How to Lose Everything Read online

  “Look, those guys from Berlin are here,” said the girl with the dreadlocks, waving.

  “Guys from Berlin?” Eric repeated.

  “Me and Sam told them we're from Berlin,” I whispered to him.

  We sat down and introduced ourselves. The girl with the dreads was named Susie and her friend was Julia. Julia ignored us and looked in the opposite direction.

  “Jules is having a bad day,” Susie said. “Her parents are giving her crap about school and stuff. But we'll be gone soon.”

  “G-gone?” asked Sam. It was the first word that had come out of his mouth since he'd told me to shut up.

  “We're going to India soon. Right, Jules?”

  She nudged her friend, who nodded.

  “Berlin would be cool, too. Where do you guys live?”

  Coconut's arm swooshed over my head as he danced, shirtless. His entire upper body was almost completely covered in random Chinese characters and demonic faces. Honestly, I was a little uncomfortable with him dancing so close to us, but I didn't say anything.

  “What do you mean? Like where in Berlin?” I asked.

  “Yeah, what neighborhood. Kreuzberg?”

  “K-Kreuzberg,” said Sam.

  “Kreuzberg,” I repeated.

  “Yeah, Kreuzberg,” said Eric.

  “I think Kreuzberg's awesome! It must be incredibly boring for you here. Munich is so ghetto.”

  “Fuck Munich, and fuck the police state,” said Julia.

  Eric asked them what they were going to do in India. Susie said her dad was kind of a hippie and lived there with a bunch of other hippies in a house on the beach. That question got her going, and all of a sudden she was talking a mile a minute. In fact, she spoke so fast that I only caught a few words: “ocean,” “Ganesha,” “Gandhi,” and “Goa” stood out. At some point Susie paused to reflect and said, “The people there don't have anything, but they're still happy!”

  “Is it cheap to live in India?” Eric asked.

  “Oh, it's crazy cheap. You can live like a king on like ten marks a day!”

  “Seriously?!”

  “Yeah, absolutely! It's like being a millionaire there.”

  Coconut's foot landed on my finger. I jumped up and glared at him, expecting at least an apologetic wave of his hand. But he was already twirling somewhere else. Then Eric took some weed out of his bag and put it out for everyone to help themselves. We were definitely a welcome addition to the group then. Susie was now talking about Indian gods and goddesses, and Eric and Sam kept nodding like they were interested. But that was all Sam did now, nod constantly. I moved slightly away from them and sat down on the stone steps in between two candles because Susie and all this pretentious shit about India was starting to get on my nerves.

  I leaned against a column and fiddled with the contents of my pockets. It was a habit now. I liked the feeling of the coarse wad of bills. Then I remembered what else I had on me—the letters from our last break-in. I hadn't trusted myself to look at them yet. So now, under the clear night sky, I took the letters out and looked them over. There were only two envelopes, both folded and creased, and actually kind of gross and sticky. One of them had the brown outline of a coffee mug. I opened it. Unlike the first letter, it wasn't written on a typewriter, and the handwriting was so shaky that it took me awhile to decipher it.

  Dear Mr. Mueller,

  Something has to be done. This is war. Gertrude's nerves cannot take any more. She shakes like a leaf. The doctor says it's because of the cancer. But I know the truth: I saw the Schneider woman and the rest of them yesterday, sneaking around in front of our yard. She was carrying a bottle with a skull and crossbones on it. Mr. Mueller, you must believe us! Our groceries have been poisoned. They have poisoned our food! I saw them, saw how they weaseled their way into our house so they could sneak the poison into our bread. That's the real reason behind Gertrude's illness, and they are after me, too! They don't want us on this street. They hate us because we're not from here, because we're different. But I will not let them get me. I will not eat their bread, their sick, satanic food. And also, from now on I will boil all our water. It's safer that way. We're safe in the basement, and there's enough room for us down there. But we can't hold out forever. I implore you to help us, Mr. Mueller, before it's too late!

