Frankly … social
They All Make Pretty Speeches

Election campaign in a rainy city: a politician's appearance is expected. What do the people do who – by chance or intentionally – pass by?

It’s raining non-stop. A peculiarly light rain, as though someone were sprinkling the city from above. The drops are so small you can't even see them. People in the pedestrian shopping streets are gazing up at the deep grey clouds to see if another storm is brewing, but there’s nothing to see. They don't bother opening their umbrellas or putting on their hoods, it’s just a little sprinkling. But the rain goes on for hours on end, so they end up getting wet on their way from one shop to another. Little by little, they get wetter and wetter, so when they finally do close their jackets, open their umbrellas and put on their hoods, it’s too late: they’re already sopped.

This may be why so many of them look so glum today. They don't feel comfortable in their wet clothes. Though maybe there’s another reason almost everyone looks so grim and disgruntled: maybe it's the present day and age, the news, politics, the election campaigns or just the day of the week. There’s no way of knowing, all you can see is their glum faces.

A bigshot from Berlin is expected

I’m standing in a wide boulevard under the leaden sky. A stage has been set up here: someone’s going to be giving a speech here in an hour, whether it rains or not. A bigshot from Berlin is expected, someone we can vote for in the Bundestag elections in September. It doesn't matter who it is, that's beside the point. The bigshot isn’t here yet anyway, they’re still getting everything ready. Police cars are patrolling at a crawl, cops pacing back and forth, their thumbs hooked into bulletproof vests on their chests, their faces looking bored to death. Their radios beep and emit unintelligible scraps of conversation, crackling, clicks and pops. Helpers are busy moving crowd control barriers from left to right and then back again, whilst one of them peers at a plan showing what goes where. Someone’s running red and white streamers between the street lamps. Ambulances are guided into reserved parking spots. One driver gets out, leans against the car and has a smoke. Security guards are speaking into their phones and looking sceptically at passers-by. A young man is passing out colourful flyers that say something about the upcoming parliamentary elections. Almost nobody wants one, and the few who do often drop them on the pavement a few steps on, where they get soggy in the puddles and are soon trampled on. But the distributor keeps handing them out to the oblivious crowd streaming by. Some of them stop to reel off a few unfriendly remarks before throwing the flyer on the ground at his feet. A few of them take one, say danke and stick it in a pocket. The flyer guy looks unhappy, but stoically keeps at it.

“One, two, yo man!”

Now there's a guy doing a sound check on stage, saying, “One, two, yo man!” over and over again into the microphone. A bunch of teenagers who happen to be walking past mimic him: “One, two, yo man!” They seem to find that awfully amusing. Three or four of them actually stop to recite the mic tester’s mantra in chorus and laugh their heads off. They didn't expect to have such a blast here. One of them asks the others what it's all about. They explain it to him, about the elections in September. He still doesn't get it. So they explain again, taking pains to speak slowly, and laughing. He seems surprised, asking several times, “Yes, but what’s Merkel going to do then?” His buddies are really in stitches now as they slap him chummily on the shoulder. He still doesn't understand a thing, but he's all right.

A tourist couple emerging from one of the shops also stops to ask what’s going on here. A high schooler explains haltingly in English, “This is because of the German election, because... you know... Merkel no more.” The tourists nod, they probably already know about that.

A Man Holding a Party Flag

There’s a burly bloke leaning against a shop window near the stage. He’s standing there in the rain holding a party flag high up above his head. It’ll still be a while before the action starts, but here is he is already on site, holding up the flag, holding the line and holding himself up straight. He’s even holding his chin up a bit defiantly. Raindrops are now falling on his glasses. Surely he's been doing something or other for this party for umpteen years, surely he's always been behind them. So surely he can stand in the rain with a flag for a couple of hours, he can do that. I catch sight of him again later on, when the bigshot has finally taken the stage and is saying exactly what you’d expect him to say. And there he is, the standard bearer, still standing on the sidelines, stoically holding his flag up high. He doesn't look excited, he isn’t not wildly waving the flag back and forth, he's not beaming with enthusiasm or hollering. He's just holding that flag with conviction. He’s the earnest type. Political parties presumably need people like him.

An elderly couple walk by. The woman stops to read what’s on the posters for the event and then informs her husband, who looks like he couldn’t care less, that someone’s about to give a speech on stage. “So what, they all make pretty speeches,” he says with a dismissive wave of the hand and tugs her onwards.

Another passer-by glances at a different poster and says to his girlfriend, “They can't do it right either. Especially not them!” The woman, perplexed, for she was preoccupied with messaging on her phone, asks what he’s talking about. “Well, politics!” he says, pointing back at the poster. “Oh,” she says disappointedly, and waves it off too, eager to move on. He shakes his head and points at the stage. Then they stand there discussing something and she looks at her watch.

“Membership card?!?”

Next to the stage is a small marquee where the organizers gather. Some people are queueing up in front of it, maybe honorary guests or people who want or ought to be helping out, who have a job to do here. One woman in line seems rather excited and asks her friend, “Got your membership card on you?” Her friend is thunderstruck: “Membership card?!?” The others in line laugh out loud.

Up on stage suddenly someone’s playing acoustic guitar. The piece sounds like summer and sunshine, like the Mediterranean and holidays on the beach, it doesn't fit in here at all. It doesn't fit in with this city, with this rain. He stops playing as the microphone tester steps up next to him and resolutely declaims into the mic, “One, two, yo man!” Then he says, “Turn up left!” But this isn’t a political statement, he’s just talking about the sound. The guitarist exits the stage.

“Down with all of it!”

A woman with several shopping bags showing the names of big fashion chains walks past the stage, then stops short and peruses the posters. She lingers, tilts her head, then rereads the whole thing and gazes back at the stage. And all of a sudden she starts screeching, “Oh my God! Is that asshole here!?” She repeats the question several times, looking round to see if anyone can hear her, if her outrage is reaching anyone. It doesn’t look that way, only two security guards look vaguely in her direction, but don’t do anything. The woman, whose cheeks have suddenly turned red, shouts up to the empty stage, “Down with these policies! Down with all of it! Assholes! You're assholes!” Her voice cracks. Then she continues on her way without looking back, though even from behind she still looks incensed. She's walking fast now, much faster than before her outburst.

I stand beside the still empty stage, listening, jotting down what I hear and see. Rain falls on the pages of my notebook, which are getting soggy too. Someone taps me on the shoulder and asks whether I might have an appointment for an interview? With the Berlin bigshot in a moment? The asker points to the stage behind him with his thumb over his shoulder, as if by way of explanation. I say, “Oh, no, I don't.”

See a Person who’s Bound to be Something Special

A man is standing next to me with two little kids, who are just dying to see the VIP who’s about to appear, the one on the posters. “But just a quick look!” he says, “we’ve really got to get home!” Then he puts one of the kids on his shoulders, takes the other one in his arms and stands there hoping this’ll go fast. But there's still nothing to see on stage. The children stretch their necks and wave already just in case, hoping they’ll soon see a person who’s on posters all over town. A person who’s bound to be something special. The kind of thing you hope for at that age.

But most of the passers-by just keep going. A glance at the posters, at the stage, at the flyer distributor. A shrug of the shoulders, a roll of the eyes, whatever, they walk right by, homewards or on to the next shop. Why should they bother listening to this. Plenty of us, once we grow up, don't expect anything special anymore.

Not even from elections, not even from bigshots on billboards.