2025-07-12, 11:39 AM
Confused Thoughts to later Hour
A faint rumble sounds from afar. The day has been hot, and a thunderstorm is approaching.
I love that sound.
When the echo of thunder makes its seemingly endless way into the darkness of the night and nothing, absolutely nothing, can stop it.
Maybe I should create my own personal sound charts; thunder would definitely be right up there with me.
For a brief moment, the lighter I use to light a cigarette illuminates my room. It's five in the morning, and I'm sitting on my bed, letting my thoughts wander. A collage of memories from my last vacation, Fabian's birthday party that ended a few hours ago, my recently started internship at the local savings bank, and many other colorful, seemingly incongruous images and fragments of emotions swirl through my still-alcoholic head.
The rest of the town is sleeping the sleep of the just. Am I the only one who's unjust? Am I the only one who, instead of sleeping, is having completely exhausted thoughts at this hour?
Apparently I'm the only one.
I fall backward onto my bed, pressing the headphones tightly over my ears with my hands. Air's "All I Need" once again evokes a wistful feeling within me. A feeling that tries to rip apart the confines of the knight's armor I feel I'm stuck in. Why is it all so shitty? Okay. I can't really complain. It's not like I'm riding through the barren tundra of life like a lone rider.
I have my friends at school, my parents only want the best for me, and with Maria, Fabian's sister, I have unmistakable proof that I'm definitely noticed by women. And yet, I keep feeling like an alien, abandoned on this planet to observe the late-adolescent world of Klein Amelinghausen and sadly forgotten. Life swirls around me, and instead of letting myself be swept along like the others, I stand here alone in the eye of the storm, afraid that my whole life might rush past me if I continue like this.
Is it just me?
Apparently, this is just me. Apparently, I'm the only one.
They all safely traverse their little lives, through our little world, like comets in the vastness of space, about which I recently saw a report on television. Shouldn't they necessarily collide with each other? Or is it more of a mutual approach and then repulsion, in order to then have the energy to continue their flight? If I'm honest, I don't know anyone I could get momentum from in this little town.
except Fabian.
Shit!
What nonsense am I even thinking here?
Can alcohol actually make you crazy? I always thought only LSD-using hippies jumped off skyscrapers while completely psyched, believing gravity could suddenly no longer affect them.
My CD player dutifully follows the repeat function, and during the brief pause, I open my eyes and notice that the storm has come closer. The curtain in front of my wide-open window moves, letting the glow of the streetlight in front of our house into my room for a brief moment. In the brief seconds that the fluttering curtain allows me to glimpse outside, I watch a swarm of mosquitoes dancing in the lamplight as if at a techno party. The air is humid, and I take off my T-shirt. The lyrics of "All I Need" ring out again, expressing so many of my feelings in so few words.
All I need is a little time
To get behind this sun and cast my weight
All I need's a »peace« of this mind
Then I can celebrate
All in all there's something to give
All in all there's something to do
All in all there's something to live
With you...
Air »All I Need (1998)
The video for this number flashes before my eyes. How I wish I were as relaxed as the skaters in this clip. How I wish I were as cool, admired and respected by everyone. Maybe I should get myself some clothes like that in the next few days. Instead, I'm sitting here in this wilderness and...
Zack!
My room is bright as day. What a flash.
The thunder follows immediately and suddenly I am sitting in the dark.
The music has stopped, the street lamp, the only source of light, has gone out, and as the last echo of the thunder has slowly faded away, all I hear is
the monotonous patter of rain, which has now joined the thunderstorm.
A nice combination, I notice. The slowly rolling echo of thunder harmonizes perfectly with the arrhythmic patter of rain.
A bursting bedroom door interrupts the harmony, and my seven-year-old sister Inga storms in, howling, and jumps onto my bed. Trembling, she snuggles up to me, and I stroke her hair soothingly. A muffled "Lenny, I'm scared!" emerges from my pillow. I have to smile. When I was that little, I was always scared, too. Even when I was older. Unfortunately, my parents kicked me out of their bedroom at times like these. "Lennart, don't be such a girl!" I hear them say. No wonder little Inga prefers coming to me rather than my parents. The sniffling gradually subsides and gives way to regular breathing. I fall asleep, too, thinking that I actually envy her because, at her age, the world is still a good place.
»All I need is a little time...«
Confused awakening to earlier Hour
What a lavish party! The guests are roaring Westernhagen's "Freiheit" (Freedom) and are apparently absolutely certain of it. Armed with a bottle of Becks, I'm sitting at the side, watching the deafening spectacle, when suddenly Fabian, the birthday boy, sits down next to me and grins.
“Awesome party, right?” he yells in my ear.
"Not bad," I shout back, but my expression leaves no doubt about the indifference of my answer.
"What's wrong?" Fabian's grin has disappeared.
"Nothing! Everything's fine," I reply, putting on a pained grin to disguise myself.
"I think I need to cheer you up a bit."
