Crazy (3 page)

“I guess people should,” says Felix, and pinches his nostrils. “Huh, Troy?”

I sit on the john and squeeze my eyes shut. I’ve got the runs. Maybe it’s the food. But maybe it’s the memory of an exhausting day. No idea. They keep yanking open the doors and throwing toilet paper at me.

“Piss-shit, piss-shit,” comes the mocking call from out there. They’re singing. Five minutes till study time. I’ll never make it. So okay. I expect there’ll be trouble. Nothing I can do about it.

I hate the toilet on Tarts’ Alley, but it’s the only one we’ve got. It’s old and there are no locks. Almost all the tiles have already been broken out. There are puddles of urine on the floor. The Landorf guys don’t care where they piss. When they have time, they also piss at the ceiling. Fun.

Heide Bachmann the French teacher is in charge today. She glances up as I come in. She’s been buried in a book.

“It’s not such a good idea to arrive late for study hall on your first day at school,” she says. Her voice is husky. Her brown hair wobbles and her eyes are angry.

“I know. I’m sorry, but . . .”

“Sit down!” she says and makes a note in the class book. “No, not there! Next to Malen, please.”

I do as ordered and go to Malen. Janosch’s dream girl. She’s sitting over to one side of the classroom, squashed between two single desks. One of them is occupied by Malen’s friend Anna. Her long blond hair is pinned up. Pale face, but a friendly one. She glances up at me and smiles. I smile back. The second desk is free. I sit down. There’s a screeching noise as I push the chair back. Everyone looks. Malen too. She laughs. She’s incredibly beautiful. I understand Janosch. Her skin is bright and soft. Gentle eyes. A smile to die for.

“Can you help me with math?” she asks, crossing one leg over the other. I swallow. “No, unfortunately, I can’t. I wish I could understand it myself.” She nods and turns away. I look at her tits. Well, that was my big chance. Here one minute, gone the next. The usual. I look at my exercise book. Even more joys in store:

Math
Physics
English
French

Everything’s due tomorrow. Not to mention a music report and a discussion on youth and alcohol. As if there weren’t enough to do. I get to work.

Bachmann is on patrol. She looks pissed off. She comes and props herself on my desk. Without meaning to, I think of my last school: 3 Borscht-allee, Luitpold Park, Munich. Himmelstoss High School. I was there for three years. Stressful. Didn’t make it in school or at other things. Three or four good essays, that’s about it. It was everyone for himself. But then, after all the shit that washed over you in the morning, you got to go home. No monitored study hall, no Bachmann; one o’clock and you were out of there. See your mother. Cry. Laugh. Hope. Can’t do that here. Here you have to stay till you’re black in the face. It goes on and on. Malen stands up. She wants to copy down one of Ms. Bachmann’s notes. She comes over to my desk with her math book open. Her shoulder-length blond hair is pulled back and her red blouse lets you see a lot. So does her short skirt. She bends over my shoulder. I feel fantastic. If I were a man, it might take a bit more to impress me, but I’m a kid, and when you’re a kid, someone bending over you is enough. Bachmann signs off on the math exercise. I wish I were that far along. But I have a whole theorem still to do.

“You seem to have settled in,” says Bachmann, chewing a fingernail.

“Yes I have. Quite well so far.” I think of my parents. And Janosch.

“Good,” she says. “It would still be better to be on time next time. Things like that can get unpleasant after a while.”

I’ll bet.

Her backside wobbles back to the big desk up front. I watch her go. Then I concentrate on the theorem.

Chapter 3

At supper there are vanilla croissants. Nice. A lot of kids from tenth, eleventh, and twelfth grade went off on a trip to some art exhibition, so there’s more for us. Fat Felix brought spare bags with him—he wants to grab a couple of croissants and take them upstairs. We hide the bags under the table, and at regular intervals we go for second helpings. Nobody notices. Florian has even hunted up some cocoa from somewhere. Rare event, says Janosch. And to round things off, there’s fruit. We’re in bliss. Even Troy laughs. He takes another croissant. Outside it’s snowing, and hailstones fling themselves noisily against the big window.

