For @rainbofiction, because they asked and this is the only way I know how to explain.
The soft drink shelf stretches on beyond the horizon. Riches you barely dare dream of: Schweppes Ginger Ale, real Coke Zero, that weird new green Coke that you haven’t tried yet and aren’t sure if you should but are sort of morbidly curious about.
Something catches your eye. A small bottle in the far back, hidden between garish yellow tonic water and 80s-call back Pepsi labels. Tottering 90s-3D-font spells out MOI MOI MATE on a khaki background, the fake-glass plastic bottle hugging liquid the color of stale Darjeeling tea.
It’s everything you’ve ever wanted.
You grab the bottle and you make a run for it. When you take your first sip, it’s perfect: the taste of pure organic hipster culture on your tongue, bleeding down your throat like a sweet, orgasmic climax. You sigh contentedly. You finish the bottle.
Then you check the back label.
A week later, you’re trudging along a rainswept pedestrian walkway. On your back, you’ve got your Rucksack full of Pfandflaschen. It’s light but awkward. The two-liter Coke bottle is digging into the small of your back. You should have gone with the one-point-five.
The sliding doors glide apart, and you step into the damp Rewe warmth. An old lady bumps into you and pulls her trolley over your foot. The familiar stink of decaying vegetables and the meat counter in the back hits your nose. But you’re not here for any of this.
You’ve come for the Pfandautomat.
Crammed into the narrow space between the grocery section and the Getränkemarkt, a towering behemoth demands offerings from anyone who dares enter the land of liquids. A queue of anxious worshippers fidget when a man drops to his knees in front of it, wailing. Why won’t you take it? Why are you rejecting my sacrifice? How can I appease the mighty Pfandautomat?
You recognize his mistake. He’s been trying to feed a Mehrwegflasche into the Einwegflascheneingabe. Fool.
You join the line, numb to the suffering of each disciple who approaches the Pfandautomat before you. This isn’t the first time you’re doing this. Or the twentieth.
Eventually, your predecessor stumbles off, her tear-streaked face pasty in the unforgiving Rewe lights. She’s clutching a bag full of Einwegflaschen from Aldi. She brought her worship to the wrong church.
Your heart is in your throat when you step up to the Pfandautomat, your shoulders steeled. You pull your Rucksack off your shoulders, and you plunge headfirst into the ordeal.
Coca Cola, accepted. Schweppes Bitter Lemon, accepted. You nearly forget to switch to the Einwegflascheneingabe for the off-brand ice tea, and your heart skips a beat. No mistakes. Mistakes incur machine jamming. Any mistake could be your last.
Finally, all you’re left with is the small, fake-glass plastic bottle with the garish hipster label. You turn it in your hands, breath caught in your throat. Einweg or Mehrweg? The plastic is sturdy, presumably unsuited for the brutal crushing jaws of the Einwegflascheneingabe. But you don’t know. You can never know.
Was it worth it? a part of your brain posits. Those twenty seconds of unusual soft drink enjoyment. Was it worth all of this?
You take a risk. You shove the bottle into the Pfandautomat.
STOP. The display flashes red. Your life flashes before your eyes. STOP. MARKE NICHT ERKANNT.
“But I bought it here!” Your lament joins the echo of the many that came before you. You can feel the pressing inevitability of failure settle on your shoulders. “I bought it here, IT’S NOT MY FAULT!”
Through the pain, you feel a tap on your shoulder. An old lady with an IKEA bag full of water bottles and years of Pfandflaschennumbness in her eyes. “San Sie fertig?”
Dumbfounded, you nod. You take the small, fake-glass plastic bottle and put it back into your Rucksack. You cross miles of dirty tile until the sliding door opens and expels you into the everlasting grey drizzle of winter.
You’re numb to the cold, numb to the rain seeping under your collar. All you can feel is the single Pfandflasche rolling around in the bottom of your Rucksack. You forgot to get your Pfand from the till. You’re a failure. Your life is meaningless.
All you wanted was Pfand zurück.
tangentwithtanner
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