"Dude, he's crazy!" I think to myself when suddenly a hand starts fiddling with my waistband. Panicked, I try to defend myself, but suddenly I can't move anymore. I open my mouth and try to scream at him, but no sound comes out. What's happening? I'm getting scared. My heart is racing, beads of sweat are dripping from my hair and landing on my lips. Since when does sweat taste sweet? And what will people think? But they don't seem to notice Fabian's explicit hand movements at all.
"Silly!"
A guest I don't know tries to toast me and spills half his beer on the host, who is kneeling in front of me. The stranger notices his mishap, but not what's going on. After further, completely fruitless attempts to free myself, I collapse in confusion and begin to enjoy what Fabian is doing to me.
“That’s the limit!” I hear my father shout.
I open my eyes wide.
The music stops, and I suddenly find myself lying in bed. My alarm clock flashes midnight, and I feel my right arm go numb because my little sister is lying on it and also wakes up.
"Don't you have your own bed? Come on! Let's go! Breakfast is ready. We want to be at Grandma's by eleven. And you, my dear son, we'll talk soon."
My senses aren't quite there yet, and my arm is tingling like it's stuck in an anthill. What's going on here?
The fatherly sergeant begins to retreat, dragging my defenseless sister by the arm out of the room.
Are everyone here completely crazy? I sit up and rub my eyes. I hope I'll be out of here soon. I'll be eighteen next year. Then they can all have me. "It's the same drama every Sunday," I mumble as I collapse back onto my pillow and pull the covers over my ears.
"Lennart. Come on, get up. Your father doesn't tolerate tardiness, you know that."
My mother practically whispers so my father can't hear. He doesn't like it when my mother contradicts him or doesn't behave the way he thinks is right.
I peek out from under my covers and see my mother leaving the room. She didn't sound particularly cheerful, but at least she spoke to me in a pleasant tone. What a bright spot on what was, once again, a traditionally crappy Sunday morning.
I abruptly throw the covers aside and jump out of bed. The bulge in my shorts suddenly reminds me of the confused dream I was just torn from. As I sneak into the bathroom, I try to reconstruct the dream, but all I see are fragments. As the lukewarm water of the shower massages my tense neck, my brain finally starts working again. Still, I can't seem to make any connection between the individual scenes of my dream. The party at which my dream took place was definitely the one at Fabian's yesterday. But what the hell was he doing with my cock? When it suddenly becomes erect, the pleasant feeling of the shower stream mixes with the now returning feeling I felt at the end of the dream. And again, it is my father who tears me out of my feelings.
"Zack zack! Your mother still needs to put on her makeup. Get ready."
Shocked and caught, I reflexively let go of my cock. Luckily, no one can see through our shower stall, otherwise I would have fainted from shame.
I rinse the last traces of soap from my body and step out of the shower. Dripping, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and silently stare at my reflection. I actually think I'm quite cute. Maria seems to be right. For a brief moment, the final sequence of my dream flashes back to me as I finally grab my towel and dry myself off.
Minutes later, I'm sitting next to my sister at the breakfast table, wordlessly cramming a piece of jam and toast into my mouth, my gaze fixed on the kitschy, flowery plate in front of me. My parents are bustling around us, already preparing everything for our departure. The image of the eye of the hurricane comes to mind again. I even sit through the usual discussion about how I'm supposed to be getting home at three in the morning without comment.
Heartfelt Welcome at "Wish You a Son"!
When we set off, it's only just after ten, but the temperatures are already heralding a sweltering late summer day ahead. The journey is peaceful. Even Inga stops complaining after a few minutes; a word from my father is enough, as always. The only one-sided communication consists of my father feeling he has to play tour guide and point out the sights (and lack thereof) of our homeland. Unlike him, though, I know the area more than just from driving past. After all, I've lived here in this wilderness for almost 18 years, while he spent his childhood in Silesia, which certainly wasn't any more exciting, apart from the turmoil of the war.
I'm trying to distract myself from the sonorous roar our car makes by reading "The Sorrows of Young Werther" for my German class. It's an unpleasant noise that certainly wouldn't have a chance on my sound charts. Even as a small child, I couldn't sleep during car rides, something many people can relate to from their own childhoods.
My grandmother lives 50 km away in a no less small village. When we arrived, she greeted us on the street. Despite her 84 years and the fact that my grandfather passed away almost 20 years ago, she is extremely spry and insists on still living in her own house. My uncle lives there with his family, but I always have the feeling that he only lives there so that he can grab the entire house and the sizable wooded property immediately after my dear grandmother's passing. I'm glad he and his family are away.
Sometimes I think my grandmother just adopted my father. People couldn't be more different. However, she always emphasizes that my father takes after my grandfather, who died shortly before I was born, so unfortunately I've never been able to check that. So my grandmother is the only person in our family, apart from my little sister Inga, who hugs us as a greeting. While I always enjoy it and don't mind her almost smothering me, my parents are much more reserved. I can't remember my father or mother ever hugging or kissing me. Am I also just adopted?
After the festive lunch of roast pork with Kliessla (Silesian potato dumplings), and a brilliant dessert, I sit contentedly in the garden under the large cherry tree and unwind. My sister is romping through the garden, and my father, as always, is nagging her not to make so much noise. Business as usual. As my sister suddenly dashes to the garden gate, I see my Aunt Gisela and Uncle Herbert entering the garden. Here, too, a very reserved greeting and a rather sparse smile from everyone present. My goodness, am I at a funeral?