  Sincerely,

  Hilda Stetlow

  Toward the end of the letter, the spiky, angular handwriting became even more jagged so that the last lines were nothing more than scratches. I glanced over my shoulder toward Eric and Sam. Sam, still wearing his sunglasses, was still bobbing his head, but at least he was somewhat in time to the rhythm so his tic wasn't too noticeable. I lit a cigarette and opened the second envelope.

  Dear Mr. Mueller,

  Why aren't you answering my letters? You're the only person who can help us now! Hate is gaining the upper hand, and we cannot resist it much longer. Gertrude and I have not eaten anything for the last three days. Our groceries have been poisoned. We cannot leave the house. The little devils are lurking out there, and they want to do us harm. Gertrude is doing very poorly; she can only speak in a whisper. She asks for food, but I cannot give her any! Mr. Mueller, if Gertrude dies, I will have no one left. The only thing left will be my hate. If I need to, I can go into the basement and live off of my hatred alone. There are tools there . . . with which . . . must . . . force . . . this hate . . .

  I couldn't make out the last words. At that point, the writing degenerated into a series of hooked symbols that looked more like runes than letters. I jumped up and hustled over to Sam and Eric, who were still sitting with Susie and her friend. When I reached them, I saw Susie take her hand away from Eric's knee.

  “I've got to talk to you,” I said, almost shouting over the music.

  “So talk,” said Eric.

  “Not here . . .”

  Muttering, Eric stood up and went with me to the steps. Sam followed us.

  “You guys have to read these!” I said, and I held the letters out to them. “They're from the house. The two sisters, they had people after them. Or maybe they were insane. Or both. It all sounds like some crazy horror movie!”

  Eric halfheartedly took one of the letters and scanned it. He said “cool” and gave it back to me.

  Sam said, “I can't read this.”

  “Maybe you should try taking your damn sunglasses off. What is up with you? Are you retarded or something?”

  Sam didn't say anything, but, to my surprise, he took his sunglasses off. He tried to decipher the letters, occasionally saying a word or two out loud. After he'd read the second letter, he put his sunglasses back on and went back to Susie and Julia.

  “Someone might have been murdered in that house,” I said.

  “Sure, why not,” said Eric.

  “‘Sure, why not?' A murder! Don't you get it? This Hilda Stetlow lady might have murdered her sister—or one of the neighbors—and then buried them in the basement!”

  The music was really getting annoying.

  “Yeah, so what? I honestly don't give a shit about whether someone killed someone else. It all happened a long time ago. It's got nothing to do with us. Actually, what it means is that we shouldn't feel guilty about taking the money. It doesn't matter what we do with it if it just belonged to a couple of crazy old ladies.”

  “What if the money brings bad luck?” I used Lena's words.

  Eric looked right into my eyes, his pupils flashing in the candlelight. At that moment his face reminded me of one of Coconut's tattoos. It was demonic. He gripped my shoulder firmly and said in his heavy, thudding tone, “I don't want to hear any more of this bullshit about bad luck. You watch too many horror movies. You hear me?”

  The gazebo had filled up with a whole crowd of hippies, and Coconut was still twirling around on the marble floor behind us. Eric clapped me on the shoulder, and we went back up the steps to Susie and Sam. Sam was sitting Indian-style with his back to us. Something was burning. Suddenly Susie shrieked,
“Are you insane? That's more than most Indians make in a whole week! Think of all the starving Indian children!”

  Several people looked over to see what was going on.

  Sam was burning a handful of bills.

  Coconut kept dancing.

  Schulz shifted his weight back and forth, from one foot to the other. Sometimes he stood on his tiptoes, trying to see over everyone's head to the beginning of the line. Then he sank back down, looked at his new Rolex, and moaned about what a long time it was taking. “What the hell is going on up there . . . The bouncer's an asshole. He gets off on having power, the dick.”