“So, guys,” says Janosch. “How about we go visit the girls tonight?” As he says this, he turns toward our tutor, Lukas Landorf, who’s sitting at the table opposite, and grins.

“I’m not going anywhere with you again,” says Fat Felix, biting into his apple.

“Don’t be so thin skinned,” says Janosch. “I didn’t mean it.”

“That’s what Benni said to me too, but it doesn’t help.”

“What d’you mean, Benni said it to you already?” asks Janosch.

“Because Benni’s cool,” says Florian a.k.a. Girl.

“He’s right,” says Janosch. “Benni’s really cool. Huh, guys—is Benni cool or what?”

“Benni’s cool,” they say, and punch my shoulder.

I think about my sister. I miss her. What’s she doing right now? Probably hanging around some lesbian event in the old town. I know these. She’s taken me to a couple of them herself, secretly of course. We climbed out the window and my parents never knew a thing. Just as well, they wouldn’t have understood. So it was us two, and I had such a great time. Usually I was the only guy. And unlike other guys, I got on with the girls. I didn’t stink, didn’t booze, didn’t belch, and I didn’t indulge in “rituals of humiliation designed to degrade women.” I could stay. Sometimes the whole night. Then my sister would bring me home. She was the heroine of the evening. Everyone liked her. Everyone thought she was beautiful. But she’s really small, maybe five feet two inches. She always wears her brown shoulder-length hair in a ponytail. She has an open, unlined face. Expressionless. Almost never cries. Or laughs. Always a blank. Shit, I love her.

“So what about the women?” says Janosch.

“So what about them?” says Florian.

“Well, are we going to go visit or not?” Janosch sounds pissed off.

“So what are we gonna do when we get there?” asks skinny Felix. “I bet it’s gonna be a replay of the mug thing—”

“The mug thing was
crazy,
” Janosch interrupts.

He’s always saying
crazy.
Anything excites him, he says
crazy.
He loves the word. “That thing was crazy?” says Fat Felix in amazement. “So was it crazy to call me a big fat chunk of dog food?”

“No. That wasn’t crazy, that was an accident.” Janosch laughs.

“I’ll land a couple right on your nose, then we’ll talk about a real accident,” says Felix.

“Does that mean you’re not coming with us?”

Glob throws a croissant at him.

Janosch turns around, still laughing. “So what about you guys? Glob’s in.”

There’s a general mumble of
We’re in.
I mumble along with them. That’s what you’re supposed to do.

“Good,” says Janosch. “I’ll take care of the girls— you take care of the beer. Meet Lebert and me in our room at twelve-fifty a.m.”

It must be around ten o’clock. I don’t know exactly. It’s pitch black outside. I sit on the windowsill and look out.

Janosch sits next to me and smokes.

“Can you tell me something, Janosch?” I ask.

“I can tell you lots of things.”

“I’m not interested in lots of things. Just one thing—what’s it like not to be disabled? Not weak? Not empty? What’s it feel like to run your left hand across a table? Does it feel alive?”

Janosch thinks. He runs his left hand across the windowsill.

“Yes, it feels alive.” He swallows and pulls on his cigarette. A red dot glows in the middle of his face.

“And how does that feel?”

“It feels like life,” he says. “No different really from when you run your right hand across it.”

“But it feels great, doesn’t it?”

“Never thought about it. But that’s the thing: life’s something like
never having to think about it.
”

“Never having to think about it?” I’m furious. “Do you really believe nobody ever thinks about what we’re doing?”

“Not down here, for sure,” says Janosch. “If anywhere, up there. And who knows, maybe our good friend Glob’s right about his big bearded guy in the sky.”

“Would you repeat that to him later?”

“Of course not,” says Janosch. We don’t say any more. Outside it starts to snow again.

“I don’t want to be disabled,” I whisper. “Not like this.”

“So how?” Janosch looks over at me questioningly.

