I smoked a bowl after Vanessa left. I put the CD case/coke tray away then listened to music while picking up The Architecture of Happiness where I last left off. I crashed around two. The next day I woke early. I felt great. No matter the drugs, sex makes me feel good the following day … and sex with Vanessa was very good. I went to Eik en Linde and ordered a coffee. No hunger, just energy, perhaps remnants from last night. I chatted with Kasper and a few regulars, including a man who was Serbian but had been living in Holland for nearly thirty years. He gave me a hard time about being an American and seemed to be frustrated by my agreement that the United States is the bully of the world.
“What do you want me to say?” I asked. “I agree with you. No other country but the United States has military bases on foreign soil and we have over seven hundred military bases in countries all over the world. And, yes, I know they are there not to protect U.S. citizens from harm but to provide a foothold for multinational corporations. Don’t think, though, that The Netherlands is off the hook. You think Heineken and other Dutch corporations don’t benefit from the U.S. military presence in the Middle East, Africa, South America, and elsewhere? Besides, it wasn’t all that long ago that the Dutch were involved in South Africa.” That momentarily shut him up, but then he started going off on McDonald’s and the demise of food quality worldwide. I sighed and nodded my head. He was mostly good-natured, but he was frustrated that he couldn’t find an argument.
Kasper came to save me by chatting me up. He asked if I was seeing Vanessa. I told him I saw her last night. He raised his eyebrows and said, “So, you’re serious about her, eh?” I smiled and nodded then shook my head … then nodded and shook my head. “I don’t know. She’s great, but I don’t see it going anywhere long term.” How serious could I be about an escort? But if I was being honest with myself—and I was—I was smitten. My wallet said break it off, but my heart and libido said turn it up. I thought about telling Kasper she was an escort, but that seemed like a bother. He would figure it out eventually. No reason to think so much. Just let it be.
Vanessa’s story about her background affected me. I probably wouldn’t feel for her the way I did if she wasn’t so open about her life, so willing to share her powerful emotions and to let herself be herself, sexy and crazy as she was. I think what sealed the envelope for me was when she asked me not to turn out the lights. Her vulnerability was palpable and it added yet another dimension to a woman more complex than I could fathom.
The cocaine was another factor. Get a few lines of coke in me and I’ll be ready to rob a bank if that’s what everyone else says is groovy. I imagined me and a crew of men and women jacked up on coke wearing black masks and capes while hijacking an armored vehicle then flying off to Pluto to have a night of wild group sex. Sex and drugs, a combination for living and creating that has no equal.
I could hear the Serbian chattering away about Halliburton while my mind drifted off to play. I was painting a canvas of thought and words I rarely had a chance to use in conversation kept applying themselves, jasper whispers dancing on fig leaves between bolts of melting sun rays exuding fragrances and allowances for dallying. The Serb was jabbering about George W. Bush and while I agreed with him, the spittle collecting at the corners of his lips filled me with an urge to mash a potato in his face. If I could scrape his skull with a cheese grater I was sure he would slow his speech a little.
When I looked back at Kasper’s relaxed movement and natural smile I saw him as a golden chalice cascading goodness. He wasn’t so flippant as to be tossing dandelions on strangers wherever he went nor would I see him frolicking naked in Vondel Park while eating a ripened mango. It seemed likely, though, that he could be trailed by a bumble of butterflies while meandering down a cobblestone path reading a pamphlet of poetry.
The Serb kept on chirping and I occasionally said a word or two to let him know I was present if not exactly listening. I knew there was anger and frustration involved from the tone of his voice and that told me more about who he was than the content of his commentary. I was interested in him as a person, but I cared little for what he said. In other words, I liked sitting next to him while he expressed his anguish. It was unusual, after all, to see such ugly passions in Amsterdam. He was a novelty, I guess, and that made him as worthwhile as anyone else. Plus, his monologue allowed me to revel in my own thoughts while he prattled on and on. Not having to say much while in conversation can be delightful; much less energy is expended.
My energy was dipping a little so I called to Kasper to order an espresso. “You want any food?” The time? Hmmm. Backward running clock was hard to misread as it was about noon. I wasn’t terribly hungry so I ordered bitterballen. Kasper was busy so he just said, “Ja,” and turned away. It was the lunch rush and while I typically would have left, I liked being buffered from the crowd by the Serb. I had nested in my favorite area of the bar, the back side of the curly Q. I could pretend to be engaged with the Serb while observing the bustle of activity throughout the café, a collection of human electrons bouncing off one another, zipping this way and that without rhyme or reason, each particle of person made social by proximity of sound, sight, and touch.
Lunch at Eik en Linde often resembled a party attended by groups of people who knew one another through a friend of a friend. It was as if they hadn’t seen one another for years or were just meeting for the first time even though the very same party with the very same people had congregated just yesterday and the yesterday before that and every yesterday since the inception of Eik en Linde as a café.
