Variant Exchange

by Fox J Wilde

  A few minutes climbing the steep staircase left her slightly winded. “These things are dangerous!” she thought, chuckling to herself. She had always had a wild, chaotic streak and often relished the thought of swinging off the thing like a monkey. Another day perhaps—certainly not in times like these. Finally, after much effort, she crested the apex of the building to be welcomed by the sounds of Van Halen blaring through a radio: “Girl…you really got me now…you got me so I can’t sleep at night...” There, just a few meters away from her, sat her very most precious secret.

  “Get your bony ass over here, moron!” a young, male voice yelled.

  “Fuck you, lame-ass!” Lena shot back.

  “Oh my God, she’s fucked up again.” another slightly older voice said, “What the hell, did you get in a fight with the ground again?”

  “Up yours, Herr.” Lena retorted.

  “Oh, great fucking comeback.” Herr responded, “Did you have to study for that one?”

  “I swear you kids never shut up,” a much older woman’s voice said, with a note of disapproval. “Back when I was your age we didn’t swear so much.”

  “Back when you were our age, Jesus was still alive.” Herr shot back.

  “You watch your tongue when you’re talking about the Lord, Herr, or I’ll tell the pastor.” the older woman threatened.

  “What’s he gonna do? Pray for me?”

  “He’ll tell your father.”

  “...yes ma’am.” a now contrite Herr responded.

  Lena laughed wildly at this as she moved closer, as did a majority of the rooftop’s occupants. It was a group of around ten people, all of varying ages. They sat on broken couches, worse chairs, and a few spare cushions with stuffing pouring out of them. Beer bottles were absolutely everywhere, and the air was overpowering with tobacco, both pipe and cigarette. A dog that looked like it had been alive for far too long sat in the middle of the circle, tongue hanging lazily out of its mouth.

  “Mrs. Schroeder brought her dog again.” the first boy, Mick, complained.

  “At least girls like him.” Herr poked at Mick.

  Mick was a whole fourteen-years old and showed it by bragging every chance he got. He didn’t have much to brag about otherwise—a scrawny short kid with a mop of perpetually disheveled hair that was filled with cowlicks; and, not being particularly bright, he was poor at sports as well as academics. But Mick had a good heart if you had a mind to dig through all the puberty.

  Herr, in contrast, was fifteen years old. He wasn’t much bigger or smarter than Mick; but he was bigger and smarter, and anytime Mick would begin to brag about his age, Herr was there to poke fun at his various inadequacies. While Mick had a good heart, Herr…well…he was Herr. If push came to shove, he would likely be there for you in whatever way a fifteen-year-old could. Until that point, however, he was just an annoying brat that lived to pester everyone.

  “Leave Kraut alone, Mick. He doesn’t need you pestering him,” the older woman, Gertrude Schroeder, said, referring to the mangy dog. “And Herr, there’s a woman out there for everyone. Even Mick.”

  Gertrude was old. She looked it and she didn’t give a damn either. She was “exactly the age Jesus wanted her to be” she would often proclaim. She was also exceedingly devout in her faith and made absolutely no bones about that whatsoever. She loved Van Halen, although she was a bit mixed up in her rock idols. “Oh, that Mick Jagger is such a good-looking fella...” she would often proclaim. No one had the heart to clear all that up for her.

  “You hear that, Mick?” Herr teased, “Mrs. Schroeder says there’s a woman out there, even for you!”

  “There’s lots of girls!!” Mick complained, wounded.

  “Oh yeah, name one!”

  “Well…well...”

  “If you two don’t shut your damn mouths I’ll throw you both off this roof!” an old man with a gigantic mustache threatened.

  “How are you gonna do that with the cane, old man?” a handsome young man who looked to be around twenty-five joked.

  “First, I’ll throw you off, Jonathan!” a young woman sitting next to the young man yelled, “then I’m gonna help Mr. Müller throw Herr off!”