A little later, we're sitting together in the garden with coffee and cake, exchanging the usual trivialities: Aunt Hedwig's new hip replacement, my other grandfather's incontinence (what a topic to bring up at dinner, and they're always accusing me of bad behavior...), and the fantastic final report card from my cousin Ralph, Gisela and Herbert's son, who is the same age as me.
"Our Ralph is such a gifted student. He actually brought home a 1.3 average," my aunt says with her fake grin that always makes me think her dentures are about to fall out.
"Oh, we can't complain about our Lennart either. He's got a one in front of the decimal point, right, Lenny?" my mother replies, giving me an expectant look with raised eyebrows.
“You do what you can,” I mumble into my nonexistent beard.
I can't stand this game. At every family gathering, we're compared. It's disgusting. And I have to play this game every time, even though my GPA this year is easily three times Ralph's. What a fake. I get up and go to the bathroom. There, I chat with my reflection for a while, debating whether I'm finally going to expose my mother today. When I return to the coffee party, my second favorite topic is on the agenda.
"Ralph couldn't come with us today because his girlfriend Anne wants to introduce him to her parents. They're such a cute couple. Wait, I even have a picture of them."
"To him his..." What German. Oh my God, the picture really is such a falsely idyllic shot taken by a family photographer. He's standing, she's sitting, he smartly dressed in a tie and collar, and his sweetheart in a floral summer dress.
Was the cream on the strawberry base bad or is the picture the trigger for my sudden nausea?
"Do you already have a steady girlfriend, Lennart?" and again that first-class grin with the second-class third teeth.
My mother's absolute highlight: "They're practically lining up for him. Right, Lenny? We just enrolled him in dance school. I'm so excited for the prom. Can your Ralph actually dance?"
"Our Ralph takes after his father. He's even completed the advanced course, where he met his Anne. Oh, I find that really romantic. I'm sure Lenny will find his future wife there, too."
If my mother knew that after the second dance lesson I was fed up with this shit and haven't been going since.
Aaargh! I have to get out of here.
"Lenny, you look so pale around the nose..."
"...and how thin you are. Tell me, Irmgard, don't you cook properly for your son?"
"Gisela, I think you're probably living it up. Of course, I cook for my family properly. Unlike you, I don't eat ready meals during the week."
"You're a housewife through and through. Everyone in our family has to do their bit to help me make a career."
Oh, my father seems to be chiming in. "Irmgard doesn't have to work. I bring home enough money."
"Children, don't you want to give your 84-year-old mother a quiet Sunday afternoon? Shame on you and take Lennart and Inga as an example. And now eat. I don't have anything left over," he said, serving me another piece of the delicious strawberry base.
When we get home in the evening, I quickly flee to my room. I even skip dinner, citing too much cake at Grandma's. So now I'm lying on my bed, headphones on, quietly singing along to the familiar lines:
»All I need is a little time...
The Practicum at GZSZ
Bsssssst... Pock... Bsssssst... Pock... Bsssssst... Pock...
Bsssssst... Pock... Bsssssst... Pock...
Bsssssst... Pock...
Monday morning.
I am gently awakened by a bumblebee that has wandered into my room and keeps colliding with the window pane.
Bsssssst... Pock...
I throw back the covers, sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, and watch with blurry eyes the bumblebee outside and the bright blue sky beyond the window. When my brain wakes up, I get up and release the poor creature into the wild. A good deed every day. I should have been a Boy Scout.
Fuck!
What time is it, anyway? Why didn't my alarm clock wake me up? It just blinks an innocent 0:00 at me. I'm such a stubborn idiot. After the power outage, I didn't reset the time. I rush headlong down the stairs to the kitchen, where my mother is sitting at the kitchen table in her dressing gown, reading the newspaper.
"Not so loud, Lenny. Your father is still asleep. And anyway, did you fall out of bed? I thought you didn't have to get up until seven. It's only half past six."
"My alarm is still set to midnight after the power outage the night before last. I thought I overslept."
"Do you think your mother lets you oversleep?" she smiles at me in a very maternal way. A very rare moment. Maybe I should get into the habit of always getting up before my father from now on.
A weight has been lifted from my heart, and the rumbling sound beneath my heart isn't the result of the weight hitting me, but rather a damned empty stomach. So I hop in the shower.
When the door of the Marklohe district savings bank branch opens for me at 8:30 sharp, I enter, just like last week, a completely foreign world. My career-discovery internship, a required assignment in the twelfth grade of the Nienburg all-day high school I attend, could certainly have led me to more unpleasant places, because I'm definitely not killing myself here. Robert, my neighbor at school, told Fabian at his party that he's been forced to lug files around all day at a law firm because they're moving. I'm actually quite lucky.