“I want to know who I am. Everyone knows that much: a blind man can say he’s blind, a deaf man can say he’s deaf, and a cripple can damn well say he’s a cripple. I can’t. All I can say is I’m partially disabled or partially spastic. What does that sound like? Most people just think I’m a cripple. But the few left over think I’m perfectly normal. And I can tell you that somehow causes even more problems.”

“Don’t shit in your pants,” says Janosch. “As far as I can see you’re not disabled and you’re not normal. Far as I can see, you’re crazy.” He laughs. “Uhhuh—you’re not disabled, you’re crazy.”

“Crazy?”

“Crazy!”

Now we’re both laughing. It feels good, and we can’t stop.

“So which girl do you want to visit?” I ask when we’ve finally calmed down. “Malen, I guess?”

“Of course it’s Malen. You didn’t think I meant Florian? Right. Malen is in a triple room. The rest of you can have the other two.”

Janosch’s eyes cloud over. I can see the love in them. I have to tell him. Now. It’s time. Let’s hope he takes it well. I open my mouth and raise my voice. “I’m afraid I have something to tell you.”

“What?”

“I think I’ve got a thing for Malen.” Suddenly, spontaneously, I start to laugh again. “Are you going to kill me?”

That sets Janosch off again, almost louder than before.

“Crap.”

“Crap?” I say happily. “You mean you don’t mind?”

“No. Of course I mind. But you should know that at least a hundred fifty guys in this Castle have got a thing about Malen, so one more or less doesn’t matter much. Besides, you’re only half grown. Crazy but half grown.” He’s in hysterics now, clutching his stomach and sobbing with laughter, while I’m imitating the whole thing. His eyes start to roll. Finally when he gets over to the windowsill he starts to calm down and then goes to get a couple of cans of beer out of his chest. He drinks one at a single gulp and gives me the other.

“How do I look?” he asks.

“Good.”

He stands there in front of me, my roommate Janosch Schwarze. Sixteen years old. Tenth grade, high school. Supposed to be good at math. Maybe I should get him to coach me. But that’s not what it’s about right now. Besides, we’re not a good match according to Mr. Landorf. Maybe we’ll try it anyway. I think we get on.

What was it Janosch said just now? Got it—life is
never having to think about it.
So we won’t.

Chapter 4

“Say something!”

“What?”

“Anything!”

Janosch is in bed with the cover pulled over his head, but his blue eyes are still visible in there. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed so that he can stick his feet out the way he likes. There’s still time to wait, maybe another twenty minutes. Then they’ll be here. I’m a little wound up. I’m worried about the dark corridors and our footsteps on the wooden floor. We’ve got a long way to go. If Janosch wasn’t kidding, we also have to use the fire escape to get to the girls’ corridor, which is one floor higher. All the doors are locked at this hour. Which means we have to use the window. Everyday exercise for a cripple. Janosch opened the window a bit wider this evening. I wish one of the tutors had shut it. But I bet they haven’t. Janosch is sure about this. He’s almost asleep. I’m supposed to wake him. He said so himself. Twenty minutes before zero hour is when the urge to sleep is strongest. As a man, you have to be able to conquer it, he says, particularly when you’re meeting girls. I can hardly keep my eyes open either. I try to light two cigarettes. Sometimes I can manage it. Janosch sits up. There’s a
Playboy
on his bed. A couple of babes from the pop group Mr. President have stripped off. Not bad. We take a good look.

“D’you want to have children?” I ask Janosch as I size up Danii’s and T’s tits.

“I certainly want to have sex,” says Janosch, “and if I have a child, then it can have sex too. I want to have sex and my child can have sex.” He laughs.

“Janosch, I’m serious.”

“Of course I want a child. Maybe even two.” He draws on his cigarette. “I like children. I want to know what it’s like when your son comes lurching over to you and mumbles,
Pa—I’m not drunk, you
can trust me one hundred percent.
”

“That happen to you?”

