Shadow-Man, Chapter 1

Chapter 1– There’s Always a Girl

The only thing running through my mind was that Frankenstein’s monster was after me. The one from the movies, not the boring one in the book. It was misty and dark and cold, and I had been weaving up and down ancient streets for hours. The only clue that it was still mid-September 1986 was the electric streetlights spaced every fifty feet or so. I hoped I was still in or near Frankfurt. I should have caught a train at some point earlier, but things were a little hazy, and I was fairly lost. I also was fairly tight. Despite my inebriated state, or perhaps due to it, I was convinced that I would never, ever in a million years, allow Jägermeister to pass my lips again—coming or going. Not only was I having a hard time walking in a straight line, but I’d also been swallowing that queasiness that only comes from being overserved and underfed.

You never think you are “that drunk,” but as I stumbled from the safety of one lamppost to the next, I struggled to make sense of the narrative. I do not black out from drinking; I tend to remember every stupid thing I do while under the influence. Over the course of that evening, I remembered watching Donald Duck cartoons at the heavy metal bar with Mick, Jonesy, Pete, and Harrington. I remembered trying to flirt a phone number off of a cute German rocker chick who wanted nothing to do with me. I remembered at least three shots of the aforementioned Jägermeister and a lot of beer. I remembered the bartender told us that the cough-medicine taste wouldn’t bother me so much after the third shot. By then, I was too fucked up to care about much of anything except having a good time and not throwing up. I should have eaten something earlier.

I wasn’t sure whether I had been tossed from the bar or left under my own power. It seemed like I left on my own. If I had been thrown out, I reasoned with myself, the rest of the guys would have been thrown out too. Of our group, I was the least likely to get shit faced without a little help, and that help usually came from Mick. Ah yes, I remember telling Mick I could match him shot for shot, I thought. I should have known better than to challenge Mick in any drinking game. Amateurs should never take on a pro.

I was in an older, unfamiliar neighborhood in what I assumed was still Frankfurt, West Germany. I was painfully aware of two things: I had no clue where my friends were and I had to take a shit. Both were problematic. The order that had come down through my civil engineering unit was that because of terrorist groups, all Air Force personnel were to always have a buddy when going out to take in the nightlife.

The story most often told was about some airman who was separated from his friends, most likely lured by a woman who, with her colleagues, killed the airman and took his identification card. I doubted the story’s veracity, but it certainly planted a warning flag in my brain. Not everyone in West Germany cared for American soldiers. Eggs and angry insults had been thrown at me before, so caution should have been in order.

Staggering down that ancient street, I didn’t worry about hot girls who wanted to kill me in order to steal my BX privileges. Instead, I had visions of an old horror movie in which Frankenstein’s monster stalked me through the streets. Another thought occurred to me: Maybe I was the monster, and villagers with pitchforks and torches were chasing me. The drinks I had drunk and the state of my digestive system imparted a shuffling in my steps. I swore to myself that if I got out of this, I would change my ways. As it was, though, I wasn’t as worried about coming to harm as I was about the prospect of shitting myself. What would Grampa have said if he saw me, and, of course, if he were still alive? Probably he’d be mad that I hadn’t bought him a drink. I guess the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree.

“No one likes a sloppy drunk,” I said, probably too loudly, accessing one of Grampa’s slices of wisdom from my memory banks. “Thanks Grampa!” I stood as straight as I could and lurched to the next lamppost.

I was searching for a main boulevard or anything that looked modern, where I knew I’d find a gas station, store, bar, or somewhere I could crap and maybe grab a taxi. I secretly hoped to stumble upon a Pizza Hut, but there was zero chance of that happening. What I found, instead, was the Blaukeller.

It was across the street from a lamppost I stopped to lean against. A small neon sign over a blue door called to me as if it were one of the seven cities of gold. The key now was to go in, use the facilities, and get out without causing too much distraction. My manners told me I should buy something, and I hoped it would be a product without alcohol.

I wasn’t sure whether the place was even open. It was late, but I was unsure how late. Fortunately, the door opened, and I heard the music before I could ascertain where it came from. The doorway spilled onto a small landing that ended with about a half-dozen stairs leading downward. A light glow filtered up from the room below, softly illuminating some figures that looked like a couple making out on the stairs. While my bodily needs demanded attention, it was the music that led me down. A small combo—guitar, bass, and drums—played the shit out of the blues. The guitarist was in the midst of a blazing solo.

