Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

One day I was tired of it all. My father had been on a construction site for a couple days, and Mom was bending over from morning till night in the old folk’s home after retraining as nurse’s aide. Even on weekends. I’d gone through all the cartoon series on all the channels, and everywhere there were talk shows on in which idiots were yelling at each other. I turned off the television, pulled my bike out of the shed, and rode across town to the train station. I’d completely forgotten I was still wearing my pajamas. My plan was the only thing in my head. At least I’d thought to put on my boots. It must have looked pretty retarded the way I rode through town in my pajamas and rubber boots. With a massive grin on my tiny face.

I didn’t know how you got a ticket from the machine, but I hadn’t brought along enough money anyway. And I’ve never gotten an allowance my whole life. So I just got on the next regional train with my bike. People sure must have looked funny at the little twerp riding the train in his pajamas. But no one said anything. I listened to the stops being announced and rubbed my arms. It wouldn’t have been a bad idea to put on a jacket at least, but what boy voluntarily puts on a jacket? When Hannover Central Station was announced, I jumped up and was the first at the door, waiting impatiently for the train to stop and the doors to finally open. I used the elevator to reach the corridor through the station from the platform. I’d never done it before and absolutely wanted to try it. Besides, I told myself, I had my bike along and couldn’t get down the stairs very well. Confused over which side of the station I should exit on, I ran back and forth. City Center or Raschplatz? I wiped my snotty nose with my sleeve and decided on City Center. Simply for the reason that the statue with the tail seemed a bit more familiar than the gray concrete of Raschplatz. I rode slalom through the crowds of shoppers. It must have taken forever, and I always seemed to come out at the Kröpcke clock on that square. But I didn’t let it get me down, and tried out a different route again and again. At some point, I actually did end up on a corner I was familiar with. From there, it wasn’t very far to our old home. I didn’t care when other kids or teenagers laughed at me from time to time as I rode past. I was way too excited to see Kai’s face when I rang his parents’ bell and I’d be suddenly standing there in front of their door, completely relaxed and with my arm resting casually on my handlebars. The thought never occurred to me that there might be no one there. When I finally saw our old building, I kicked it up a notch and skidded to a stop right in front of the main entrance. I rang everyone’s doorbell, and someone buzzed me in without anyone asking who’s there through the intercom. I squeezed into the tight elevator with an old grandma who came in the front door after me. She stank of cat piss and musty fur coats and looked down at my trusty bike in disapproval. She had a bulldog’s face, and I was glad when she got out on the second floor. The elevator stopped on our old floor. The apartment belonging to Kai’s family was closed and I risked a glance at the nameplate next to our old place. It was taped over and the surname Lorkowski was written on the tape in permanent marker. I was pleased the coach from 96’s Cup winners was living at our place, and I imagined he’d made my old room into a trophy room. But surely it wasn’t Michael Lorkowski who was living in our run-down widow bunker. Whatever. That’s the way I pictured it. And then the next door opened. I jumped forward and almost scared Kai’s mother to death when I screamed, “Haha!” and smirked, in my pajama pants covered with mud.

“Heiko,” she said and placed a hand on her chest in surprise.

I casually asked if Kai had time to play. He came out of his room, and when he saw me, joy rose in his face, and he laughed at me at first because of how I looked, and then we laughed together, and over orange juice and Nutella toast in the kitchen, I told him how I’d gotten there, while Kai’s mother was trying vainly to reach someone at my home.

I hardly sleep anymore. After spending the first few nights in my car, I’ve set myself up in the gym and lie down on the middle bench in the locker-room. At least I can take showers there. Still have had no sign of life from Arnim. I thought about going to the police, but years ago he drummed into me that I should never go to the police under any circumstances if anything happened to him, and I respect his wish. After all, Arnim knows exactly what kind of life he leads, and who am I to put myself before his wishes. I’m concerned about the animals. If Arnim doesn’t let me know soon he’s okay, then I won’t have any choice but to go home and take care of the critters. Can’t just let them starve. But at the moment, I have other things to do. The match is coming up, and I want to make a final attempt to at least get Jojo at my side. When I called him, he said we should meet at Midas, but I said he didn’t have to go to the trouble. I’d come over and visit him at home again.

It’s ass-cold. The wind whips around the corner of the Seidel house, but my clothes are still dryer warm. I was in the laundromat earlier and sat in front of the drums in my underwear and wifebeater, waiting for my freshly washed things, which I immediately put on.

I hadn’t been to the Seidels’ for ages but immediately feel transported back in time when Jojo opens the door, we greet each other, and he lets me in. The familiar scent of antique farm-themed wallpaper and decades-old carpeting rises to my nose.

“You missed coffee by a couple minutes,” Jojo says and leads me through the narrow hallway to the kitchen, “but I can still make you one. You want a coffee, Heiko?”

I thank him and decline. His mother is standing at the sink and washing two sets of coffee cup and saucers. She’s wearing an apron in frumpy colors and has her hair pulled up in a matching headscarf. You don’t see that much anymore. Maybe with elderly Turkish women. But the familiar sight of German grandmas with headscarves must have disappeared at some point in the aughts. Or the people who wore the headscarves gradually died off.

“Hello, Mrs. Seidel,” I say and shake her hand.

She gives me a warm, motherly smile. I always used to like that, even if I’d have never admitted it to myself. I didn’t know it from home. But Jojo and Joel’s mother has a presence that makes you want to wrap yourself up in a blanket and sip on a hot chocolate. As stupid as it sounds. She’s aged visibly. The Seidels were by far the oldest of the parents among us boys and even back then seemed more like Jojo and Joel’s grandma and grandpa than their parents really. I take a seat at the table. Look at her infectious smile. Maybe it’s the first time in her life that her appearance fits her character. As hard as I try, I can’t picture Jojo’s mother as a young woman or girl either. Without being asked, she places a plate in front of me with two slices of white bread and a jar of homemade blackberry jam.

“I don’t have anything else to offer you, Heiko. If Jojo had told me in time, I’d have baked something.” She gives him a strict look that isn’t completely serious.

“Mama,” he says, “we’re not twelve anymore.”

“Oh, all righty,” she says in an artificially high-pitched voice, “the grown-up sirs don’t like cake anymore, yeah?”

“That’s fine, Mrs. Seidel. Thank you,” I say and spread the jam on my bread even though I’ve hardly been hungry for days.

To be more precise, since the night I spent crouched in Siegfried’s room while some random guys did God knows what to Arnim.

“What’s the news?” Jojo asks, retrieving a glass from the kitchen cupboard and giving it to his mother, who fills it with Coke and places it in front of me. A well-oiled machine.