Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

“Heiko,” I introduce myself.

“Pit, but my friends call me Osaka Pit.”

We smoke a while in silence. Then the next cigarettes. At some point I say, “Let’s assume I’m treating you to a beer, straight from the tap. Where would we go?”

He strokes his invisible chin with his fingers, making a rustling sound. He’s pondering as if I’d asked him the meaning of life.

“There’s not a lot around here. We’d probably go to Schüssler’s. It’s right around the corner.”

I stand up, pat down my butt, and say, “Let’s go then.”

Schüssler’s reminds me a lot of Timpen back home. A typically rustic, old-time tavern that, from the outside, during the day and when none of the lights are on, gives the impression it’s closed. Hans isn’t there. Doesn’t show up either while I pay for a couple rounds of draft with Pit, who everyone seems to know, and we chat. Better than running around without a plan.

“Hannover 96, right?” Pit says, and the suds he’s licked off fizz in his beard. “I don’t know much about football. Was more interested in cricket. Seemed more complex. But you don’t get very far with that in German-speaking countries. My dream was to watch a top Indian match. But that probably doesn’t interest you.” He tapped against the bill of his cap and turned toward the barkeeper. “Gisbert, which one of those Hannover 96 players came from here, from Bad Zwischenahn?”

Without having to think very long, Gisbert, whose left eyelid twitches incessantly, answers, “Carsten Linke.”

“What do you know,” I say, astonished, “our defensive rock. What a coincidence! Well, then, at least now I can claim that I was once in Carsten Linke’s hometown.”

Pit nods, satisfied he was able to gratify me with that bit of information, and looks into his glass. Preparing for the next sip. He has yet to ask what brought me to Bad Zwischenahn in the first place, and I don’t really feel like talking about it.

We move from straight beer to a couple rounds of boilermakers, which reminds me of the liters of black beer and vodka mix at the Marksmen’s Fair. We clink the shot glasses. Down them and say, “Ahhh,” as if we were drinking an isotonic beverage after running a marathon. Gisbert flips the light switch on. I glance at the clock. It’s getting close to evening. One more, I say, and order another round.

“Hey, why do they call you Osaka Pit, anyway?”

“Well,” Pit waves me off, chuckling, “old story. I smuggled opium for a couple years. I was around your age. Far East, to make a long story short. Then they nabbed me in Osaka. Was trying to sail to Taipei. I was sentenced to four years in Japan. Then it took me two more to get back to Europe.” He chuckles again, as if he was telling a joke. “Got lucky. If they’d grabbed me somewhere else—like Singapore or Taiwan, for example—I wouldn’t be sitting here today. Even if you’re just courier, they send you into the sunset before you know it. They don’t fool around.”

We empty our glasses. I gradually remember why I’m here in the first place.

“I have to keep moving,” I say and ask where there’s another bar around here.

Pit directs me to the Twüschenkahn, a bar that’s closer to Zwischenahn Lake, the local pond. I pay and get up. There’s still one last generous splash of backwash.

“Pit, if you’re still thirsty, I’ll buy you another.” He waves me off, saying, “Nah, my body’s had enough for today. Your finances have already suffered enough for good old Pit. I thank you much for that.”

“Sure?”

“Absolutely. Otherwise my lady will bitch at me.” He laughs with his mouth open, throwing his head back. I didn’t see a ring on his finger. If that’s supposed be a joke, I don’t get it.

“All right,” I say, and we shake hands good-bye.

“Keep your chin up, boy. You’ll find what you’re looking for.”

I thank him and leave.

As the door falls shut behind me and seals out the clinking of glasses and rush of table talk, the thought crosses my mind that after all maybe I did tell Pit what I was doing here. That I drove here just to look for my father. Pit would nod approvingly, and raise his glass toward the bar in a gesture. Then I’d assemble everything I could say about Hans. Like the first time he took me to the stadium. How everyone looked up to him and shook his hand respectfully and gathered around him. How I was always allowed to help feed the pigeons, and how we kicked the ball around afterward. For Pit, all of that would be true of my father. He didn’t know my father, after all. And it wouldn’t make any difference to Pit. Then we’d raise our glasses one last time. And then there would be, at least in Bad Zwischenahn and only if it lasts for just a couple of drunken nights, someone who’s heard the name Hans Kolbe and raised his glass. But instead of all that, I just turn my back to the wind to light another cig and then try to find my way to the next bar.

I don’t like Twüschenkahn as much as Schüsslers. Large, open windows allow a view of the water. Overall, the bar seems significantly cleaner and more orderly. There appear to be people here who still have to drink their way into advanced age and an advanced stage in life in order to feel comfortable in Schüsslers. Besides, there’s something to eat here. I order the local specialty, a sausage with kale. It tastes good, but the kale leaves an aftertaste of iron in my mouth, making me nauseous. I try to eliminate the taste with another beer and a cup of coffee, combined with a saucer of sprats. I grab the sprats by the heads, hiding their eye sockets with my fingers, and slide them into my mouth, tail and all, and bite down. They taste pleasantly salty.

And then, when it’s almost already ten in the evening, something happens I no longer expected. My father comes through the door. I instantly put down my phone and delete the fourth draft of a message I’d started writing Manuela. He sits down two chairs over without noticing me. Maybe I should be furious. Or relieved. I am neither. The various rounds of beer and boilermakers have packed my head in comfy cushions. I look over. Hans orders his beer. Even from the side, I can see his hollow gaze. He appears to not have shaved in the clinic. The good old stache is coming on. I get up, push my beer one seat over, and sit down.

Without looking to the side, I say: “Hey, Dad. Finally come on in?”

He looks at me. Needs a second. Then he recognizes me after all. His face opens.

“Man, Heiko. What’re you doin’ here?”

He slaps his bare hands on the counter. I explain everything. Why I’m here and not Manuela. Tell him what the people at the clinic had said, that he’d simply run off, and he acts completely surprised. As if he had been unaware you couldn’t just go on a bender when you’ve been sent to rehab precisely because of your drinking. I don’t bother to give him a lecture, just say I’m going to take him back and I’m not going to come back here to catch him again. To my own surprise, this comes out slightly less judgmental than intended. I blamed it on the alcohol.

We pass most of the time just drinking next to one another. Once in a while we exchange a couple sentences. Out of the blue he asks if I’m still in touch with Mom, which I deny. I say I don’t want to talk about it.

“Hmm,” he says and somehow sounds disappointed. Then he looks away again.

“Why do you wanna know?” I ask anyway, and it comes across just as randomly.

“It’s okay,” is all he says, and drinks.

It’s late. Actually, it’s not that late. Just before midnight. But considering I’ve been driving around half the day and spent the other half in bars, it’s already late.

“Come on, finish up. I’ll take you back to the clinic.”