“Of course it happened to me. That kind of thing is always happening to me. Maybe that’s why I have such good relations with my parents?” Janosch is laughing all over again. Typical Janosch laugh—an upsurge, a cough, a flicker of the eyelids, a grunt. Except this time it seems a little tired. We bury ourselves in
Playboy.
It used to be we pinned up pictures of superheroes in our rooms. Now what we pin up is super tits. Really we’re still small boys.

I think about my father. A nice guy. He’s already been my father for sixteen years. And I still don’t understand him. He’s some kind of amateur astronomer, at least that’s what he says. He built himself an observatory at his mother’s place out in the country. It’s not large—a little black wooden hut on top of my grandmother’s garage. But it’s comfortable. Some nights when he goes out there he takes me with him. Usually weekends and holidays. That’s when we talk about life. I don’t understand a lot of what he says; he uses big words and technical terms.

But now and again I can see what he’s getting at—for example, when he talks about
his
father. That he’s in a lot of pain sometimes. That he smokes a lot. That the cancer is eating his lung away. And sometimes my father’s just fighting with my mother. I can see what he’s getting at there too, and I understand him. My father is well intentioned toward me, I know, which is reason enough for me to be well intentioned toward him. He likes the Rolling Stones—they’re a rock group from way back. Every time they’re on tour, he takes me. He hopes I’ll like the music. I don’t, but I still have a terrific time. I’m happy for my father, because he’s happy, and I’m happy that we’re being happy together. It’s nice. I think the sky’s meant to clear tonight.

“I wish I was with Victoria from the Spice Girls and we were fucking,” says Janosch, pointing to a photo in
Playboy.
“She has such terrific tits.”

“I’m not familiar with them.”

“Neither’s Fat Felix,” says Janosch, “but that doesn’t stop him from talking about them all the time. So don’t worry about it.”

Just at that moment, the door opens, and a big face peers in. It’s undoubtedly attached to Fat Felix—the blond mop on top is unmistakable. As are the round cheeks. His ample body is stuffed into a pair of too-tight blue Tony the Tiger pajamas, which are trying but failing to contain his beer belly.

“So, you bums, did I miss something?”

“Just Victoria from the Spice Girls,” says Janosch.

“Victoria from the Spice Girls?” Fat Felix is practically panting. “Where?”

“Here!” Janosch picks up
Playboy.
Felix speed-wobbles over, and behind him the room fills up with Florian, Troy, and Skinny Felix. They’re all on tip-toe to avoid anyone hearing them. Nocturnal activities land you in deep shit around here.

“Look at those tits!” Glob is ecstatic and lifts the magazine to catch the light from the lamp on the night table.

“How would you know?” says Janosch. “And besides, she’s out of your league. True, guys? Isn’t she out of his league?”

“True—she’s right out of his league.”

Janosch laughs. “Usually there are two reasons kids hate themselves. Either they’re too fat or they’ve never had sex. Believe me, Felix, I share your pain.”

Glob’s had enough. He takes a running jump onto Janosch’s bed. There’s a scream. Covers and pillows start flying around and it turns into a fight.

Fat Felix doesn’t have a chance. Janosch wipes up the floor with him, but he won’t give up. He uses his legs to try and pin Janosch against the wall, which involves lifting them way up over his chest. It looks hopeless. He kicks out. His face is hidden but his big fat backside isn’t. It’s in full sight, and the pajama pants are in danger of splitting. Doesn’t take long— two more minutes fighting and the elastic waistband gives way. His pants slide down and we’re looking at his naked ass. We all start to laugh. The fighting cocks disengage.

“You could make it as a sumo wrestler,” says Janosch, gathering up his scattered bedding.

“I know, but only when you get a job as a rest-room attendant.” He grins. He’s holding his pajama pants against his hip with the second and third fingers of his right hand. “Can any one of you idiots tell me how I’m going to climb the fire escape with these?” His left hand points to the pajama bottoms.

“You’re a grown-up,” says Janosch loftily. “You can do it. A sumo wrestler could do it twice. Come on, Glob, make an effort!”

“Nobody asked me if I want to grow up. It’s a lot easier not to, huh, guys?”