I stumbled to the bottom of the steps as the solo gave way to the chorus, and I realized the singing was in German, not American. It was jarring yet somehow appropriate. Everyone has the blues, the West Germans as much as anyone. I worked with several German civilians in my shop. Many of the men were older and surely remembered World War II. What I wanted to know more than anything when I first was stationed in West Germany was whether those old guys had been boys in the Hitler Youth. I’ve done some dumb things in my life, but I was smart enough to keep that curiosity to myself. As I got to know them, though, I knew nothing was farther from the truth—except for Gerhardt; that old bastard had to be a Nazi. For the most part, I liked the Germans. They were pretty tight most of the time and generally had a very taciturn sense of humor. I guess that happens with a culture that started and was on the losing end of a couple world wars. How could you really be friends with an occupying military?

The younger Germans, the ones my age, didn’t seem to give a crap for societal guilt, but many loudly shared their feelings about what was wrong with Americans, collecting their knowledge from American television shows dubbed for a West German audience. I guess basing your whole concept of Americans on Mr. T and Star Trek could be misleading, but I had to admit to myself that it wasn’t much of a stretch. There was still a smaller portion of Germans who embraced the old Nazi struggle, but I hadn’t encountered any and hoped never to meet them. For the most part, those who didn’t like Americans went out of their way not to interact with us, so most of the Germans I met and drank with liked, or at least tolerated, Americans and maybe had a small fascination with us. In a way, I kind of felt like a laboratory animal, observed by white-coated scientists looking for odd behavior and jotting notes when something interesting occurred. It didn’t bother me; hell, I was just as interested in Germans and was trying to figure them out in the same way.

With the type of music playing in the Blaukeller, I assumed I would be welcomed.

“Darf ich die toilette bunutzen?” I asked the bartender in horribly broken German. I didn’t know the language other than some key phrases, such as asking for a beer or a light for a cigarette. Asking for the location of a bathroom also was important.

“Vas?” The bartender had been pulling a tap, filling three glasses.

“Die toilette?” I asked a bit louder.

The man, who was large and had an impressive moustache to go with his striking blue eyes, stared at me for a second or two, smiled, and said, “Twenty marks.”

“Vas?” Was he out of his mind? I only had forty marks in my pocket, and I hoped to find a taxi to take me home.

“You want to come in here and shit in my toilet, you have to pay.” The bartender spoke in accented English. “After you are done, that twenty will go toward the drinks you will buy.” He grinned, waiting for an answer.

My incredulity gave way to desperation. I would have paid every cent I had to squat over a nasty bar toilet. I dug into my pocket and pulled out two crumpled tens. It looked like I would be taking the train back to the little suburb where I rented an apartment. The bartender grabbed the bills as soon as I set them down. He pointed to a door left of the small stage on which the band was playing. This was far from an ideal situation, but as Grampa would have said, “Desperate people will do desperate things.” I took a deep breath and made my way to the water closet.

I ignored the faces that watched me carefully putting my steps together to make it the thirty paces or so to the door of the toilet. My insides gurgled in anticipation of the coming relief, and I hoped they wouldn’t get ahead of themselves. Around me, people enjoyed their beers and cigarettes, but they were mere shadows. The small, dark room was barely lit by the blue stage lights focused on the band. The drummer was an older guy, but the bass and guitar players were young. All three wore the trappings of musicians—long locks, wispy facial hair, and a waft of rock-star attitude. Everyone in the audience sat at tables and at the bar along the wall in the narrow room. There were doors on both sides of the stage. I focused on the one I’d been directed to, following a line of tall tables crowded with people. I tried my best not to make eye contact with the curious looky-loos, feeling as though they were laughing at me. That feeling was confirmed several minutes and four grunts later when I exited the restroom to thunderous applause, including from the band.

I have never liked being the center of attention, but I had become the star attraction in a very public practical joke. Fortunately, I’m a happy drunk, so I gave a short wave and half a bow. Had I been in the audience, I would have responded in kind, and in fact, did three times in the next hour as other patrons who could no longer resist made the public trip to the restroom. It never hurts to laugh at our humanity.

