Milena Moser: gold digger

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Almost no one walks. The hiking trails for which the area is known seem to be accessible only by car. Most of the shops are still closed, the little cafe where I hope to go only serves iced drinks. Two teenagers with matted hair are dragging along the curb on skateboards. The man rolls up his sleeping bag. When I pass him, he gets up.

“Are you looking for something?” He’s probably a little younger than me, but his face is deeply lined with lines and his posture is tense, as if he’s anticipating the next blow and trying to defend himself against it. But his eyes are clear and friendly.

“Double espresso,” I say.

He purses his lips in regret. “Difficult. There’s only Starbucks down the street.” He gives me directions and then shyly asks if I have a cereal bar in my pocket. I don’t. I suddenly remember how many years ago a family therapist advised me to always carry with alone and grab a bite to eat before I “start a fight.” That way I can avoid most of my problems, she said. Helpful or not, the offer is dead. I still don’t have a candy bar with me, but maybe an apple? I empty my bag, but it doesn’t have an apple and I don’t have any cash with me.” The man looks down as if he didn’t expect anything else.

“Just come with me,” I say. “I invite you.”

His name is Jack and he once visited Switzerland as a child. “Mountains,” he says. “I never forgot her.” He unties the blue scarf he wears around his neck and unfolds it: it is adorned with edelweiss flowers. He then points to the snow-covered peak of Mt. Shasta in front of us. But it’s good here too.

When we arrive at Starbucks, we see that the place is closed. But the lane switch works, and so we line up on foot between the square SUVs, which are also moving no faster than us. We order on the intercom, a double espresso, mint tea and a slice of banana bread. I encourage Jack to order as many more as he wants! He shakes his head, “I don’t need any more.” Side by side, as if we were actually sitting in a car, heading towards the front window of the pickup truck. He explains to me that the incessant torrential rains at the beginning of the year churned up the rivers so that gold could suddenly be found again. A friend found a nugget weighing almost eighty grams. Jack is already on his way there—where exactly, he wisely keeps to himself. “I can make a hundred thousand dollars in three months, easily!” We take the order, Jack asks for honey, which is wrapped in plastic bags and glows like liquid gold.

On the way to the motel, I hear the melancholic whistle of an approaching train. A freight train rumbles through the city, an endless chain of rusty containers. I turn around, but I can no longer see Jack, he is on the other side. As the American saying goes, on the wrong side of the road. Or on the right.

Source: Blick