  The man with the mustache, Walter Müller, had started this rooftop gathering; he was also the one who had invited Lena and was perhaps the only thing in the GDR older than Mrs. Schroeder. A man of simple means and simpler pleasures, his only two prized possessions were his mustache (don’t get him started) and his radio. For what it was, the radio was a technological masterpiece of mismatched dials and broken gauges cobbled together out of things he found in his neighbors’ garages. He was obsessed with The Rolling Stones, but told Mrs. Schroeder that the lead singer was Phil Collins—much to the amusement of Janet and Jonathan.

  Janet and Jonathan, the young couple sitting together, were the perfect mix of oil and water. They were both very athletic and notoriously pretty. Unfortunately, that’s where the similarities ended. They argued more often than they didn’t, and each hated the music the other liked. Janet didn’t even like the rock they were listening to. She simply came for the company (that she didn’t like) and for Kraut (whom everyone else didn’t like). Differences aside, they had managed to create two children just as perfect as they were and—all things considered—they were fantastic parents, if not a fantastic couple.

  “Well, who’s gonna provide for our children then, Janet?” Jonathan retorted.

  “Maybe I’ll find someone a little more respectful. Like Lorenzo!” Janet teased.

  “Lorenzo?!” Jonathan responded, “Lorenzo?! You would leave me for that cross-eyed piece of...”

  “At least I didn’t wreck my car the first time I drove it!” another young man who looked around twenty-five hollered in Jonathan’s direction.

  “Shut up, Lorenzo! No one likes you!” Jonathan fired back. It was true, no one liked Lorenzo. That’s all that anyone seemed to know about him.

  “Fuckin’ sounds like Janet fuckin’ does.” Mick chimed in.

  “Language!” Mrs. Schroeder snapped.

  “You suck at swearing,” Jonathan harassed Mick.

  “Oh yeah…well, you…you…” Mick attempted to retort, “you suck at…at…”

  “You also suck at comebacks, dipshit.”

  “You suck at comebacks!” Mick screamed with his voice cracking up an octave.

  “You sound like a girl, Mick.” Jonathan jested as well.

  “What’s wrong with sounding like a girl?!?” Janet howled.

  This would go on all night long, Lena knew. She couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear. These were her people: misfits every last one. As “You Really Got Me” ended, “Hit Me with Your Best Shot” by Pat Benatar began playing with that outrageous guitar. They must have been listening to Radio Brandenburg again, although it didn’t sound like the infamous DJ John Peel’s style this time. Sneakily, so as not to end up in everyone’s verbal cross-hairs, Lena grabbed a spare cushion. She lay on her stomach quietly with the cushion pressed against her chest.

  The rooftop was her haven when she wasn’t performing. In the GDR, music was heavily controlled by the Stasi to make sure it reflected the views of the pompous codgers in the Politburo. While good music was incredibly hard to come by, ‘inherently seditious’ bands like Van Halen, Echo and the Bunnymen, Fleetwood Mac and REO Speedwagon could land you a prison sentence if you weren’t careful. Oh sure, they had The Puhdys, Die Anderen and the Klans Renft Combo in the GDR. These bands were all talented in their own right, and East German music was renowned across Europe for its catchy, eclectic nature. But it was the lyrics that really earned the ire of the international community—for those who spoke German at least.

  Whereas Sammy Hagar and Brian Johnson were singing about having sex with everything that moved or breathed, East German bands that hadn’t yet earned an international appeal were si
nging about…well, socialism. That, and socialism-related woes. Scratch that—there were, of course, no woes in a socialist society. And you’d better be willing to express that to the rest of the world or you had no business being a musician in the first place!

  To describe it as lame would be an understatement, sure. Yet the audacity of it all was how you had to give lip service to the whole exercise. Everywhere in public meeting places, pubs and shops, they would be playing some farcical affectation to the benefits of socialism spreading far and yon. You would watch as everyone began tapping their fingers, or humming along. Participation meant agreement, and agreement meant the Stasi would leave you alone. But in safe havens like this rooftop, no one tapped or hummed along unless they liked what they heard.

  “How was the show, dumbass?” Herr fired in her direction.