  He kept his voice was low enough to ensure that the people standing around us couldn't hear. Lena rolled her eyes. Her hair, pulled back into a ponytail, was damp from the rain; a few curly little strands had pulled away from the smoothly brushed top and sides. She looked good. She was dressed pretty casually (which surprised me) in jeans, a black tank top, and a hooded jacket. It was obvious that the cause of her bad mood wasn't standing in line or the rain; it was her boyfriend, Schulz. Schulz ignored this, probably because it was the best way to avoid an outburst. I concentrated on the music pulsating from the building. I couldn't tell what song it was. All I could make out was a muffled, monotonous booming.

  Schulz had insisted on coming to Terminal to see some techno DJ I'd never heard of before—despite the fact that he didn't even really like techno. When we'd talked on the phone earlier, he'd promised to get tickets. He also said he was going to talk to some guy that night about buying a car, but it seemed like that wasn't going to work out after all. Not only because Lena was going to be there, but also because he didn't really have the time right now to figure everything out.

  Only when we met at the train station two hours before did he admit that he hadn't been able to get tickets. That wouldn't be a problem, he assured us, because we were going to bribe the bouncer anyway. (Which we were already planning to do, since the tickets wouldn't get us very far without ID.) Eric and I didn't care one way or the other. We would have been just as happy getting some Smirnoff Ice and beer and just hanging out and drinking. Ever since Sam's money-burning episode in the park, he'd hardly said a word. He only occasionally responded when he was spoken to, and he often whispered unintelligibly to himself. Sometimes I thought this was creepy, but usually we just laughed about it. Sam seemed to have absolutely no thoughts about where we should go or what we should do. Lena was the only one who cared. She was absolutely set on getting into Terminal to see this DJ. Ever since Schulz admitted, with a guilty look, that he hadn't been able to get tickets, she'd given him the silent treatment.

  Only about ten yards and thirty people were between us and the entrance. I could see the red logo was embroidered on the bouncer's brown leather jacket. I'd never bribed anyone before. All I could think of were scenes from random mafia movies where all you see is two hands meeting, and the money changes hands like magic. What if the bouncer didn't play along; what if he didn't take the money? I imagined a situation where the handoff didn't work and the money just floated to the ground, landing on the wet asphalt.

  In front of us someone opened an umbrella. I wished I had one. I'd hold it with my left hand, and Lena would squeeze in next to me on my right.

  “Hey, anyone want . . . anyone here want weed?”

  Eric was asking a group of four men and women behind us if they wanted to buy any weed. They were all wearing orange garbage collector pants, and they all shook their heads. He shrugged.

  “I'll just slip three hundreds into his hand,” said Schulz. “This dude doesn't earn that much in a week.” He laughed his rattling old man laugh.

  Eric nodded, grinning, and Lena rolled her eyes again, as if there was no one in the entire world who could possibly annoy her as much as her boyfriend. Two girls greeted the bouncer by kissing him on opposite cheeks. “Have fun,” he said, and let them through. Finally, the five of us were standing in front of him, and he was completely serious again. Schulz seemed nervous, alternately pulling stray strands of hair out of his face or shaking his arm so that his gold watch (a replacement) around his wrist was visible. I stuck a cigarette in my mouth in an attempt to look a little older. Then I pulled Sam back by the sleeve when, as if remote-controlled, he started to wander off to the side.

  “Tickets!” said the bouncer. He sounded like a drill sergeant.

  Nothing happened. Everyone waited for Schulz, but he didn't move.

  “Let me see your tickets!”

  “Uh,” said Schulz, and then there was an embarrassing silence. Lena turned and stepped away from us, probably trying to make it look like she wasn't in our group. Schulz searched for something in his pocket.

  “Tickets, or get out. I don't have all day.”

  Schulz rummaged uselessly in his pockets while shifting from one foot to the other. He turned red. I stepped to the side and stood next to Lena. I could smell the scent of her perfume and caught a glimpse of her bra strap. Suddenly Eric stepped forward. He spread his body out as wide as possible in front of the bouncer, who was skinny but taller. Eric extended a partially-shielded hand, but the bouncer didn't reach out to meet it.

  Five blue bills floated down and landed on top of a wet, dirty grate. As soon as he saw that, the bouncer straight up slapped Eric across the face.