And yet, this isn't my world. This internship has already fulfilled its purpose: I know I'm definitely not going to become a savings bank clerk. No matter how many times my parents try to steer me in that direction, it's not for me. Nor is being an insurance clerk. Those are both professions that require such a hardened mind that you'd be happy to sell your grandmother. I could never do that.
Like the slimy Mr. Lehmann, the deputy branch manager. Deputy is fine; the branch only has three employees and one trainee. The main thing is to have an impressive title on your business card. Just like my father. He actually reports to just another employee in the hardware department of a home improvement store, and yet he calls himself a department manager. I can't believe it.
So here I am, smartly dressed in dark jeans, a tie, and a collar, standing behind the savings bank counter, sorting bank statements. The tone here is amazingly friendly and courteous. Not just with customers, but also among colleagues. Everyone even addresses me formally, which I was incredibly proud of on my first day. Unfortunately, my pride in using formal language and my joy at the politeness quickly faded once I realized the calculating coolness and distance with which people interact with one another here. The deputy is competing with his colleague for promotion to branch manager, as the latter is about to retire.
I only found out on Friday how they were snitching on each other to the branch manager behind each other's backs, when Lehmann actually sabotaged his colleague Mischkowski's account for the computer terminal, and she, in turn, got a dressing down from the boss as to why she hadn't been processing her orders.
Alternatively, Ms. Mischkowski is courting the branch manager so much that sometimes I think I'm not at a savings bank but on the German soap opera GZSZ. They put on a nice front on the outside, but behind the scenes they behave like bastards. I hate this double standard. Whenever the boss comes by, Mischkowski always sticks out her tits like she has a bad back. And when the boss deliberately overlooks her again, I have to pay the price. Then her oversized breasts are swung in my direction, and a promising wink is probably supposed to signal something to me. This morning I escaped to the bathroom.
Are all adults actually so devious?
Foul at the Mini golf
As a reward for completing my internship and to kick off the weekend, I had to spend yesterday at a boring, large discotheque in Nienburg with abysmally terrible chart music. For once, the numerous Jägermeisters I drank didn't give me a headache when I got up, and so now I have a beautiful late summer Sunday ahead of me, on which I'm on a mini-golf course with a few classmates and friends. I don't even know who came up with the idea of mini-golf, because I don't think I'm cut out for it. I hate sports in general, and sports that require skill in particular. My school grades aren't great on average anyway, but my sports grades always represent the ignominious end of my grade scale. Let's just delete the word "sport" and replace it with "game"; that sounds much more relaxing.
In addition to my best friends Fabian, Robert, and Sandra (called Sunny and together with Robert), Bernd (our class bully), his girlfriend Annika, and Thorsten (called Tweety, Bernd's underling) are also there. And of course, Maria can't be left out either.
"...and I thought my eyes were going to pop out. There were 32 moving boxes full of files. And now I was supposed to carry them into the house across the street," Robert says of his internship.
"That couldn't have happened to me."
Of course, something like that never happens to Bernd.
"Manuel from 12c also did an internship with us, so the hierarchy was already clear on the first day. He did the dirty work, and I put my feet up. That's how it should be, folks."
Typical Bernd.
Bernd is truly disgusting. I don't even know who invited him. No matter what anyone says, he always has and can do more: bigger, faster, further. And this smarmy attitude is reflected in every detail of his personality. Gold chains, Lacoste polo shirts with turned-up collars, the most expensive sneakers, and a shark-like grin that would rival even JR's. Next week he'll get his driver's license. Then the drama really starts. Well, what can I say, we're back on topic:
"...150 hp, I tell you. Lower, wider, harder. And I'll hang a VW badge on the tow hook so those shitty GTI drivers know right away where the frog's curls are."
"Really? Great. Will you give me a ride?"
That could only have come from Tweety, Bernd's personified doormat. The two always remind me of bad Hollywood comedies where a dimwitted crook has an even dimwitted lackey who keeps saying, "Yeah, boss, OK, boss, all right, boss, I'll do it, boss."
"No way, that's my territory. Besides, what does it look like when Bernd cruises around with a guy in an open Astra convertible? As if he doesn't have a girlfriend."
Which brings us to Annika, Bernd's girlfriend. She doesn't go to our school because she's training to be a bakery saleswoman. Another awesome title. Dumb as a cowpat, but breasts like Mrs. Mischkowski's from my old savings bank branch.
And "sharp as a dripping gravel truck," as Bernd always says. Of course, only when she's not around, because in her presence he's as tame as a stuffed animal. Then he always calls her "bunny" or "little snail." I always find it absolutely astonishing how men behave when they're talking to a woman, especially their woman. Bernd, for example, always looks at the display of his ringing cell phone before answering, so he can identify the caller. If it's a man, he answers as usual, ultra-cool and with his decidedly deep, masculine voice. But if it's Annika, his voice shoots up by at least three octaves, and you wouldn't believe that the supposedly coolest guy of the entire year is on the phone.
"Come on, do it! It's your turn!"
And so disaster struck. I naturally finished last. When the call comes for the second half of the race, I get out and make myself comfortable at the side of the track with a cool iced tea. Sunny, too, has lost interest and sits down next to me.
"Hey Lenny, isn't today your day, huh?"
