Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

“Hold still,” I whisper, “please hold still.”

I’m shaking. This isn’t working. Then I remember how detectives on the crime show always hold their pistols, and I support the gun under the grip with my free hand. I squint my left eye and aim again. I try to breathe calmly and bring the notch and bead into line under the tiger’s head. Then I finally pull the trigger. You always have the image or know from the movies that something crazy happens then. But no way. It just bangs. The bullet enters the head of the tiger. The gun’s kick makes my arm flip back. And the tiger sags into the water. At first I think that I didn’t hit it properly, and I’m already cursing myself, but when the slight waves subside, the body of the dead tiger is also still. I collapse to the ground in relief and my knee sinks in the moist earth. My breathing is loud and hoarse. I wait till all the raindrops have slid from my face. I need a second. Just a second. Then I pull the cover over and go back in the house. The rain has taken a break, and you can only hear the dripping of the gutter. I put the warm pistol on the kitchen table as I go past, maneuver around the trash in the living room, and climb the stairs. My legs work as if on automatic. Don’t need my brain any more to make them move. I turn the handle to Siegfried’s room and open the door. Pale light falls through the window missing curtains. As usual, old Siegfried is sitting on the back of the chair. He’s made himself small. Well, as small as possible for an oversized vulture. The wings are folded flat against his body. Handfuls of his feathers are standing up on end. His breast is plucked bare. There’s a tattered pile of feathers lying on the chair in front of him. I walk to the window. Don’t make the effort to encourage him or me. I turn the handle on the window. Old, rotten wood creaks in the window frame. I rip it wide open. Fresh, cool air streams inside. Siegfried shakes his feathers and they fly around as though from a torn down pillow and slowly float to the ground. I hope he’s not too overwhelmed. He’s had to breathe the stale, dusty air in this room for years.

I step back from the window to give him some space, and say, “That’s it, old boy. You’re free. We want to see if you can still fly, right?“

Nothing happens. He moves his talons in one place, as if his feet are cold.

“Hey!” I call out and bang against the wall with my closed hand, “Wake up! You can finally get out of here.”

The stupid fucking bird remains motionless. Just hides his head deeper behind his wing.

“Now fly away already, you old shit! Get lost before I get other ideas!” My voice gives way, with only the crumbs of words in my mouth.

He doesn’t make a move. Doesn’t even look outside.

“As you wish,” I say. “Then make sure you take care of yourself!”

And I kick the door open, banging it against the wall. I pause one last time in the doorway. Then his eyes flash over the feathers and draw me in. His one good eye. Like with Kai. My lips quiver, and I have to clamp my mouth so it stops.

“Take it easy, old boy,” I say, and close the door.

It was so hot I ran around in underwear a couple sizes too large that my skinny legs poked out of like toothpicks from a piece of cheese. I ate my coiled sausage, even though it was still real hot. I rested my feet on the arms of Manuela’s chair and sometimes I slipped a little farther down on the chair and held my feet against her nose and yelled, “Finger or toe? Finger or toe?” and then Mom or Grandma scolded me, saying I should leave my sister alone, because she got all whiny and waved her hands wildly and squeaked, “Gross!” And my grandpa laughed and his belly shook, and he turned the sausage and the meat on the grill. Sometimes my father would join him and douse the BBQ with his beer, and Grandpa would chase him off and say, “That’s enough, man! You’re drowning it.”

And my uncle had his knee on Sabine’s knee. The girls were far from being born, and Manuela and I were the only kids in the family. When we were still something like a real family. Mam, Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, Uncle, and Aunt. Just like it’s supposed to be. As far as I can remember, this was the last time it’d been that way. And Uncle Axel coughed into his big ham of a fist and said, “Father, think about it, we have to talk about it again,” and Grandpa brushed him off and said, “Yeah, yeah. That’s the way it is for now. Everything in good time. We’re not six feet under yet.” Manuela unloaded the fat she’d surgically removed from her meat onto my paper plate, and I literally gulped it down and gnawed on the gristle. I like that it tasted like meat but could be chewed like gum, and Grandpa laughed and said, “Well, take a good look at that boy. He eats everything. That tickles me,” and I was happy and asked for more.

Then the BBQ was over, and the coals faded, and my grandpa wanted Dad to hand him his beer so he could put it out, but Dad didn’t want to give up his beer and Uncle Axel groaned and soaked the coals with his own. Grandma came out of the kitchen with a tray. There were six little glasses on the tray and just as many long-necked bottles, and all of the adults could choose what kind of shot they wanted to drink. Most took Grandma’s home-distilled schnapps, which she saved for days like these. They made toasts, and Grandpa smiled and said he’d come right over, and I kicked the ball into the garden and said I’d start warming up.

I kicked the ball back and forth and tried to juggle it with my knees, but I never got more than three before it dropped to the ground, out of range for my short legs. I yelled for my grandpa, saying I was getting bored and asking when could we finally play again, and then he would comment, but there’s no answer. So I stuck my ball between my arm and body and snuck up to the patio from behind the coop. I think I wanted to kick the ball over the grown-ups. But I’d certainly get into trouble with Grandma. Especially if something got broken. I crouched behind the coop and scanned the situation. Uncle Axel and my father were standing at the edge of the patio. My father with a bottle in hand. Both of them wearing wifebeaters, and Uncle Axel’s skin glowed in the sun like the charcoal on the grill earlier. They were snarling at each other. Uncle Axel’s voice rolled over the lawn like thunder: “I’m the eldest. Just get in line behind me, Hans!”

And my father answered, but much more quietly than my uncle. This fit the size difference, because Dad was a whole head smaller than his big brother. Behind them, the women were silently carrying the dishes back into the kitchen. Manuela popped out of the patio door, but Mom grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back inside. Uncle Axel and Dad started getting up in each other’s faces and yelling, and Dad said stuff like, “Oh yeah, you think so?” and “That’s sure what I think!” Grandma and Grandpa sat on the bench like spectators and watched their sons give each other hell. I slowly crept out from behind the coop, and Grandma must have seen me and she made a waving motion for me to go away, but I just stood there. Let her try to come and shoo me off. I was much more agile than her. And then Uncle Axel and Dad got even louder and tossed words at each other that I wasn’t allowed to say or didn’t even know, or knew and used though I didn’t exactly know what they meant, and got in trouble for. But they didn’t get in trouble. And then they started to push each other. I think Dad was the one who started it, and then Uncle Axel’s face got as long as a fiddle and he pushed back. I thought my father would fly backward onto the grill, but he managed to catch himself. He threw his beer in the grass and ran at Uncle Axel and shoved his chest with both hands. He didn’t even budge. But his face got even redder, as if it was about to explode, and then he pulled back. My father didn’t see it coming. And bam! Uncle Axel smacked him one. The punch had such force that my father fell down and held his face.