Vienna's Jemand

Jemand paced back and forth. This afforded him some relief, but still he kept looking over at the portfolio on the kitchen table. He owed the bank money. He also owed on his credit card. His family meant so much. At least that's what he kept telling himself, and with greater frequency as he began pacing faster and faster and faster. The wind chimes over the pantry entrance felt the gentle nudge of a small draft that whistled through the one window that defined the small room holding captive enough canned goods to guide any family of six through a prolonged winter. He then stopped all at once to listen to the soft, subtle melody. He stood thinking. Then he really noticed the space. A perfect Frankfurt kitchen, he thought. Well, at least it was the place to start a journey. How could he resist the whisper of the Vienna train station, something that at one time meant both escape and safety? The blue pastel paper on the north wall was peeling. No problem, he thought, that could only be noticed when somebody looked down and studied the exact point where the wall touched the floor. The other walls, a pristine sky blue, lifted him up, flung him into the clouds. He floated past the restored Hotpoint that cost him more than his first used car. He drifted past the parents, wife, and children. Why do her mother and father want to stay? Then it came.