A beer was set in front of me when I took my seat at the bar.

“A beer is two marks,” the bartender winked. “You only have nine more to go.”

I couldn’t contain a groan. “Oh, no,” I said. “How about I buy you a round, and you bring me water from here on out? You can keep the money.”

The bartender laughed and moved away to pour a beer and mix several odd little drinks with cinnamon sticks and then lit on fire. A group at the end of the bar received the concoctions, removed the cinnamon sticks, extinguished the flames with cardboard beer coasters, replaced the sticks, and finally downed the drinks. I was interested, being familiar with the process that went into drinking tequila shots, but knew better than to compound the drunk I was on. By the looks on the quaffers’ faces, the cocktail packed quite a punch.

Before long, I proved to everyone that I wasn’t a troublemaker. I’m sure it was as obvious on my face as it was on those around me that we were all enjoying the music. I had just become a part of the organism that found life within this room and only at this moment, an intersection in the space-time continuum in which everything that could be right with the world was. I knew then that I wanted to remember that moment in that place, so I did what I always do: I studied everything around me. I checked the mirror behind the bar and saw that everything interesting was behind me. I realized I’d stumbled onto some strange Shangri-la in which the band was hot, the crowd was mellow but fun, and the girls were real and pretty. Everyone in the room was synchronized like stalks of wheat in a 4/4 wind that lasted twelve bars and moved on to the next progression. Everyone’s attention was on the band, and the only sound the crowd made was the occasional holler of appreciation for the group’s skills.

Not long after, the magic dissipated when the band took a break, and a BB King cassette started to play on the PA system. I turned back to the bar and sipped on a cup of tea that tasted like dirty feet. The bartender swore it would sober me up and head off a hangover. The sobering claim seemed to be true. I was feeling less perilous, knowing that the villagers with the pitchforks were not after me. In the mirror, I met the gaze of the woman sitting next to me, and I immediately smiled in surprise. I turned to my right to see that, yes, she was real. I looked back to the mirror.

I’m not sure which of my faces she perceived, the suave American with the square jaw and confidence bordering on arrogance or the astonished hick that I really was. She smiled to almost a laugh, so it must have been the country boy. Her eyes were dark and playful with a touch of pathos. She appeared to be my age, but she seemed wiser than the twenty-two years I suspected she was. She was young and old. Her hair was short and styled somewhat like a punk, but with much more purpose. Along her exposed ear were at least a half-dozen earrings and studs making a trail up the ridge and tipping off with a small hoop at the top. Her skin was pale and smooth, but she looked healthy and vibrant.

I raised my teacup at the girl in the mirror, and she raised her glass in response. She took a cigarette out of her purse and put it to her lips. I immediately turned toward her, pulled my Zippo out of my pocket, and offered her a light. Never in my life had I seen anything like that except in old black-and-white movies, and here I was living it. By her second puff, the fellow next to her—a tall, blond guy—said something in a harsh tone, pulling the cigarette out of her mouth and crushing it. I had been forgotten as she turned to converse with him. I said nothing, but watched the drama in the mirror, sipping on the fresh cup of tea that had appeared in front of me.

I tried to avoid staring, but I found myself sneaking too-long looks in the mirror, wanting to know how things would play out. Was she with this guy? He also looked to be in his twenties. While he didn’t seem to notice me, the girl would glance my way from time to time, encouraging my public peep show. When I finally looked away, she put her hand on my arm. I looked in the mirror and saw she had turned to face me. I did the same, suddenly realizing her face was no more than six inches from mine. She smiled, a sexy little crooked grin. Her sensuality had not diminished, but she gave off a more approachable vibe.

“You are American,” she said, with a light German accent. It wasn’t a question. I nodded, noticing the guy next to her was engaged in conversation with a dark figure on the other side of him.

“Yeah,” I said. “Is it that easy to tell?”

She hesitated, processing what I had said. I recognized the look. She didn’t quite understand my phraseology. I waited before explaining myself. I knew that trying to speak a foreign language can be nerve-racking. Hell, I was in a country full of foreign languages, including my own. I was trying to learn German, but I hadn’t picked it up well enough to carry on a conversation. Although there was a slight delay, her eyes lit up with comprehension.

