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Yes, we have made an explanatory video
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for the short story "Back Exit," which
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we have linked here. But here, it is
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simply about having the story read to
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you so that you can listen to it while
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on the go. In any case, this much
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should be clear from the start. It is
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about a cleaner in the train station
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restrooms and a rather arrogant person
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who thinks he is something better, only
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to realize in a special way at the end
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that no matter how high you climb,
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there are situations where you realize
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in another area, which is parallel,
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that something is just not okay, and
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suddenly you are much smaller than you
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thought before. To be fair, we must say
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that we are not professional narrators,
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but we know our own stories, of course,
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and want to present them accordingly
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now. Anders Freistein, "Back Exit." She
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was young, she was smart, and she had a
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diploma that said "very good." German
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studies, major. The diploma lay in a
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drawer. She herself stood in the
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restrooms of the central station,
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white-tiled, well-ventilated, and
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collected 50 cents. Nice, you might say
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, but where is the catch? Patience,
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there always is one. Actually, she
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liked the work. The woman with the
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walker who came every Tuesday and
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thanked her for the soap as if it were
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a gift. The schoolgirls who gossiped
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about their teachers in front of the
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mirror and had no idea that someone was
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taking notes, because she was. In her
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smock pocket was a notebook, and
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between two customers, many a sentence
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that life had given her ended up there.
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This Wednesday, she carried out the
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bags from the morning. At the glass
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door, she bumped into him. Suit,
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rolling suitcase, phone to his ear. He
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took a step back as if he had bumped
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into something contagious, wiped his
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sleeve, which she hadn't even touched,
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and said, without lowering the phone, "
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Is there no back exit for people like
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you?" Then he was gone. She stood there
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for a moment, the bags in her hand, and
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felt the blood rushing to her face. Aha
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, the reader thinks, there it is, the
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catch. In the afternoon, something
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occurred to her. The evening before,
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she had leafed through an old reader
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that someone had left in the waiting
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hall and had come across a little story
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by Heimito von Doderer. "The Doom." A
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young restroom attendant, a nice young
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man, a question about her profession. "
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That won't do," he said, and left. She
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had laughed back then; today, she did
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not laugh. And then her studies came to
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mind. Schiller, third semester. Where
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worldly laws end, the court of the
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stage begins. For this man, there was
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no law, but perhaps a stage. And it
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presented itself in the evening at her
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laptop. The first draft was written
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quickly and was mean. She described his
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face, his suitcase, even the color of
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his tie. Then she read it through and
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deleted it. She did not know the man.
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She didn't want anything from him. It
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wasn't about him. It was about that
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look that some cast down on others, as
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if they were just in the way. So she
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wrote about that look. She invented a
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man without a name, but with the same
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behavior. Except there is a sequel.
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When he comes into his beautiful
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apartment in the evening, no music, no
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light, no girlfriend, just a note on
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the kitchen table: what you said to me
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this morning when you left is not okay
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with me. I have withdrawn what I
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consider appropriate for the two years
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I spent with you. After all, the
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account is in my name too. Luckily, I
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learned from you how to take care of
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myself. Nothing more. No poison, no
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malice. A man measured by his own
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standards. She put the story online, as
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a single line for all those who should
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take the back exit once in a while,
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with thanks to Doderer. Then she went
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to sleep. In the morning, she had 3000
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comments. A waitress wrote, a geriatric
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nurse, a package courier, a man who
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cleaned offices at night. Almost
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everyone wrote the same thing, me too.
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By the evening, there were more. What
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came after that can be told briefly. A
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publisher got in touch, then a
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broadcaster, then a school that invited
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her to a reading. The certificate came
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out of the drawer. At the reading, a
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student asked what I actually do for a
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living. I write, she said. And after a
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small pause, without any apology, and
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on Tuesdays I clean at the main train
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station. Yes, we hope the story came
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across well here. Here, too, it applies
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that we will archive everything on this
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page. We would be pleased if you
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enjoyed the story and if it also gave
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you the courage to think of something
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yourself, so that you don't respond
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with submission or by snapping back,
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but can simply resolve something for
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yourself with creativity. We wish you
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every success with that.