Often enough the people presented as colors. A loud middle-aged man who always stood and waved his arms while holding a beer without ever spilling was beet red while two quieter older women who mostly chatted at a two-person table next to the window were pale yellows. Some came in costumes of personality, a white-bearded gent who groused as a Grumpasaurus and a young blonde woman who graced the room with the eroticism of Aphrodite.
Kasper brought my espresso and bitterballen. As he turned away I quickly asked if I could get some water wheneveryougetachance! He was gone and I wasn’t sure if he heard me. The Serb shifted gears and made a statement about the moment. “You should have been ready with your question before he arrived, lad.” I nodded and lifted my espresso to him as a show of agreement. The bitterballen were hot so I let them cool off while I sipped my espresso. I asked the Serb how he had come to live in Amsterdam for thirty years and before I could take back the words he set sail a story about being in the navy—Yugoslavia had a navy?! I didn’t ask, I just listened. He was as passionate as ever, but now he was smiling more and his eyes filled with nostalgia as he gave me what was apparently the backstory for his arrival in Amsterdam. He said something about being on a submarine. A submarine? I wondered if he had hijacked a Russian sub during the Cold War and made his way to the port of Rotterdam, saving countless lives by thwarting a potential nuclear attack. The chest-puffed-out self-importance said something about the esteem with which he held his military endeavors.
Military stories always seem to be told as if the world would have ended had it not been for so-and-so and such-and-such. “If it wasn’t for me and my platoon, Saddam would have marched his troops into Germany and France and completely destroyed them. America would have been next.” Really? What did you do during the war? “I was a surveyor.” Huh? You saved the world from Saddam by mapping a desert? Well … thanks.
Kasper placed a glass of water in front of me. He turned away before I could thank him. As he walked down to the other end of the bar he raised his hand and sang, “You’re welcome.” Motherfucker. I realized I could never be a barista or waiter. Keeping so many things straight in my head would make me trip over my feet. One thing I loved in Amsterdam, and Holland in general, was how much more esteemed bartenders and servers were. If anything, they were the royals of the café, the people who really mattered. Without them, hell, we would just be people talking rather than drinking, eating, and talking.
Watching servers and baristas in Amsterdam was like watching a choreographed dance. If the staff had been working together for years, then it was high art: each person knew where the other would be without looking and they would communicate without words. Glances and gestures spoke volumes, a language known by maybe half a dozen people with each person speaking a slightly different dialect that only those other half dozen could understand. If I learned Kasper’s barista language I wouldn’t be able to use that to fully understand Philip’s. Their interplay was like the most extraordinary avant garde modern dance with patrons serving as background dancers who do seemingly random things while the star performers act out movements that are discernible, over time, as order amidst chaos. I loved watching a server hold a tray of plates in one hand and three glasses held between fingers in the other while avoiding the chair of a customer who had suddenly and without warning backed it a foot into the walkway without looking, causing the server to pirouette, glide, slide, arch, twist, sway, and leap all without spilling, stopping, or speaking or the customer noticing a thing. Even facial expressions remained the same. Obstacles and near collisions were all part of the dance.
I ate my bitterballen and drank my water. The Serb had finally gotten around to his move to Amsterdam and was talking about where he first lived. I didn’t know the town he mentioned and wasn’t even sure it was a town. It sounded more like he’d hacked up a lung and then coughed three times. How one spelled a hack and three coughs I had no idea. He told me about his first job working as a candy taster at Mr. Lollipop’s Shop and how he would often take a spin at Warble Dither during lunch breaks. It was something like that, anyway. I wished people would just make up shit about themselves to make conversations more interesting. If a person has lived a boring life then spice it up a bit for the good of the rest of the world. No one wants to hear how you collated papers in a cubicle. How fucking awful that we live in a world where most work is boring.
I looked back at Kasper and thought, “Well, at least his work is interesting. Hell, I can see it in his face and his movements.” Maybe that was it: he moved! The movements weren’t repetitive, either. Yes, some movements were made more often than others, but the combination of Kasper's movements on a given morning or afternoon was as complex as a symphony. So many body parts moving at different times in different ways, all accomplishing something specific, something necessary, to make the work coherent, symmetrical, and beautiful.
I watched Kasper’s adagio and caught his eye. “Could I get a de Koninck when you have a chance?” Kasper smiled and nodded as he continued his movement. The eventuality was inevitable: I wasn’t going to work today, not when I could think like this. It had been far too long since my thought was so agile. Why waste it on an index? The café was filled with buzzing conversations and bursts of laughter. I wasn’t going anywhere. Interesting how much less the crowd of early-afternoon regulars bothered me compared to the weeks prior. I felt like I was seeing through new eyes. Other than me, no one noticed any difference at all. Funny how none of us really knows what’s going on within anyone else’s world.
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