“I am sorry. My English is not very good,” she said, touching my arm again. “I know the words, but sometimes your …um … lingo is not so easy to understanding. ‘To tell’ is to say something to someone, but also means to … uh … recognize. Correct?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry about that,” I said. “Americans are kind of lazy with our language.”

She laughed. “Germans are just as bad,” she said. “You live here, and you will be able to tell. Is that right?”

“You got it.” I tried to play it cool with this beautiful woman next to me. I struggled to think of something clever to keep our conversation going. She jumped in first.

“You are the third American I have met. There was an old man I met at the flughafen when I was little, and a lieutenant from the Army. I have always wanted to meet more Americans,” she said. She fiddled with her purse, going after a cigarette but hesitating and finally withdrawing her hand. She turned fully to me, giving me all the signs that she was interested—the body language, the small touches, the coy batting of eyelashes. Of course, it could mean anything. I’d been in West Germany long enough to learn that European women had a frustrating way of flirting. Back home in New Mexico, we called it teasing, but here it was mild flirting if even that. In my limited experience, it seemed that when it came to real desires, all Germans were pretty direct, which could knock you off balance if you weren’t expecting it.

“I am Astrid.” She flashed that crooked grin again and put out her hand to invite a handshake. I didn’t hesitate to grab it. “Reyn,” I said. “I’m Reyn Baker.”

Over the next hour or so, Astrid and I talked and laughed and flirted.

The band came back on, announcing something I took to mean that this was their last set for the night. I went on enjoying the music and the atmosphere. I’m not sure how it happened, but eventually Astrid and I were both standing while the band played. She was in front of me, her back to me, half turned so that I could lean down to talk in her ear, and she could look up at me when she returned the favor.

This Astrid was obviously very interested in me. I became aware of the curve of her neck, the smell of her perfume, and when parts of her body came into contact with mine and remained. She even laughed at my little jokes. I was reluctant to make the first move. At home, a guy generally didn’t touch a girl unless she invited him to; those are good manners, my Grampa would have said. But I was playing by European rules now, which are similar to the American set, but with some tricky alterations. Humans can adapt, though, and I was certainly doing my best with Astrid while trying to shove out of my brain that she might be with the surly character at her other side.

I asked her about her name. She said “Astrid” means something like “beautiful goddess,” and she was named for Astrid Lindgren, who wrote the Pippi Longstocking books. The name question is a great way to get just about anyone to engage with you. In it, you are asking a person their origin. If there is one thing a person knows, it is from whence they came. It’s a question that few people think to ask. By asking it, you are saying that you are interested in the person, and everyone likes to be interesting.

“Why didn’t your folks just name you Pippi?” I asked. This brought a funny look to her face.

“You ask many questions,” she said. “This is where I ask you about your name, no?”

I grinned. This girl was pretty sly by turning the tables on me. Even though I knew the game, I caved to human nature. I dove into the story about my name. That’s the thing about having an unusual name, although in the small town where I came from, it couldn’t be too unusual or foreign sounding. However, my name, Reyn Gordon Baker, was just familiar enough for our racist neighbors to think I was named after some obscure Confederate general. The truth is almost worse than that, but I’ve made it work to my advantage. I was named after my grandfather on my father’s side, who, I understand, was a drunk and died of liver failure. Actually, I don’t know if that is true, but when I tell the story of my name, I usually throw it in there.

It’s not easy having a name like Reyn when you live among Christophers, Roberts, Kevins, and the like. I was the only person any of my classmates had ever met named Reyn. When I was little, I hated it because I could not pronounce it loud and strong enough to make myself understood.

“And what is your name?” an adult would ask.

“Reyn,” I would say, but it would come out sounding like a soft “when.”

“What?” they would respond. I felt like I was in an Abbot and Costello routine before I knew what that was. Kids my age were mostly curious about how I got my name, and that’s when I started developing the routine. It changes from time to time, and I add tidbits here and there. It includes a little pathos as they imagine me as a little kid trying to explain to everyone what my name is and how to pronounce and spell it. My first day of school was a nightmare as my kindergarten teacher could not believe that anyone would give a child the name I carried.