"Fuck it."
A faint rumble sounds from afar. The day has been hot, and a thunderstorm is approaching.
I love that sound.
When the echo of thunder makes its seemingly endless way into the darkness of the night and nothing, absolutely nothing, can stop it.
Maybe I should create my own personal sound charts; thunder would definitely be right up there with me.
For a brief moment, the lighter I use to light a cigarette illuminates my room. It's five in the morning, and I'm sitting on my bed, letting my thoughts wander. A collage of memories from my last vacation, Fabian's birthday party that ended a few hours ago, my recently started internship at the local savings bank, and many other colorful, seemingly incongruous images and fragments of emotions swirl through my still-alcoholic head.
The rest of the town is sleeping the sleep of the just. Am I the only one who's unjust? Am I the only one who, instead of sleeping, is having completely exhausted thoughts at this hour?
Apparently I'm the only one.
I fall backward onto my bed, pressing the headphones tightly over my ears with my hands. Air's "All I Need" once again evokes a wistful feeling within me. A feeling that tries to rip apart the confines of the knight's armor I feel I'm stuck in. Why is it all so shitty? Okay. I can't really complain. It's not like I'm riding through the barren tundra of life like a lone rider.
I have my friends at school, my parents only want the best for me, and with Maria, Fabian's sister, I have unmistakable proof that I'm definitely noticed by women. And yet, I keep feeling like an alien, abandoned on this planet to observe the late-adolescent world of Klein Amelinghausen and sadly forgotten. Life swirls around me, and instead of letting myself be swept along like the others, I stand here alone in the eye of the storm, afraid that my whole life might rush past me if I continue like this.
Is it just me?
Apparently, this is just me. Apparently, I'm the only one.
They all safely traverse their little lives, through our little world, like comets in the vastness of space, about which I recently saw a report on television. Shouldn't they necessarily collide with each other? Or is it more of a mutual approach and then repulsion, in order to then have the energy to continue their flight? If I'm honest, I don't know anyone I could get momentum from in this little town.
except Fabian.
Shit!
What nonsense am I even thinking here?
Can alcohol actually make you crazy? I always thought only LSD-using hippies jumped off skyscrapers while completely psyched, believing gravity could suddenly no longer affect them.
My CD player dutifully follows the repeat function, and during the brief pause, I open my eyes and notice that the storm has come closer. The curtain in front of my wide-open window moves, letting the glow of the streetlight in front of our house into my room for a brief moment. In the brief seconds that the fluttering curtain allows me to glimpse outside, I watch a swarm of mosquitoes dancing in the lamplight as if at a techno party. The air is humid, and I take off my T-shirt. The lyrics of "All I Need" ring out again, expressing so many of my feelings in so few words.
All I need is a little time
To get behind this sun and cast my weight
All I need's a »peace« of this mind
Then I can celebrate
All in all there's something to give
All in all there's something to do
All in all there's something to live
With you...
Air »All I Need (1998)
The video for this number flashes before my eyes. How I wish I were as relaxed as the skaters in this clip. How I wish I were as cool, admired and respected by everyone. Maybe I should get myself some clothes like that in the next few days. Instead, I'm sitting here in this wilderness and...
Zack!
My room is bright as day. What a flash.
The thunder follows immediately and suddenly I am sitting in the dark.
The music has stopped, the street lamp, the only source of light, has gone out, and as the last echo of the thunder has slowly faded away, all I hear is
the monotonous patter of rain, which has now joined the thunderstorm.
A nice combination, I notice. The slowly rolling echo of thunder harmonizes perfectly with the arrhythmic patter of rain.
A bursting bedroom door interrupts the harmony, and my seven-year-old sister Inga storms in, howling, and jumps onto my bed. Trembling, she snuggles up to me, and I stroke her hair soothingly. A muffled "Lenny, I'm scared!" emerges from my pillow. I have to smile. When I was that little, I was always scared, too. Even when I was older. Unfortunately, my parents kicked me out of their bedroom at times like these. "Lennart, don't be such a girl!" I hear them say. No wonder little Inga prefers coming to me rather than my parents. The sniffling gradually subsides and gives way to regular breathing. I fall asleep, too, thinking that I actually envy her because, at her age, the world is still a good place.
»All I need is a little time...«
Confused awakening to earlier Hour
What a lavish party! The guests are roaring Westernhagen's "Freiheit" (Freedom) and are apparently absolutely certain of it. Armed with a bottle of Becks, I'm sitting at the side, watching the deafening spectacle, when suddenly Fabian, the birthday boy, sits down next to me and grins.
“Awesome party, right?” he yells in my ear.
"Not bad," I shout back, but my expression leaves no doubt about the indifference of my answer.
"What's wrong?" Fabian's grin has disappeared.
"Nothing! Everything's fine," I reply, putting on a pained grin to disguise myself.
"I think I need to cheer you up a bit."
