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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