By the time I was in high school, though, I liked it. In chemistry class I learned that reyn is actually a unit of measure for dynamic viscosity in liquids. I wasn’t sure I understood that, but I liked that it made my parents sound smarter than they were. The name also set me apart, made me unique. I didn’t learn of another Reyn until I met Mick, who grew up in San Diego and wore Reyn Spooner shirts and had a pair of Vans shoes that he called his Reyns. Again, my name just kept getting cooler.

As I told my name tale, Astrid smiled and laughed. Her dark eyes were brilliant, and she tilted her head just enough to indicate she was interested. I learned she was a college student in Wiesbaden, studying economics. I told her I was impressed, but she kind of shrugged it off. “In Germany, women who study economics become office girls. It is, how you would say, no big deal.”

Our congenial conversation became markedly more animated when she learned I was from New Mexico.

“So, you know Indians?” she asked.

“Well, yeah, I guess so,” I said. “Where I’m from in Corona, there aren’t exactly a lot of Indians around, but the Isleta Pueblo is on the other side of the Manzanos.”

“Ah, yes,” she said. “I have heard of Isleta.” I didn’t believe her until she started telling me things I didn’t know about the Pueblos of New Mexico. I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised me; the Germans I worked with on the base knew more about New Mexico than most of the Americans I worked with, and there were many times I came across a documentary on German television.

“You don’t look like a cowboy to me,” she said. “You aren’t even wearing boots.”

I laughed and admitted that horses scared me and that I owned cowboy boots but found my Converse All-Stars to be more comfortable. She said that she would have to come see my cowboy boots sometime, and leaned in for a kiss, which was beyond what I had hoped for. Maybe I was too drunk or maybe I just longed for a feminine touch. I talked a lot of shit about picking up girls, but my success rate was on the low side.

The kiss was not going to happen, though. Astrid’s brooding companion decided it was time to spread his dark mood elsewhere. Even though he must have noticed that his girlfriend had been all over me, he didn’t seem to care. And why would he? When she introduced me to him as Dieter, he just stared through me with eyes so blue they almost were white. I was intimidated and didn’t bother sticking my hand out to shake his. This guy was that übermensch we’d heard about. Dieter also possessed a confidence that startled me; his unblinking eyes considered me to be a boy of little consequence. His attention to me was brief, thankfully, before he turned to Astrid. Did I detect fear from her?

In short order, he spoke to her in German. I think Dieter said something about how it was time to go and that he found out the information he needed. Or something like that; he seemed pretty urgent about it.

Astrid leaned in and kissed me lightly on the cheek and wiped away imaginary lipstick. She smiled, but it was forced, as if she longed to stay there with me. Well, that was what I told myself later. “Everyone is the hero in their own story,” she said. “Goodbye, Reyn Baker of Corona. You are my new American friend. Please be careful getting home tonight.”

She walked out of the bar shrugging off Dieter’s arm around her shoulder. I watched as they made their way up the stairs and wondered what the hell had just happened. For the life of me, I didn’t think I was ever going to figure out European women.

When I turned back to the bar, the bartender was grinning at me. “It’s last call, friend,” he said.

I was half hoping he would give back at least ten of the marks I had given him. With the twenty in my pocket, I knew it would not have been enough to catch a cab, if I could find one. He didn’t offer and I didn’t ask, so a train was my only option for getting home. The bartender turned out to be a decent fellow who had spent a year as an exchange student in Ohio somewhere. He kindly drew a map on a napkin and explained how to get to the train station, adding that my wait would be two hours. With that, I was back out in the darkness, feeling my monster fears once again.

This time, though, Astrid’s lovely face kept interrupting my self-inflicted nightmare. Mist filled the air, and the chill pricked at the tops of my ears. The rest of my body was warm enough. I wore a nice down-filled jacket I had bought for myself on my last birthday.

After wandering around for what seemed like forever (I think I was looking at the napkin map upside down or sideways or something), I finally found the station. It wasn’t really a “station.” There was no building in which to wait, just a platform with benches and a kiosk to buy tickets. The platform was no more than twenty feet wide, decked with intertwined bricks. A metal cover extended to the right as I came up the stairs to the platform.

