Gabriel Jeroschewitz, July 2nd, 2025, Dedicated to Robert, Edler von Musil. PG has a few naughty words.
She slides onto the stool next to me, a faint scent of ozone and desperation trailing behind her.
Picture this: I’m sitting in a dimly lit bar, all chipped mahogany and questionable stains. The air’s thick with the ghosts of bad decisions and stale beer. I’m nursing a bourbon, neat – gotta keep the palate clean for what’s coming. Then, she walks in. She’s not just any stranger, but a figure from my past, a friend I haven’t seen in years.
Not an entrance, mind you, more like a goddamn apparition. Short black dress, the kind that screams, “I’m here to collect your soul, and I’m doing it in style.” Red stilettos, six inches of pure, unadulterated fuck you to gravity. And the face… well, the face is surprisingly… human. Beautiful, even if you could ignore the glint in her eyes that says she knows exactly how many grains of sand are left in your hourglass. It’s ironic how someone who looks so put together can be in such an existential crisis.
She slides onto the stool next to me, a faint scent of ozone and desperation trailing behind her. “Whiskey,” she barks at the bartender, not bothering to make eye contact. “And make it snappy, I haven’t got all eternity.”
I take a long swig of my bourbon. “Let me guess,” I say, the words slurring just a tad, “You’re here to tell me I’m… overdue?”
She turns, and that glint in her eye sharpens. “Overdue? Darling, you haven’t even lived yet. You’ve been sleepwalking through existence, mouthing platitudes like a goddamn parrot. Overdue implies you had something to deliver. You’re just… behind.”
Her whiskey arrives, and she downs it in one go. “Look,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “Call me… Mort. Look, I’ve been reading this book, right? This goddamn brick by Musil. The Man Without Qualities. Ever heard of it?”
I nod slowly, trying to keep up with the hairpin turns of this conversation. “A philosopher friend once joked that reading it is like having a long, elegant conversation with a ghost who insists you sit still until the world makes sense.”
Mort snaps her fingers. “Exactly! Bloody brilliant. Except, Musil’s ghost is wearing sensible brogues and a tweed jacket. I figured I could spice things up a bit.” She gestures to her outfit with a flourish. “Gotta keep the clientele entertained, you know? Especially the ones on the existential edge.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So, you’re… Grim Reaper goes Gonzo?”
She laughs, a sharp, brittle sound. “Something like that. See, this Ulrich guy, right? This ‘man without qualities’? He’s got it pegged. The world’s falling apart, empires are crumbling, and everyone’s running around trying to find meaning in… what? Political rallies? Love affairs? Charity bazaars? Pathetic.”
“And you think Musil skewers it all?”
“Skewer? He eviscerates! He takes the piss out of every single pompous, self-important windbag who thinks they’ve got the answers. Diotima, Arnheim, and bloody General Stumm are all just case studies in human delusion! And Ulrich? He’s just standing there, watching it all burn, because he refuses to play along. He’s a goddamn rebel!”
She orders another whiskey. “The thing is,” she continues, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I’m starting to feel it, too. This… this emptiness. I used to think it was just the job. You know, escorting souls to the afterlife, a bit like being a high-end concierge for the dead. But now… now I’m questioning everything. What’s the point? What’s the point of any of it? I’m not just questioning the purpose of my job, but the purpose of life itself.”
I take another sip of my bourbon. “Sounds like an existential crisis, Mort.”
“Crisis? Please! It’s a goddamn meltdown! I’m starting to understand Ulrich’s refusal to commit. To anything! Politics, love, belief – it’s all a bunch of bullshit designed to distract us from the fact that we’re all just hurtling towards oblivion! Musil understands that. He gets it! It’s all about possibility, not conclusion. It’s all about the journey, not the destination.”
She pauses, staring into her whiskey. “And that sister of his – Agathe? Don’t even get me started. That taboo-tinged relationship? That yearning for something real, something beyond the intellectual masturbation of the Viennese elite? It’s heartbreaking! It’s a tragedy, a poignant portrayal of searching for intimacy in a world destined for disintegration.”
“So, you’re finding solace in a book about the disintegration of everything?”
“Solace? No! Recognition! Musil doesn’t give you answers; he gives you better questions. He throws you into a maze of ideas, a labyrinth of doubt. And in each room, you catch a glimpse of something… real. The beauty of uncertainty, the dignity of complexity.”
She sighs, running a hand through her perfectly coiffed hair. “And the unfinished nature of it all… It’s perfect! Life’s unfinished. A constant interruption. Musil gets it!
She looks at me, her eyes suddenly clear and focused. “Reading this book is like walking through a city you thought you knew, only to find unfamiliar doors on every street. It forces you to confront your bullshit, to question your own so-called beliefs. It’s not a book for everyone, I’ll grant you that, but for the ones willing to meet it on its terms, it’s a goddamn companion. A difficult one, sure, but a necessary one! You know, in times when certainty feels dishonest, and simplicity feels like betrayal.”
She finishes her whiskey and stands up, towering over me in ridiculous heels. “Anyway,” she says, a wry smile on her lips. “I’ve got souls to collect. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll suggest they read The Man Without Qualities on their way to the other side. Might give them something to think about.”
She turns to leave, her short black dress swaying with each step. As she reaches the door, she pauses and looks back at me. “Remember,” she says, her voice barely a whisper, “a life examined is rarely tidy, but it can still be luminous, even in its incompleteness. With that, she disappears into the night, leaving me with my bourbon and a lot to think about. I drain my glass, the liquor burning a path down my throat. Maybe she’s right. Perhaps we’re all just sleepwalking. But maybe, just maybe, there’s still time to wake up. Even if the Grim Reaper has to dress like Hunter S. Thompson or Kate Moss to get the message across.