  “It was amazing!” Lena brightened, “We had so many…”

  “That’s great,” Herr interrupted, “So, does anyone…”

  “Oh Herr, be nice!” Mrs. Schroeder berated before turning to Lena and saying, “Please, Lena. Tell us about your concert. We would all love to hear about it.”

  “You wouldn’t like her music, Mrs. Schroeder,” Jonathan cut in, “it’s all about doing drugs and eating children, and stuff like that. Best not to encourage her.”

  “Well I like it!” Mr. Müller and his mustache chimed in, “It’s angry. It sounds like Led Zeppelin.”

  Lena took this opportunity to tell the group about her band’s latest escapade. She told them everything including the bit about the rafters from the last show. Mrs. Schroeder let fly an, “Oh my” at the mention of her band accidentally “desecrating the Lord’s House”, but she was still proud of Lena’s performance.

  With the inescapable advent of foreign rock music and proliferation in the GDR (by way of their little pirate radios), the Politburo had hatched what they felt to be an utterly brilliant plan: send GDR rock bands to play shows in the West. On the surface, this wasn’t the world’s worst idea; however, when the Politburo decided to buy the artists’ loyalty by giving them “Freedom Medals” which they were forced to wear while playing shows, well, the SED was none the wiser about why the Western youth were laughing so loudly. After all, in the West you didn’t need to hide your laughter for fear of the Stasi.

  This was where punk rock came in—the punks just didn’t care. They said what they wanted, often and loudly, much to the glee of the GDR youth who craved the realness of ‘their own’. Comparatively, this was where the little pirate radio on top of Lena’s building came in as well. To the rest of the punk world, mainstream music was kitsch at best and utterly blasphemous at worst. But in the GDR, this was her other punk rock—her slice of the world’s reality away from the purported reality of the SED. These people said what was actually on their minds, no matter how vitriolic or perverted. It may not have been to the degrees of The Sex Pistols, but it was decades ahead of anything ever mentioned in public on this side of the Wall.

  Now Rick Springfield’s “Jessie’s Girl” was playing, and Mrs. Schroeder was tapping her fingers on her thighs, humming tunelessly along. “So, what else did you do today, besides destroy another church?” she asked.

  “Well…” Lena hemmed and hawed. She wanted to tell them all about Hans, she really did; but somehow, she felt letting the group in on that tidbit of her life would invite the boys to make fun of her, or just be embarrassing. Then again, she was seventeen and seventeen-year-old girls did occasionally like boys, right?

  “I, uh, met a boy.” she said gingerly.

  “Oh, did you now?!” Mrs. Schroeder gushed.

  “Congratulations!” Jonathan cheered.

  “Is he cute?” Janet asked.

  “I didn’t think lesbians liked boys.” Mick jeered at no one in particular.

  “Oh, shut up, Mick!” Lorenzo yelled, “Lena isn’t a damn lesbian. She just hates men.”

  “She is too a lesbian…aren’t you Lena?” Mick asked honestly.

  “Well why would I be excited about meeting a boy if I was?!” Lena yelled back, irritated.

  “So, you don’t have to go to hell.” Herr cut-in.

  “What did you say?!” Mrs. Schroeder exclaimed, as she stood up and kicked at Herr, “You apologize this instant, or I’m throwing you off of this roof!”

  Mrs. Schroeder chased Herr for some time as Lena contemplated how to continue the conversation. Herr and Mick were jerks, but she loved them. Still, she didn’t really know how to broach the conversation. Soon, “Jessie’s Girl” was through, and a new song began to play. It was the latest offering from the British punk band, The Dead Weights, entitled “Capitalism Down”. This had become one of Lena’s favorite songs as of late, as it had for most of the punks in the GDR. Sure, it took a stance that was opposite to what Lena would prefer, but it was anti-establishment, and that was what mattered.

  “Lena, tell us about your boyfriend,” Mrs. Schroeder said, after hitting both Herr and Mick several times. Both of the boys were unharmed, obviously; but now they looked to feel as stupid as they were, and this made Lena grin.

  “Well,” she began, “His name is Hans. He’s tall, has long brown hair, and is really good at sports. He’s a top athlete in our school. He’s also very smart, kind, and is really into our music.”