“Bag it,” says Janosch. “We’re not doing therapy here, we’re talking beer and sex. It’s not about our inner child.”

“I’m tired,” says Florian a.k.a. Girl.

“Who asked you?” says Janosch. “You said you’re in, and you’re in. Did you get the beer?”

“Troy has it,” says Skinny Felix. “He has the biggest pockets. And he doesn’t sing.”

“He doesn’t even talk, so why should he sing?”

“Search me,” says Florian. “Anyhow, he’s got the beer.”

Janosch sighs. “Then we’re all set. You okay, Benni?”

“All set.”

So things start to roll. Another pointless event.

The same six of us. Janosch says these pointless events will single us out. As I look around, I see he’s right. Here we all are—the pointless eventers. Florian a.k.a. Girl, in a rust-colored pajama top and white undershorts. His bare feet patter on the linoleum floor. He’s often made night trips with Janosch to the girls’ corridor. They really like him up there. He’s made some kind of a move on Anna, Malen’s friend. He’s always making moves on people, according to Felix, sometimes three a week. Never has any luck. He’s always the loyal sidekick, never the real lover. He’d be in a total panic if he were. But that doesn’t stop his trying, as per Janosch’s code of pointlessness.

Next to him is Fat Felix. Apparently he doesn’t often go along on trips to the girls’ corridor. Doesn’t find it easy to talk to girls, according to Janosch. His eyes tear up and he talks complete crap—like soccer, for example. Janosch is sure soccer turns girls off. A bit like talking about pesticides. Which is why the others always make sure Felix has a lot to drink. That way, he falls asleep pretty quick, and when he’s asleep, he can’t talk garbage. At least that’s Janosch’s view. Felix has brought along a clothespin to deal with the fire escape. He clamps it onto the front of his pajama pants. As he moves, it moves in rhythm with him. Looks weird. As if he had a mouse in there.

Behind him are Skinny Felix and Troy. The two big question marks. Nobody knows much about them. Supposedly Troy hasn’t even fallen in love with anyone yet. All he wants is quiet. His black spikes of hair are standing up every which way; otherwise he looks like he always does. Long clean-shaven face. No pimples, just a couple on his neck. Pale skin—looks as if it’s never seen the sun. Apparently couldn’t give a shit about nocturnal adventures: it’s just he can’t sleep. So he often goes along but spends most of the time sitting in a corner. Never says a word, and no one’s ever shown a flicker of interest in him. He’s just there. Like the moon or the stars. This is also Skinny Felix’s first time, just like me. And he’s all wound up, just like me. You can see it. His bare legs are trembling. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of patterned undershorts. Nothing on his top half either. Felix is all muscle. His stomach’s a washboard. Must be a come-on for Malen, I think. He’s got a lot more to offer than I do.

Which brings us to the second last in our gang, namely Janosch. He’s left his pajama top behind in the room too. After all, he has to keep up with the others. He’s got nothing on but his wine-red pajama pants. They’re scrunched up a bit. You can see his powerful calf muscles. He’s borrowed a pair of glasses from Charlie, another one of Landorf ’s pupils. He wants to look more intelligent. I can’t tell if he’s succeeding. The glasses are narrow, with rectangular lenses. Black frames. Florian thinks that if it was up to Janosch, we’d be on the girls’ corridor every night. Because he loves having fun. Gets a kick out of it. Besides which he hopes one of these times he’ll finally get to see Malen’s tits. Supposedly she promised him, one night, when he went up there on his own. Fat Felix says it’s all bullshit— nobody promised him that. He can’t see reality anymore because he’s got tits on the brain. You have to work for tits, says Felix, they don’t just fall into your hands. Certainly not when you’re a small boy with bleached hair, a moon face, and jowly cheeks. Impossible. Nonetheless, Janosch is the ringleader. And a big one. He’ll keep the pack together. Kick everyone in the ass if necessary, says Felix. He’s really good at that; he can do it. Beside him, crowded to one side, comes the last person in the group: me. I carefully keep putting one foot in front of the other. I scratch a fingernail along the wall. It’s quite dark. I’m a little afraid. I’ve never done anything like this before—nocturnal activities and stuff like that aren’t my thing. I’d rather be asleep. Janosch says I’m a lard ass. I can sleep all I want when I’m dead. Besides, I’ll see Malen. And if I see Malen, I’ll forget about sleep. He’s probably right. I can visualize her friendly smile. Her hair. Her eyes. Will she be pleased I’m coming? Quite possibly she just wants to sleep. I wouldn’t blame her. I find myself thinking about my own bed. And my parents. Asleep right now. My mother’s bound to be dreaming about me—I’m sure of that. She always does when I’m away. She’s probably wondering if I’m freezing or something. And she’s certainly asking herself if I packed the bedspread, the brown one with white stripes. Probably also if I’ve shut the window, because if not I could catch cold. That’s how my mother is. Always worrying about me. Probably why I’m such a wimp. With a normal kid it would be okay—he could balance things out. With friends. With books. With fooling around. But when you’re disabled, it’s hard. You tend to hide under your mother’s skirts. Just resting. Breathing. Sleeping.

