My friend named Sam

The encounter

I have this one old friend who I've known since I was a kid. A friend I could always count on for as long as I can remember. At some point she just appeared between colorful building blocks, forgotten homework and my stuffed animals. "Hi, I'm Sam," she said at the time and planted herself clumsily and anything but gracefully next to me. Disgusted, she looked around my old children's room.

"Well, if instead of playing outside with the other kids you're going to hang around in here by yourself, you could at least take care of your fucking cactus. He's just vegetating.” My eyes wandered to my cactus Fred, who actually looked a bit stunted. I liked Sam straight away and we've been inseparable ever since. We escaped together, built tents out of blankets and pillows and painted our future. Back when no one wanted me on the volleyball team at school, Sam was always by my side.

It was through her that I first came into contact with the world of art and literature. In the silence we devoured one book after the other and sank into the colorful world of the television. They drew incessantly, wrote poems about world pain and, of course, about broken hearts. Because we were self-chosen champions. And a pretty good team. At least I thought so. I actually never wanted to be friends with Sam. In the beginning nobody wants to be friends with Sam. She can get pretty pushy. She creeps into every possible gap in my life. And if I'm in the wrong company again, the silence makes them unbearably loud. As if she were saying to me: "See, if you had stayed at home and spared yourself the superficial banter of those snoring noses!"

Because what Sam really hates is boring small talk and insincerity. Every time she rolls her eyes and puts her index finger to her head like a pistol: "Peng!" To be on the safe side, she keeps annoying people at a distance. And that's what I love about her. When friends stood me up, Sam never let me down. Still, sometimes I wanted to get rid of them. And seek contact with others. In conversations with them, I always said what I thought they wanted to hear. Just to avoid ending up with Sam again.

I'm even up Journeys gone. But Sam has followed me around the world, popping up at the most inopportune moments. Moments when I should be happy but wasn't. Because Sam never lies. She just can't. Never learned. That's why I love their company. But sometimes their presence makes my throat tight.

Nobody likes to talk about Sam. If I'm out without her, she punishes me with the loudest silence in the world at the next meeting. Quieter than a desert can ever be. Sometimes I enjoy their presence even though it's not good for me. But eventually her visits became less and less frequent. The more fulfilling I made my everyday life, the less often she showed up. I haven't seen her for a long time. Her favorite season is winter. When she reappears on a cold November day, I realize how old and tired she has become. All the wrinkles around her sad eyes remind me of a map forgotten in a corner somewhere. With all the countries that have never been visited.

"You lost weight Sam." It occurs to me that we haven't eaten together in a long time. Sam isn't particularly talkative, she never was, and yet she usually has more to say than the people who keep opening their mouths but can't articulate anything sensible.
After all these years it occurs to me that I don't even know Sam's full name. Sam is her middle name, I remember that much.
"Just come visit me." she suggests. And I realize that I've never visited her. "Where do you live?" "Oh, sometimes here, sometimes there. You know that. You can just keep an eye out. You'll find me between the lines.” That's so typical of her again. The phone rings and when I turn around, Sam is already gone.

On a cold winter day I decide to look for her. Then I discover them among all the silent faces in the rickety tram. She gets off at one of those stops where you shouldn't go without pepper spray at night. But it is day and a pale November sun hangs lost in the bare branches.
Sam rushes off in a flash. Panting, I try to catch up with her, but she's one step ahead of me again. like my heartbeat Suddenly a red ball rolls in front of my feet. I bend down and pick it up when a pair of large dark eyes catch my eye. A little disheveled girl in a stained pink jacket is about a meter away from me. Probably the most desolate playground in the world squeaks in the background.

"Have you played ball with your friends?" I ask the little girl, who only shakes her head in disappointment. And I understand. The girl points to a building with an outstretched index finger.
"That's where my girlfriend lives," she says. My gaze wanders to a gray prefabricated building. Loud shouting and arguments can be heard from the windows. The smell of old frying fat and onions penetrates through the front door.
The girl has now turned back to the ball and throws it against the wall of the house. All alone. The air is so cold that my breath turns into little clouds. "You really are Sam everywhere." My eyes wander to the doorbell.

The doorbell between the lines, with the name I've put aside for so long: A Sam Keit
So this is where you live too, my dear Sam.
My finger is about to press it, but at the last moment I decide not to ring. Instead, I catch the ball. The little girl looks at me in amazement at first, but immediately starts playing with me. And with every throw, Sam suddenly gets a little smaller. And with every impact there are only lines that are meant to be exactly the same. Sam will probably never disappear completely. But that's okay too. Because no other encounter has ever made me as strong as the one with her.