The “ooohs” and “aaahs” come in gentle waves, penetrating my ear and rousing me from my nap. I slowly raise my head from the terrycloth bag that serves as a pillow and squint in the afternoon sun. The expressions of astonishment come from back on the right, from the diving platform. At the height of the five, mostly young men, well, let’s say boys, of whom only very few dare to dare a scrutinizing look down before they jump into the pool in a way that attracts the public, pile up. The girls stand at the bottom of the pool and encourage them with clapping and shouts of “Jump!, Jump!” to overcome their own fear of heights in favor of a way home together that is no longer just hoped for.
Later, even the tenth is opened, and the few who dare to go down there are rewarded with applause and standing ovations from the lawn. The dive from up there. pinnacle of grandeur. Perched like a sea eagle.
My name is Mickey Beisenherz. In Castrop-Rauxel I am a world star. Elsewhere I have to pay for everything myself. I’m a multimedia (single) general store. Author (Extra3, Jungle Camp), presenter (ZDF, NDR, ProSieben, ntv), podcast host (“Apocalypse and Filter Coffee”), occasional cartoonist. There are things that strike me. Sometimes even upset me. And since the impulse control is constantly jammed, they probably have to get out. My religious symbol is the crosshair. The razor blade is my dance floor. And just now it itches in the feet again.
The hot air smells of burnt grass, lying on my stomach I bury my face in the warm, damp bath towel, inhaling the scent of sunscreen and chlorine. An olfactory journey back in time.
The loveliest time of the year, when the days melt like butter in a hot pan. This outdoor pool in the heart of Hamburg hardly differs from the one I was in Castrop-Rauxel 30 years ago. The worn-out grass, which is already as dry at the beginning of June as it usually is only at the end of August, the functional washed-out concrete, the sharp-edged tiles in the shower tray that separates the sunbathing area from the swimming area.
Tattoo disasters as far as the eye can see. Couples, like RTL2 fell from the editing suite. Old, pear-shaped women in bathing caps and broiler-brown old men valiantly managing residual muscle tone against the unforgiving time while the scorching sun burns away the white hair on their backs. Not long now and I’ll be one of them. At least not to young people anymore, that much is clear.
rutting season on water and on land. Testosterone. pheromones. Fleeting touches. scuffles. Mutual submersion. At that time I was one of only a few who were trained, so the Californianization of a generation can also be observed here: Half of them look like fitness influencers. The other: not exactly.
That’s probably why it takes my little daughter and her friend so long to get back from the kiosk. The line hasn’t gotten any shorter since then. However, if you were to put things in the microwave there, as was customary at the time, Cem Özdemir himself would jump into the cash register to put a stop to the fast-food maître’s handiwork.
I look up heavily. The girls are back. 70 cent change. No, I couldn’t get a Coke because Pippa had to buy wine gum snakes for her friend in addition to the fries and ketchup. Now they sit blissfully on their little blanket and munch on the greasy fries.
I’m suddenly alone. The girls sit on the wooden planks, glowing from the sun, at the edge of the swimming pool and watch the aquamarine events while eating. Very soon they will be standing at the bottom of the pool and joining the cheering crowd – or even better: looking down at the others from the five and preparing to dive.
