“Who’s there?” he calls. I see he already has the gun in his hand.
“It’s just me, you mad dog,” I answer and toss my duffel bag into the darkness of the living room. It hits the cushions of the old sofa with a thump. I hear Jojo call my name. The dogs are still yapping away excitedly. You can hear the clatter of the pen when they jump up against it.
“Shut up!” Arnim’s bellowing turns into a phlegm-coated cough. He grabs the rifle by the barrel, sits back down at the table, and bangs several times on the windowpane with the gunstock. I expect the glass to break any second. But nothing happens except for the thundering frame.
Jojo jumps up. His short, tight curls bounce. We give each other a five and pat each other on the shoulder. I immediately feel my collarbone, which seems to stretch across the whole shoulder. Jojo’s nose is still completely swollen and glows like a grow light. I grab a can of Elephant beer from the cooler and sit down at the kitchen table with the two of them.
“Well? What?” Jojo wants to know. I tell him about the successful trip to Cologne, and how Axel once again didn’t want to hand over the reins, despite our agreement. Jojo greedily took in every little bit. Every now and then he groans and says how he fucking wished he could have been there, etc. Arnim gazes emptily into the darkness lurking outside the yellow-shaded windows. His lungs wheeze strenuously, doing everything they can so he doesn’t suffocate right here and now. I look at him, amused. He doesn’t usually get it anyway. I don’t even want to know what kind of crazy things are shooting through his head again. Jojo squeezes his beer can, producing a rhythmic clacking sound.
“Have some good news.”
“Spit it out,” I say, and have difficulty detaching from the hypnotic up and down of Arnim’s paunch.
“I got the position!” Jojo’s voice did loops from the happiness.
I ask what position he’s talking about: “What?”
“Well, not a position. I mean, because it’s not a paid job. It’s a volunteer position.”
I stare at him, not understanding.
“He’s now a coach with the football here,” Arnim says, takes a sip, and looks away again. Maybe the old dude understands more than I gave him credit for.
“How? What?”
“Yeah. No. So. The coach of the B team had to quit. Stroke. And Gerti’s filling in. Yes, and I have his position now. Coach of the C youth team.”
“Fuck yeah, man,” I say and hold my can out for Jojo to clink. “Cheers.” We knock cans and drain the elephant piss.
Jojo had started a couple years ago. It was back when he was going through a really rough time. After the thing with Joel, which was hell for all of us. But that Jojo’s father would really fuck things up a couple months later, truly no one could have seen that coming. We were already afraid we wouldn’t ever be able to get Jojo out of his deep hole. No one wanted to leave him alone, and we divided up shifts. Then, on some random day, Jojo got up, finally took a shower, and went to the practice field in Luthe. Not a word to anyone. And would you look at that, co-trainer of the under-fifteen U15 development team. That had gotten him on track again. Even to the extent he went back to his old boss at the retirement home and apologized for drinking on the job. And once again, look at that, Jojo had his janitor’s job back.
“I thought to myself, I’ll change a couple things. Regarding the practice program. Do things different than Gerti did,” circling the top of his beer can with his fingertip, “maybe integrate a couple of things we practiced with Joel, back when. I was meaning to ask you. Maybe you have the sketches we made back then. You remember? With the drills on them and all that.”
I nod to myself and sigh. My gaze repeatedly drifts down to the surface of the table.
“It’s been an eternity. Not sure I have them with my stuff anymore.”
“Yeah, not here, but maybe back at your dad’s place.”
“Jojo, hey, seriously…” My mouth tastes like Styrofoam again.
“Yeah, just check the next time you’re there.”
He thanks me and drinks. A stream of beer misses his mouth and flows through his stubble and over his chin. He wipes at it with the sleeve of Joel’s old Hannover 96 warm-up jacket. Only then does he realize what he’d just done.
“Well, shit,” he mumbles and tries to rub the tiny beer spot dry with his bare hand. I kill my can and slam it on the table.
“Well, I’m so fucking tired. Think I’m gonna hit the hay now.”
Jojo downed what was left and ground out his burned-down cigarette, which he’d forgotten in the ashtray.
“I’ll head off then,” he said.
We hugged, patting each other on the back. We don’t actually do hugs, but for some odd reason we’re in sync in the exact same moment, making it an honest hug and no embarrassed spreading of arms and leaning back and forth and end up just shaking hands.
We go to the door. I wanted to turn the porch light on, but nothing happened. I yell over to the kitchen that the damn outside light is already broken again and hold the door open for Jojo. The bell rings and riles up the dogs again. In the kitchen Arnim yells I should shut my trap.
“And congrats again,” I say and hold open the porch door, ’cause it’d bang shut otherwise.
“Come over to practice sometime or something. I haven’t told Ulf and Kai yet. And,” he balls up his fist, “awesome how you guys smashed Cologne.”
Jojo climbed into the Volvo, turned around, and putted down the drive. I raise my hand in parting. Then the car disappears behind the birches and willows arching over the driveway.
I get another beer from the kitchen. Arnim’s chin is resting a couple inches above his paunch and trembling from the snoring. I take the rifle with me, placing it on the sofa on my way upstairs, and grab my duffel bag. The stairs creak like the bones of an old man.
As I walk through the dark hallway, I hear wings beating behind the first door on the left. It sounds dry. Like sandpaper rubbed together. The pungent smell of bird crap is pervasive. I unlock my room. The piece of hard rubber stapled at the bottom of my door scrapes over the old wooden flooring. I have to use my knee just under the lock to push the door shut. Then I turn on the light. Duffel bag to the corner. Open the beer. There’s still a pack of cigs on the table. I stay standing in the middle of the room for a moment. Alternate between drinking and taking a drag. Feel my body. Feels like it’s been wrung out. Has been, actually. I smile to myself, contented, then the pain shoots through my jaw again, and I dim it with more beer. Already half-empty again. Only now do I notice I haven’t eaten anything since this morning. Was too nervous. While standing, I take off my shoes with some effort. Then I undress completely. My clothes make a small pile among many in the room. Need to go to the laundromat again. Fuck it, turning it inside-out works, too. My real phone is still on the power cord attached to the outlet next to the door. I pull it out. It sparks, but it doesn’t catch me. Three messages, five missed calls. All five over the course of the day. All of them from Manuela. Then a MMS from Kai, which makes me laugh. He took a selfie, shirtless and thumbs up. Behind him there’s some bimbo, legs together and bent over on the bedspread, pointing her naked ass toward him. Her head can’t be seen. Behind it I recognize Kai’s bedroom.
“That was fast,” I write, “new record?”
A text from Uncle Axeclass="underline" “Good job. See you at work.” I don’t write back. The third message is from Manuela. Sent a couple hours ago: “Heiko, where are you at?? Please call me back, but not so late. We go to bed around 10. It’s about dad. Finally were able to get a spot in rehab. Hugs and kisses, your big sister. PS. Greetings from Andreas.”