left.
Right.
Forward.
Back.
We laughed.
She corrected my posture.
I tried to follow her movements.
As I did, the distance between us naturally grew smaller.
Her hand was on my shoulder.
My hand was on her hip.
At some point, we kissed.
The evening ended considerably later than I had expected.
That evening turned into several months.
She was confident, sensual and had an unmistakable style. At the time, I found her breast implants incredibly attractive.
The physical attraction between us was enormous from the very beginning.
All in all, we probably danced together for maybe two minutes.
Cash in Cologne
by Stefan
When my civilian service in Hamburg ended, I had a problem.
My roommates and I couldn't agree on what came next.
The apartment lease had already been terminated.
The countdown was running.At the same time, I had a girlfriend in Cologne.
I asked her if she'd be okay with me moving in.
She said yes.
At twenty years old, that was all I needed to hear.I rented a van, loaded everything I owned into it, and drove to Cologne.
It wasn't much.
A couch.
A desk.
A chair.
A small filing cabinet.
A few boxes.
That was it.Steffie lived in Nippes.
An old apartment building.
First floor.
A spare room.
Perfect.I dropped off my stuff and thought: new city, new life, fresh start.
The first few days were quiet.
Then something changed.
Not overnight.
More like a slow leak.
A few comments.
A few irritated reactions.I had no idea what was going on.
Until the morning I woke up and realized something was wrong.
She had already left for work.I walked to the kitchen.
Locked.
I tried the living room.
Locked.
The other doors?
Locked.
The bathroom was still accessible.
And the hallway leading to the apartment door.
In other words: the exit.I'd been in Cologne for three weeks.
I didn't know anyone.
I didn't have a bank account.
I didn't have any money.
Nothing.So I walked into a bank and somehow convinced an employee to give me a 500-mark overdraft.
To this day, I have no idea why she agreed.
But she did.
With those 500 marks, I rented a small moving van.Then I sat down on the doorstep and waited.
I needed someone to help me carry my couch downstairs.
Four people walked right past me.
The fifth one stopped.
"Ten marks."
Deal.Half an hour later, everything I owned was back inside the van.
I drove to the housing agency.
Today, you'd probably open an app.
Back then, you sat across from someone behind a desk and hoped for a small miracle.
The woman behind the counter handed me an address.
Moltkestraße.
That was all I had.
So I drove there.
And waited.4 p.m.
5 p.m.
6 p.m.
7 p.m.
At around 8:30, a guy showed up who looked more or less like the description I'd been given.I told him everything.
New in Cologne.
Thrown out.
No contacts.
No apartment.
My entire life packed into a moving van.
He listened.Then he said:
"No problem. You can move in here."
His situation wasn't much better than mine.
His girlfriend had moved out.
And she'd taken almost everything with her.
The apartment was empty.
Completely empty.That evening, we carried my furniture upstairs.
I returned the van.
And suddenly, I had a home again.
We lived together for three months.
It was summer.
We didn't have a kitchen.
We didn't have a refrigerator.
Just a broken stove.Everything was temporary.
Every morning, I walked to the kiosk and bought fresh milk.
And every evening, he sat there, drinking whiskey and playing Ring of Fire on his guitar.