"Dude, he's crazy!" I think to myself when suddenly a hand starts fiddling with my waistband. Panicked, I try to defend myself, but suddenly I can't move anymore. I open my mouth and try to scream at him, but no sound comes out. What's happening? I'm getting scared. My heart is racing, beads of sweat are dripping from my hair and landing on my lips. Since when does sweat taste sweet? And what will people think? But they don't seem to notice Fabian's explicit hand movements at all.
"Silly!"
A guest I don't know tries to toast me and spills half his beer on the host, who is kneeling in front of me. The stranger notices his mishap, but not what's going on. After further, completely fruitless attempts to free myself, I collapse in confusion and begin to enjoy what Fabian is doing to me.
“That’s the limit!” I hear my father shout.
I open my eyes wide.
The music stops, and I suddenly find myself lying in bed. My alarm clock flashes midnight, and I feel my right arm go numb because my little sister is lying on it and also wakes up.
"Don't you have your own bed? Come on! Let's go! Breakfast is ready. We want to be at Grandma's by eleven. And you, my dear son, we'll talk soon."
My senses aren't quite there yet, and my arm is tingling like it's stuck in an anthill. What's going on here?
The fatherly sergeant begins to retreat, dragging my defenseless sister by the arm out of the room.
Are everyone here completely crazy? I sit up and rub my eyes. I hope I'll be out of here soon. I'll be eighteen next year. Then they can all have me. "It's the same drama every Sunday," I mumble as I collapse back onto my pillow and pull the covers over my ears.
"Lennart. Come on, get up. Your father doesn't tolerate tardiness, you know that."
My mother practically whispers so my father can't hear. He doesn't like it when my mother contradicts him or doesn't behave the way he thinks is right.
I peek out from under my covers and see my mother leaving the room. She didn't sound particularly cheerful, but at least she spoke to me in a pleasant tone. What a bright spot on what was, once again, a traditionally crappy Sunday morning.
I abruptly throw the covers aside and jump out of bed. The bulge in my shorts suddenly reminds me of the confused dream I was just torn from. As I sneak into the bathroom, I try to reconstruct the dream, but all I see are fragments. As the lukewarm water of the shower massages my tense neck, my brain finally starts working again. Still, I can't seem to make any connection between the individual scenes of my dream. The party at which my dream took place was definitely the one at Fabian's yesterday. But what the hell was he doing with my cock? When it suddenly becomes erect, the pleasant feeling of the shower stream mixes with the now returning feeling I felt at the end of the dream. And again, it is my father who tears me out of my feelings.
"Zack zack! Your mother still needs to put on her makeup. Get ready."
Shocked and caught, I reflexively let go of my cock. Luckily, no one can see through our shower stall, otherwise I would have fainted from shame.
I rinse the last traces of soap from my body and step out of the shower. Dripping, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and silently stare at my reflection. I actually think I'm quite cute. Maria seems to be right. For a brief moment, the final sequence of my dream flashes back to me as I finally grab my towel and dry myself off.
Minutes later, I'm sitting next to my sister at the breakfast table, wordlessly cramming a piece of jam and toast into my mouth, my gaze fixed on the kitschy, flowery plate in front of me. My parents are bustling around us, already preparing everything for our departure. The image of the eye of the hurricane comes to mind again. I even sit through the usual discussion about how I'm supposed to be getting home at three in the morning without comment.
Heartfelt Welcome at "Wish You a Son"!
When we set off, it's only just after ten, but the temperatures are already heralding a sweltering late summer day ahead. The journey is peaceful. Even Inga stops complaining after a few minutes; a word from my father is enough, as always. The only one-sided communication consists of my father feeling he has to play tour guide and point out the sights (and lack thereof) of our homeland. Unlike him, though, I know the area more than just from driving past. After all, I've lived here in this wilderness for almost 18 years, while he spent his childhood in Silesia, which certainly wasn't any more exciting, apart from the turmoil of the war.
I'm trying to distract myself from the sonorous roar our car makes by reading "The Sorrows of Young Werther" for my German class. It's an unpleasant noise that certainly wouldn't have a chance on my sound charts. Even as a small child, I couldn't sleep during car rides, something many people can relate to from their own childhoods.
My grandmother lives 50 km away in a no less small village. When we arrived, she greeted us on the street. Despite her 84 years and the fact that my grandfather passed away almost 20 years ago, she is extremely spry and insists on still living in her own house. My uncle lives there with his family, but I always have the feeling that he only lives there so that he can grab the entire house and the sizable wooded property immediately after my dear grandmother's passing. I'm glad he and his family are away.
Sometimes I think my grandmother just adopted my father. People couldn't be more different. However, she always emphasizes that my father takes after my grandfather, who died shortly before I was born, so unfortunately I've never been able to check that. So my grandmother is the only person in our family, apart from my little sister Inga, who hugs us as a greeting. While I always enjoy it and don't mind her almost smothering me, my parents are much more reserved. I can't remember my father or mother ever hugging or kissing me. Am I also just adopted?
After the festive lunch of roast pork with Kliessla (Silesian potato dumplings), and a brilliant dessert, I sit contentedly in the garden under the large cherry tree and unwind. My sister is romping through the garden, and my father, as always, is nagging her not to make so much noise. Business as usual. As my sister suddenly dashes to the garden gate, I see my Aunt Gisela and Uncle Herbert entering the garden. Here, too, a very reserved greeting and a rather sparse smile from everyone present. My goodness, am I at a funeral?
