be the big smoke

On the underground train above ground the whole carriage overheard two rather stoned young dudes speaking about Art, that is, themselves. As we unzipped the treetops people glanced at them, glanced away, smiled. One dude had a wry American accent and the upper hand. The other dude was Persian and explained at some length that his name is traditional, it means (if I heard right) secret treasure. What do you do, man, you must be an Artist? he asked. Yeah, American wry dude allowed. But like, what kind of Art, what do you Make? Well, mostly drawings and…. tattooing.

Instant rapture. Oh, wow, I should show you this tattoo I want, it’s like, I’ll have to show it to you, it’s so beautiful, man. There’s this guy and he’s smoking. And then there’s this girl. She’s, like, smokeface, like, she IS the SMOKE.

I remember that feeling, I thought: BEING the SMOKE. By the indulgent expressions on other passengers here and there in the cabin I thought that other people might once have experienced this, too. Persian dude said, you could like, do me with this drawing and then I could like, show everybody and make you totally famous.

God, I loved them. Their fatuous fellowship and impulse-buy tattoos. Just type my name into facebook, American dude promised, you will find me. Out in the strangely humid night there was a high round moon barrelled way up into the still-blue sky like cannonshot; people crossing the crowded railway bridge seemed to me ceremonial and slow. A tall princely man with Ethiopian features walked by in state, pushing a wire shopping trolley with five empty bottles in it.

9 years ago in Berlin, I lived this tiny story.