  “Fuck off!”

  Eric held his cheek. Schulz just watched, literally trembling with fear.

  “You think this is the mafia or something? You suburban pricks think you can buy anything with your parents' money. Get out before I call the cops.”

  Then the bouncer kicked Schulz in the stomach, and Schulz fell backward, down two steps, and onto me and Lena. Lena and I were caught off-guard, and all three of us fell into a puddle. I could hear people shouting behind us, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Eric shove the bouncer. Two more men in matching leather jackets stormed out of the door. Now it wasn't a flat hand landing on Eric's face; it was fists.

  “Go home to your parents, you little assholes!” someone yelled. The group wearing the garbage collector pants pushed forward. Lena screamed. One man in a leather jacket punched a skinny guy with blue hair and blue sunglasses. Behind us, someone shouted, “Fucking club Nazis!” and suddenly everyone was pushing and shoving toward the door, as if someone had fired a gun. It became a brawl. I grabbed Lena's arm, but she shrieked at me to let her go. Schulz and Eric were pinned somewhere in the crush of people. Then I saw Sam. He was about fifteen yards away from the crowd and coming straight toward us. In his hands was a three-foot-long metal pole. I ran toward him and rammed my head into his stomach. He swung the pole above me.

  “Sam, we're leaving! We're getting out of here!” I shouted.

  He snorted. I put all my weight into holding him back. I tried to look him in the eyes—which failed, because he still had his sunglasses on. Lena and Eric joined us. We were outside the brawl, which was in full swing, and finally we were able to calm Sam down and get the pole away from him. We started to run. Tiny drops of rain began to fall, and before long we were sopping wet. We headed toward the subway station. Sweat and rain mixed together. We sat down on the steps of the underground station entrance and smoked cigarettes in the light of the streetlamps.

  “Pretty funny, though,” said Eric finally, smiling. Sam didn't respond, his sunglass-shielded eyes gazing somewhere toward the street.

  “You are totally, utterly insane,” said Eric and clapped Sam on the shoulder.

  Lena buried her face in her hands. She was muttering about how stupid we all were. Just then I saw a figure limping down the street, dragging his right foot behind. It was Schulz. He sat down between me and Lena and said, “Assholes.”

  “What happened to your leg?” I asked.

  “It's not too bad.” He winked at me with his uninjured eye. The other was still bruised from Strasser. Lena didn't even look at him. “I've got more in my pocket than he earns in a month. And he's got a Napoleon complex that he takes out on everyone at the do
or.”

  Lena was crying into her hands, but now she looked up. Her face was red.

  “You're worse than all of them! You're so fucking stupid, it's embarrassing!”

  Schulz, humiliated, didn't say anything. He looked at his watch and wiped the rain from his face.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “Let's go to Babaloo,” said Eric.

  “B-B-Babaloo?”

  “It's not too far from here. Zafko'll be there tonight.”

  Lena wiped her tears away and stood up. We walked down to the subway in silence. The platform was empty, except for a few guys who huddled together under the awning. Two of them were delivering kicks to the ticket machine. None of us wanted any more trouble, so we kept a safe distance and stood in the rain. Ten minutes later I saw the flash of the familiar lights. Those two lights, and the empty subway car they were attached to, seemed like the gloomiest thing in the world. But at least the train was going in the right direction.

  Sam and I sat across from Eric and Lena. Schulz sat in the row next to us. Sam stared at the raindrops as they dragged themselves down the windowpane. His expression was intense; it seemed like he was deciphering a secret code or something. Now and then he mumbled something to himself and sometimes the gibberish would turn into a really bizarre sort of hissing.

  Eric slapped him on the knee. “Dude, what are you babbling about?”

  Sam blinked and came back to life, as if he'd been called back from some faraway world. But he still didn't answer. Then he was gone again—focused on the raindrops on the window. Sam wasn't getting on my nerves; he was making me worried. He'd always been weird, but this was too weird. Weird people are also kind of funny, and we laughed about Sam a lot. He was kind of like a pet.