My Shoesby Norbert Herrmann / 06.12.2010
There is a unique glance in his eyes as he approaches me. “A person like me,” he fumbles for words. “A person like me is always suspect.”
I do not know what to reply. I swallow. I hardly dare to look at him as he faces me.
“For people like you” he continues decidedly. “For people like you it is a reasonable strategy to expect the worst when it comes to dealing with people like me.”
Wasn’t there a slight sign of friendliness when he started to speak? Where has that gone? What made his voice turn hostile? His right hand slowly slides, disappears in the buggy pocket of his trousers. I focus on the ground, head down. No movement.
“You know,” he continues. “I need shoes.”
Two days after that I see him sitting in the middle of the robot people. They are chatting, drinking fermented, self-brewed beer. As I pass by he recognizes me. He smiles as he points at his shoes. My shoes.