  “Oh that’s wonderful, dear.” Mrs. Schroeder said.

  “Is he into your music,” Herr cut in, “or is he just into you?”

  “He’s probably into both.” Jonathan said, matter-of-factly.

  “But how into you is he?” Lorenzo cut in, making an obscene gesture.

  “Lorenzo!” Janet said, acidly, “that’s none of your business!”

  “Well, Lena’s like our little Sister, right?” Lorenzo responded, “So if she’s fucking someone, we should all know so we can kick his ass.”

  “She’s not my little sister!” Mick cut in.

  “That’s because I’m older than you, moron!” Lena retorted.

  “Well, yeah. But…” Mick stuttered before finding himself profusely ignored by Lena.

  She went on to regale the group with the tale of her romantic serendipity. She told them of how Hans always brought her coat during her after-show cigarette. She told them of how he draped it around her and playfully touched her. She told them all about the kiss, making sure to accentuate the inherent ‘grossness’ of it for the benefit of Herr and Mick who were making ‘grossed out’-noises. Everyone seemed perfectly enthralled with her story. That is, except for Mr. Müller, who sat back and listened intently. After a few moments more of Lena gushing, he finally broke in.

  “Lena, where did you say you met this boy, Hans?”

  “Oh, I’ve known him forever from school, but we’ve only recently become good friends since he started coming to my band’s shows.”

  “And how many of your shows has he gone too?”

  “All of them!”

  “How many athletes at your school go to these shows?” Mr. Müller asked, with a hint of concern in his voice.

  “Not many, I suppose. Maybe a few. Why?”

  “Well, it might be nothing.” he replied somberly, “I just…I get concerned for you young kids with your music scenes.”

  “What do you mean?” Lena responded, honestly.

  “Because Hans is probably a fucking spitzel, right Mr. Müller?” Herr cut in.

  “Language, Herr!” Mrs. Schroeder snapped.

  “He is not, idiot!” Lena yelled.

  “How do you know, stupid?” Herr called back, “He might be reporting to the Stasi right now!”

  “He wouldn’t do that!”

  “Hold on a second.” Mr. Müller said, interrupting the two. “Lena, all of us are proud of you for meeting a boy, and he sounds wonderful. We just…it’s important to be careful. Anyone could be an informant these days. Heck, even one of us could be. You ne
ver know these days. You have to have friends, and you need to be able to date. That said, you of all people need to be careful. The Stasi have their eyes everywhere—and they don’t like punks one bit.”

  “Oh, Walter!” Mrs. Schroeder spoke, “Don’t you scare Lena like that. Give this nice boy Hans the benefit of the doubt!”

  “I agree!” Janet said, “Lena, you deserve some romance—especially with a catch like Hans sounds to be.”

  Everyone more-or-less nodded their approval. Even Mr. Müller in his own way, but he still seemed rather pensive as he finished, “I’m happy for you, of course. Just be careful. That’s all I ask.”

  At that moment, the voice of Roger Waters cut in on the radio with, “We don’t need no education…” It was the first of likely many Pink Floyd songs of the night. Lena sat back and pretended to listen. In reality, however, she was trying to stave off the seeds of doubt worming their way into her brain. “He couldn’t be...” Lena said to herself, “He wouldn’t be...”

  Verräter

  The rafters of the church shook. It wasn’t from drunk punkers this time, but from the bass guitar. The pastor from the previous show now appeared to have been correct—the bass really did shake the rafters too much. Lena made note of this and said a tiny prayer in its honor before screaming her bloody guts out.

  Any sane individual would have said the guitars were too loud, but these weren’t sane people, and to them the guitars were only too loud once the amps exploded. Thus, the amps were cranked to eleven as the band pummeled its way through the second song of the set. The room filled with the humidity of a legion, losing clothing and inhibitions at an absolutely frightening rate. Lena herself had ripped off her shirt to expose a midriff covered in paint, marker, and otherwise. This revealed various names of animals written all over her chest, arms, and face in a street font suggesting the level of intoxication the artists exhibited.