The Good Column – The Undershirt Man and the Underpants Man

In the Württemberg town of 3,000 inhabitants where I grew up, people always knew what was going on in the village. For example, the son of the local baker: although he officially had a high school diploma, he wore decoratively ripped jeans and a mohawk (known in Germany as a “mohawk”). Or they wondered how long the parents would tolerate Huberbauer’s daughter, who was always heavily made up (“painted on her face”), going for a walk through the village with a different guy every weekend. Or it was rumored that Doctor Weinheber, the community’s doctor, was having a fling with someone who had recently arrived, possibly even a Protestant.

Because the life of the provincial residents was boring and essentially consisted of work (40-hour week, mowing the lawn, washing the car, expanding the hobby room) and duties (volunteer fire brigade, attending church services), they had to, when they saw the television program (Bundesliga soccer, » Funny Musicians”, “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?”) became too boring, saved over time with gossip: the other’s naughty offspring, the other’s inappropriate clothing, that non-conformist behavior of others, the unconventional or illicit sexual life of others.

There was a neighbor, Mr. Haberle, who, every day after work, never did anything other than place his favorite pillow on the window sill in front of his kitchen window, put his “Lord Extra” pack of cigarettes next to it and spend the rest of the day smoking and, leaning on the pillow with his arms folded, watching what was happening on the street and in the windows of the neighboring houses. There wasn’t really much to observe because the shutters on other people’s windows were often closed. And there was nothing to see on the streets other than a bored teenager kicking a ball against the garage door and the improperly parked car of the milk-bearded drifter who was recently holding hands with the little girl next door. It may be a cliché, but it is still the truth: During his extensive studies, Mr. Haberle always wore a sleeveless white undershirt, a so-called wifebeater.

I’m not sure whether, for the sake of a better future, it shouldn’t become the norm in rural regions of Germany for two men to kiss in public or to gently touch each other’s crotch when necessary. Or that an anarchist reading group organizes a “revolutionary May Day demonstration” around the village church, in which various state symbols or religious beliefs are denigrated. And not just to make Mr. Haberle’s end of work more interesting.

In any case, one thing is certain: one would feel sorry for Mr. Haberle because he never took the chance to let his eyes wander around the big city. What wouldn’t there have been for him to see! Crowds of un-German-looking idlers speaking gibberish! Masked rioters throwing objects at law enforcement from occupied houses! Perverted Christopher Street Day parades! Just think: adults who wear nothing underneath except a kind of leather case around their bottoms and two straps stretched over their buttocks so that the gap between them remains free! Sodom and Gomorrah without the police having intervened yet!

The nice thing about Berlin was always the low intensity of persecution. That means: Nobody cares what the other person looks like or how they live. For example, I remember with a certain melancholy the 40-year-old man who I met several times a week for several years at the bus stop where I stood every morning, always at the same time. The man in question had an eccentric style of clothing, but no one among those waiting with me seemed to notice or be bothered by it. He always walked past us around eight in the morning. He had heavy army boots on his feet and the only item of clothing he wore was white men’s underpants (with fly), never anything else, even in autumn and winter. He didn’t greet us, those standing at the stop, and we didn’t greet him: classic Berlin style. Nevertheless, they quickly got used to each other. Every morning you silently suspected: “Aah, it’s almost eight o’clock, then the guy with the underpants and the army boots is coming!” And promptly he trotted around the corner.

He may have felt the same way: “Aah, I’m about to turn the corner here and there’ll be these people standing around at the bus stop unnecessarily wrapped up in textiles who don’t wear weatherproof shoes!” When I think back to this time and the silent morning encounters with the underpants man, the old advertising slogan that West Berlin used to attract tourists in the 80s comes to mind: »Berlin is good.«