We live in a world of vibrant colors, but stepping onto that platform, I noticed that the thick, cool air and the late hour had stripped any hint of brightness from my surroundings. There was only the night’s blackness insignificantly pierced by man-made lights. Fluorescent lights hung from the interior of the covered space, and a single forty-foot light post illuminated the platform to the left. Beyond that, darkness.

Near the shelter, I checked the map and schedule on the kiosk and was happy to see that the next train heading south would take me to the little town near Frankfurt where I lived. After the train took me there, it would be a fifteen-minute walk to my small apartment and warm bed.

I had time to kill and wondered what to do with myself until the train showed up. I considered catching a wink or two on one of the benches under the cover, but when I inspected the seat up close, I could see it was wet with gathering dew, and the sickly fluorescent light above made the idea completely unappealing. Someone might see me and roust me. I walked farther down platform, out of the light, and discovered some hedges separating the construction of the platform and a row of houses nearby. Unsteady as I was, I made it over to the edge of the concrete platform and saw that a four-foot jump would land me in the shadow of a bush. The space didn’t offer much in the way of shelter, but it presented a place where I could close my eyes and not be bothered.

I half expected the space to have been used as a bathroom by numerous people waiting for the train, but when I got down there, I found a cubby lined with leaves. A perfect bed for one inebriated Air Force sergeant waiting for the next train south. As I curled up to fall asleep propped up against the back of the platform, all I could think was that I had a hell of a story to tell my friends. That, and I hoped to hell I would be able to find Blaukeller again.

I was startled awake by an argument and the sickening sound of a hand coming down hard across someone’s face, like the crack of a branch that had been broken.

“Du glaubst nicht, dass ich wusste, was du wolltest? Du bist eine verräterische hündin!” the angry male voice threatened. I didn’t catch all of what the man said, but I knew not to call a woman hündin, or female dog. The insult is the same in every language.

Another slap landed, followed quickly by more foul language. I was still struggling to come awake and couldn’t see the fighting couple. I could hear the woman, for her part, acting defiant. I wasn’t quite sure what to do. My heart was beating fast, and my body was still frozen with inaction. I couldn’t determine whether to run or fight. It seemed like minutes before I gained the courage to peek up over the side of the station platform. Night had broken slightly, and the early dusk showed a tableau that at once seemed surreal and yet too genuine.

The couple was about twenty yards down the platform. The man had the woman’s left arm pinned up along her back and his right arm gripped her around the front. She was telling him something, but I couldn’t make out the words. My indecision vanished in an instant. I climbed back onto the platform, but I lost my footing and fell off. I made another desperate attempt, flinging myself up on the platform like a sea lion beaching itself.

About that same time, a man with a briefcase at the other end of the platform shouted, “Hey, was machst du da?”

The assailant turned his head toward the voice, and I stood and shouted, “Hey!” The woman used the confusion to stomp her heeled foot on the top of his foot, causing him to break his grip. Without looking, she started running toward me.

As she ran, I could clearly see that the woman was Astrid. I focused on her and not her attacker. It didn’t matter, though; the businessman was closing in, and the brute decided it was best to make a break. I wasn’t sure, but I thought it was Dieter. Who else could it have been?

Astrid didn’t quite make it to me before she fell to her side on the bricks. I moved quickly to her; she was holding her hands to her stomach.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God!” I yelled. A copious amount of blood spread out from her body. Through her pain, she focused on me.

“Ah,” she said. “It is my American friend. You will have to do.”

Before I could say anything, she reached up a bloody hand and grabbed me around the neck, pulling my face to hers. She was much stronger than I thought someone in her condition should be, and she pulled me close until her lips touched mine. Before I could react, she shoved her tongue inside my mouth. The shock of the moment kept me from resisting.

She then fell back to the ground. I knew she was dead. A check of her pulse confirmed it. By that time, the businessman had made it to us and was shouting at me in German.

Although I knew that we would have to find the police or someone to help, my only thought was that it might be a long time before I would be able kiss another woman.

Shadow-Man, a new novel by Rory McClannahan, will be available on September 4, 2025.