Yes, I’d say I’m a real mama’s boy. Helpless. All I’ve got is my sister, who periodically drags me out into the night. And I’ve got Janosch, who says I shouldn’t shit in my pants. I need them both if I’m going to stand on my own two feet. My mother too. Whom I love. Sounds dumb. But that’s what they call growing up. So they say, anyway.

I keep putting one foot in front of the other. The other five are faster than me, quick and supple. I can’t keep up. I go slowly, dragging along behind. My left foot is good at dragging. I can’t lift it properly. Not strong enough. I’m barefoot, but the dragging still makes a racket. It echoes right along Tarts’ Alley. Janosch turns around, mad. He frowns, then recognizes the problem, and comes back to me.

“I’ll carry you on my back,” he says apologetically. “Too much noise.”

“Too much noise?”

“Yes, Landorf ’ll hear us. I’ll carry you. You’re slower than us anyway.”

Everyone agrees, even Fat Felix.

“Will you carry me, too?” He turns to Janosch.

“You mean, to try out a new form of torture?”

“No. To carry me,” says Felix.

“First thing you need to check is whether you’re still carrying your pants properly,” whispers Janosch.

He points at the clothespin on Felix’s pajama bottoms, then he turns around and gets down on his knees. I’m standing behind him now. I look down at myself and grin. I’m wearing my father’s pitch-black pajamas, which must be at least twenty years old. What it says on them is WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH, THE TOUGH GET GOING—an ancient piece of wisdom from rock ’n’ roll. My father loves it, has for centuries. Probably no accident. My skin’s a little damp, I’m shaking, and there’s a foul taste in my mouth. There was lentil stew for lunch. Or maybe it’s this evening’s vanilla croissants. I must have eaten too many.

I squeeze my legs around Janosch’s hips. Right leg no problem. Left leg big problem. Takes time. Felix and the others give me a hand. Janosch has to keep crouching for a bit. Then he stands up with a bit of a jerk that throws me into the air. I almost fall off, and quickly get my right arm around his neck. We march on. So here we go, the six of us. Night. Tarts’ Alley. A moon. It’s okay on Janosch’s back. Better than having to walk. Things go very quickly, just a bit bumpily. I have to watch out for my head. The ceilings on Landorf ’s corridor are very low—take a jump off the floor and you can touch them. Janosch keeps himself bent way over. He’s sweating a bit. But he’s managing, all things considered. A man has to be able to take it, he says. The two Felixes wink at each other and grin. Florian is next to them, looking as if he could fall asleep along the way. Troy brings up the rear. His face is expressionless. He’s stuffed the cans of beer under his pajama top. Even in this light you can see them quite clearly. They give him fabulous curves, but he seems not to care. I’m tired. My eyeballs keep drooping farther and farther. I’m thinking about bed. And Malen. And my parents. Asleep.