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Alte Sachen. Autor: Markus Flohr. Keine Kommentare vorhanden Jetzt bewerten. Schreiben Sie den ersten Kommentar zu "Alte Sachen".
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Alte Sachen Markus Flohr 0 Sterne. In den Warenkorb. Download bestellen. Wo samstags immer Sonntag ist Markus Flohr 0 Sterne.
Andere Kunden interessierten sich auch für. Irrungen, Wirrungen Theodor Fontane 0 Sterne. Afterwards, Shoni said he wanted to be frozen like Walt Disney.
And that was that, we never mentioned Walt Disney again. Aba said it was possible. Shoni looked closely at his own ice-cream cone. It was tonight.
I was planning to go after dinner. After Ima made dinner for us, she fell asleep on the sofa. She woke up an hour later, got dressed, and told me she had to leave again.
Watch Shoni, she told me. Bored and restless, I kept thinking of the girl with the fridge. I wanted to go to the party, to see her, but now I was stuck with Shoni.
Boaz arrived, wearing a silk shirt and diamond earring, which would have looked ridiculous on anybody else. He was my best friend for as long as I could remember.
A self-proclaimed prophet who could tell you when a night would be good. Usually, he was right. I admired the ease with which Boaz navigated the alien world of girls.
Whenever we met girls, he kept touching their wrists, their bare shoulders, kissing both their cheeks, hugging them in a way which brought his lips to their ear.
There were no bars or clubs, no parties, not even a movie theater, nothing. Every night, Boaz wore the silk shirt for nothing, parading the empty streets with his slicked back hair, waiting for the day Tsfat would become the new Tel-Aviv, the city that never sleeps.
We went to the abandoned house. The door was half-open. Dirty mattress scattered on the floor, smelling of urine and sweat and sour alcohol. Shards of glass swept to the sides.
Old newspapers yellowed with age, torn at the edges. Guys in skinny jeans and black silk yarmulkes wandered around with beer bottles and cigarettes.
It was a scene Boaz had tapped into, the stray kids, the ex-Penguins. They came from religious homes, sometimes Ultra-Orthodox families, the real black-and-white type, but they had strayed from that path.
They started asking questions, and with the questions they started drinking and smoking. Everyone was looking for a good time, they wanted to rebel, to break loose.
They stared at Shoni in his panda mask, with the recorder dangling from his hand. I pretended everything was normal. The other girl had wide hips and heavy breasts which bounced as she danced to the Mizrachi pop music.
Fridge Girl looked different. She was wearing the same shirt, but it was unbuttoned, revealing her skin and the bulge of a bra.
Her skirt was shorter, above the knee. I guessed that she only wore the conservative outfit at home, but when she went out, at night, she transformed.
She saw us now and pulled her friend along and they came up to Shoni, ignoring us completely. Shoni nodded, acknowledged the fact of their meeting a second time as if it were preordained.
Shoni shook it. They were obviously drunk. She held out her hand, which he took, and led him away as if to look for a nearby bamboo forest tucked away behind a synagogue.
Her friend shrugged and kept dancing. Boaz introduced us. She was feeling pretty comfortable with your panda. Shoni had taken a peach-pit out of his pocket and was explaining a game.
I stood next to them, but they ignored me. She had her back turned and was stroking the peach pit. I thought you all wore long skirts and modest clothes.
She laughed, played with her nose-ring. There was something new and fresh and exciting about her. She hated traditions.
She asked if I liked collecting junk. There were things about being a junk collector which I liked. We worked in a time machine.
We were scavengers, excavators, archeologists, dumpster-divers. Shoni whispered in my ear that he wanted to go home. He was tired.
He was always sabotaging my plans with girls, but not tonight. We left the abandoned house and took the path down to the Old City, through its shuttered shops, pale blue smoke filtered out of balconies and streets windows, laundry hung on the line.
It was desolate, uninhabited, a ghost town. Bat Sheva and Boaz walked in the back, wrapped around each other, stumbling around as if they were drunk.
Shoni pretended he could fly around. He had stolen a long piece of cloth from the abandoned house, a torn piece of a tattered curtain with a floral design and was using it as a superhero cape.
Moriah told me about her family, about her eleven brothers and sisters, about her strict home. She just felt like she was missing something.
She started living a double life. A religious, conservative life at home during the day, a wild, hedonistic life at night. We went to the junkyard.
A stray cat puffed up its tail and hissed at us. The cat slunk away but stayed watching us from behind a rubbish heap of splintered wood, eyes glimmering.
Luckily, the moon shone bright. I remembered the first time Aba took us to the junkyard. It was a playground of rusted dinosaurs, carcasses of cars spilling metallic guts, rusted spinal cords, dust-coated engine hearts.
Everything ended up here, at one point or another. Aba had risen out of a pile of burnt tires, in an armor of tinfoil and aluminum sheets, corroded silver pots dangling from his arms, the word EMET scrawled onto his forehead with charcoal.
He was the Golem, chasing us down, bellowing in a deep voice like an earthquake. He had told us the story so many times, of the statue made of clay, as tall as a building.
To breathe life into it, a scrap of parchment with the word EMET, truth, was stuck to its forehead. To destroy it, the Rabbi erased the first letter of the word, leaving only MET, death.
I imagined Aba on Purim day, on his back in the street like an insect, clutching his heart which had stopped beating, on his forehead the word MET.
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