A little later, we're sitting together in the garden with coffee and cake, exchanging the usual trivialities: Aunt Hedwig's new hip replacement, my other grandfather's incontinence (what a topic to bring up at dinner, and they're always accusing me of bad behavior...), and the fantastic final report card from my cousin Ralph, Gisela and Herbert's son, who is the same age as me.
"Our Ralph is such a gifted student. He actually brought home a 1.3 average," my aunt says with her fake grin that always makes me think her dentures are about to fall out.
"Oh, we can't complain about our Lennart either. He's got a one in front of the decimal point, right, Lenny?" my mother replies, giving me an expectant look with raised eyebrows.
“You do what you can,” I mumble into my nonexistent beard.
I can't stand this game. At every family gathering, we're compared. It's disgusting. And I have to play this game every time, even though my GPA this year is easily three times Ralph's. What a fake. I get up and go to the bathroom. There, I chat with my reflection for a while, debating whether I'm finally going to expose my mother today. When I return to the coffee party, my second favorite topic is on the agenda.
"Ralph couldn't come with us today because his girlfriend Anne wants to introduce him to her parents. They're such a cute couple. Wait, I even have a picture of them."
"To him his..." What German. Oh my God, the picture really is such a falsely idyllic shot taken by a family photographer. He's standing, she's sitting, he smartly dressed in a tie and collar, and his sweetheart in a floral summer dress.
Was the cream on the strawberry base bad or is the picture the trigger for my sudden nausea?
"Do you already have a steady girlfriend, Lennart?" and again that first-class grin with the second-class third teeth.
My mother's absolute highlight: "They're practically lining up for him. Right, Lenny? We just enrolled him in dance school. I'm so excited for the prom. Can your Ralph actually dance?"
"Our Ralph takes after his father. He's even completed the advanced course, where he met his Anne. Oh, I find that really romantic. I'm sure Lenny will find his future wife there, too."
If my mother knew that after the second dance lesson I was fed up with this shit and haven't been going since.
Aaargh! I have to get out of here.
"Lenny, you look so pale around the nose..."
"...and how thin you are. Tell me, Irmgard, don't you cook properly for your son?"
"Gisela, I think you're probably living it up. Of course, I cook for my family properly. Unlike you, I don't eat ready meals during the week."
"You're a housewife through and through. Everyone in our family has to do their bit to help me make a career."
Oh, my father seems to be chiming in. "Irmgard doesn't have to work. I bring home enough money."
"Children, don't you want to give your 84-year-old mother a quiet Sunday afternoon? Shame on you and take Lennart and Inga as an example. And now eat. I don't have anything left over," he said, serving me another piece of the delicious strawberry base.
When we get home in the evening, I quickly flee to my room. I even skip dinner, citing too much cake at Grandma's. So now I'm lying on my bed, headphones on, quietly singing along to the familiar lines:
»All I need is a little time...
The Practicum at GZSZ
Bsssssst... Pock... Bsssssst... Pock... Bsssssst... Pock...
Bsssssst... Pock... Bsssssst... Pock...
Bsssssst... Pock...
Monday morning.
I am gently awakened by a bumblebee that has wandered into my room and keeps colliding with the window pane.
Bsssssst... Pock...
I throw back the covers, sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, and watch with blurry eyes the bumblebee outside and the bright blue sky beyond the window. When my brain wakes up, I get up and release the poor creature into the wild. A good deed every day. I should have been a Boy Scout.
Fuck!
What time is it, anyway? Why didn't my alarm clock wake me up? It just blinks an innocent 0:00 at me. I'm such a stubborn idiot. After the power outage, I didn't reset the time. I rush headlong down the stairs to the kitchen, where my mother is sitting at the kitchen table in her dressing gown, reading the newspaper.
"Not so loud, Lenny. Your father is still asleep. And anyway, did you fall out of bed? I thought you didn't have to get up until seven. It's only half past six."
"My alarm is still set to midnight after the power outage the night before last. I thought I overslept."
"Do you think your mother lets you oversleep?" she smiles at me in a very maternal way. A very rare moment. Maybe I should get into the habit of always getting up before my father from now on.
A weight has been lifted from my heart, and the rumbling sound beneath my heart isn't the result of the weight hitting me, but rather a damned empty stomach. So I hop in the shower.
When the door of the Marklohe district savings bank branch opens for me at 8:30 sharp, I enter, just like last week, a completely foreign world. My career-discovery internship, a required assignment in the twelfth grade of the Nienburg all-day high school I attend, could certainly have led me to more unpleasant places, because I'm definitely not killing myself here. Robert, my neighbor at school, told Fabian at his party that he's been forced to lug files around all day at a law firm because they're moving. I'm actually quite lucky.
And yet, this isn't my world. This internship has already fulfilled its purpose: I know I'm definitely not going to become a savings bank clerk. No matter how many times my parents try to steer me in that direction, it's not for me. Nor is being an insurance clerk. Those are both professions that require such a hardened mind that you'd be happy to sell your grandmother. I could never do that.
Like the slimy Mr. Lehmann, the deputy branch manager. Deputy is fine; the branch only has three employees and one trainee. The main thing is to have an impressive title on your business card. Just like my father. He actually reports to just another employee in the hardware department of a home improvement store, and yet he calls himself a department manager. I can't believe it.
So here I am, smartly dressed in dark jeans, a tie, and a collar, standing behind the savings bank counter, sorting bank statements. The tone here is amazingly friendly and courteous. Not just with customers, but also among colleagues. Everyone even addresses me formally, which I was incredibly proud of on my first day. Unfortunately, my pride in using formal language and my joy at the politeness quickly faded once I realized the calculating coolness and distance with which people interact with one another here. The deputy is competing with his colleague for promotion to branch manager, as the latter is about to retire.
I only found out on Friday how they were snitching on each other to the branch manager behind each other's backs, when Lehmann actually sabotaged his colleague Mischkowski's account for the computer terminal, and she, in turn, got a dressing down from the boss as to why she hadn't been processing her orders.
Alternatively, Ms. Mischkowski is courting the branch manager so much that sometimes I think I'm not at a savings bank but on the German soap opera GZSZ. They put on a nice front on the outside, but behind the scenes they behave like bastards. I hate this double standard. Whenever the boss comes by, Mischkowski always sticks out her tits like she has a bad back. And when the boss deliberately overlooks her again, I have to pay the price. Then her oversized breasts are swung in my direction, and a promising wink is probably supposed to signal something to me. This morning I escaped to the bathroom.
Are all adults actually so devious?
Foul at the Mini golf
As a reward for completing my internship and to kick off the weekend, I had to spend yesterday at a boring, large discotheque in Nienburg with abysmally terrible chart music. For once, the numerous Jägermeisters I drank didn't give me a headache when I got up, and so now I have a beautiful late summer Sunday ahead of me, on which I'm on a mini-golf course with a few classmates and friends. I don't even know who came up with the idea of mini-golf, because I don't think I'm cut out for it. I hate sports in general, and sports that require skill in particular. My school grades aren't great on average anyway, but my sports grades always represent the ignominious end of my grade scale. Let's just delete the word "sport" and replace it with "game"; that sounds much more relaxing.
In addition to my best friends Fabian, Robert, and Sandra (called Sunny and together with Robert), Bernd (our class bully), his girlfriend Annika, and Thorsten (called Tweety, Bernd's underling) are also there. And of course, Maria can't be left out either.
"...and I thought my eyes were going to pop out. There were 32 moving boxes full of files. And now I was supposed to carry them into the house across the street," Robert says of his internship.
"That couldn't have happened to me."
Of course, something like that never happens to Bernd.
"Manuel from 12c also did an internship with us, so the hierarchy was already clear on the first day. He did the dirty work, and I put my feet up. That's how it should be, folks."
Typical Bernd.
Bernd is truly disgusting. I don't even know who invited him. No matter what anyone says, he always has and can do more: bigger, faster, further. And this smarmy attitude is reflected in every detail of his personality. Gold chains, Lacoste polo shirts with turned-up collars, the most expensive sneakers, and a shark-like grin that would rival even JR's. Next week he'll get his driver's license. Then the drama really starts. Well, what can I say, we're back on topic:
"...150 hp, I tell you. Lower, wider, harder. And I'll hang a VW badge on the tow hook so those shitty GTI drivers know right away where the frog's curls are."
"Really? Great. Will you give me a ride?"
That could only have come from Tweety, Bernd's personified doormat. The two always remind me of bad Hollywood comedies where a dimwitted crook has an even dimwitted lackey who keeps saying, "Yeah, boss, OK, boss, all right, boss, I'll do it, boss."
"No way, that's my territory. Besides, what does it look like when Bernd cruises around with a guy in an open Astra convertible? As if he doesn't have a girlfriend."
Which brings us to Annika, Bernd's girlfriend. She doesn't go to our school because she's training to be a bakery saleswoman. Another awesome title. Dumb as a cowpat, but breasts like Mrs. Mischkowski's from my old savings bank branch.
And "sharp as a dripping gravel truck," as Bernd always says. Of course, only when she's not around, because in her presence he's as tame as a stuffed animal. Then he always calls her "bunny" or "little snail." I always find it absolutely astonishing how men behave when they're talking to a woman, especially their woman. Bernd, for example, always looks at the display of his ringing cell phone before answering, so he can identify the caller. If it's a man, he answers as usual, ultra-cool and with his decidedly deep, masculine voice. But if it's Annika, his voice shoots up by at least three octaves, and you wouldn't believe that the supposedly coolest guy of the entire year is on the phone.
"Come on, do it! It's your turn!"
And so disaster struck. I naturally finished last. When the call comes for the second half of the race, I get out and make myself comfortable at the side of the track with a cool iced tea. Sunny, too, has lost interest and sits down next to me.
"Hey Lenny, isn't today your day, huh?"
"Fuck it."