Amsterdam Eighty-Four: Sal and Jersey Jimmy

To achieve a sense of balance, I indexed all morning. After making lunch for myself, I discovered I was completely out of pot. I got dressed, looked at the dark gray out my window, and bundled up. Once outside, I felt a hard wind blowing so I decided to walk. I moved briskly over the Magere Brug and then north along the Amstel, the wind ripping into the flesh of my face. Spring had flirted a week or so ago, but decided not yet.

Once inside the Greenhouse, I took a minute just to warm up before looking at buds. I decided for a mix. I bought two grams of Lemon Skunk, a gram of Love Potion #1, and two grams of Arjan’s Ultra Haze #1. Hard to go wrong with recent Cannabis Cup winners, though I checked the smell and moistness first—I turned down the Cheese because it looked dried out.

After my purchase I walked to the back and took a seat. I was alone in the shop, which made sense—early in the week, early in the day, cold as shit, and further from the center than a number of other quality coffeeshops. Chillaxation music played softly as I broke up the Love Potion buds and filled my dugout. I noticed the “red hairs” looked pink and figured that was how the strain acquired its name. I filled the bat and took a puff. A taste of tangy strawberries, a light fruit punch. It was easy on the lungs. Even the smoke had a fruity fragrance, possibly evidence of the strength of the sativa in the blend. I loaded the bat again and took another hit. I felt like a giant berry, squishy and sweet. It was a waking herb, for sure, reducing body tension while smoothly uplifting my spirit. I felt awake, a perfect daytime, out-and-about high.

I could see the two bud-slingers up front, talking about nothing. One had a nasty look on his face, like I was invading his space. I recognized the other guy. He was cool. The creeper, I didn’t know. There were definitely vibes in coffeeshops and they seemed to vary by time of day, day of the week, neighborhood, clientele, and staff. The layout, lighting, and music made a difference, too. As much as I wanted to hang out and waste the day, I figured I could brave the wind and cold to get back to work at home the rest of the afternoon. I felt too energetic to sit still.

I was surprised when I walked outside. The wind had died down and the cold wasn’t so biting. When I got back home, I decided to take my laptop to a café nearby so I could work from there. I placed the two containers of the other strains I had purchased on the coffee table then loaded the bat and had two more hits of Love before heading out. I could tell it would be good for indexing. I was jazzed, too, because I didn’t think I would need more than a couple of days to finish the index. A couple thousand bucks in the bank for not much time working. The way it should be for everyone.

I walked down Kerkstraat then south on Utrechtsestraat and stopped inside Café Bouwman. It was on a corner at the confluence of the Pinsengracht. I loved these bars because they always had doors set at a 45 degree angle on the corner. I walked inside and found a seat at a table near the door, I could sit and look out at the bridge crossing the canal while I worked. Having a cozy high made it all the better. I set up my laptop and opened the PDF, launching right into the text. In time, a waitress came to my table and asked me, in Dutch, what I wanted. She was shorter and dark-haired, stout but very attractive with a light-up-the-room smile. I couldn’t help but smile myself and in my fruity high I was a bit giddy, anyway. I happily ordered an Americano and she skipped away. Not really, but in my mind she did. The whole world was popsicle sticks and candy canes.

I could barely fathom what was written in the PDFs, but after more than a decade of indexing some latent worker bee took care of things for me while I watched cyclists and happy walkers cross the bridge. Every time a tram rolled up to the stop to let off and take on passengers, I was shocked. As soon as it was out of sight, I forgot that trams ran along Utrechtsestraat. When the next one passed by I nearly spit up the coffee the cheery cherub-cheeked angel had brought me before blowing me a kiss on her way back behind the bar. I sighed often while somehow making significant progress on the index. Perhaps only one more full day of work and I would be finished. 

In the middle of the afternoon I started ordering beers, only a couple. The coasters intrigued me. They were insignificant, but they may as well have been attached to my body in some way. Why not? The brown walls, floor, and ceiling of the café seemed just as much a part of me as anything else. When immersed in brown, brown becomes a very important part of oneself. I believed this wholeheartedly, primarily because it was true. If it wasn’t then my senses had no purpose whatsoever. I was passionately brown at times, so much so that at one point I had to step outside to have a cigarette and another puff of the Love Potion.

Late afternoon, I put away my MacBook and ordered a grilled ham and kaas sandwich with fries and water, being a bit parched from the beers and coffees. None of the other customers in the café had caught my attention all afternoon. There were comings and goings, but other than the rose-cheeked bubbliness I wasn’t interested. I sensed in the others a distance, an uneasiness, an aloofness that did not sit well with me. Who were these people and what did they believe they possessed that made them superior? It was as if by being on a street like Utrechtsestraat that they had been christened by royalty to be lords or nobleman, whatever the modern equivalents might be, most likely upper-middle-class snobs, youngish great ones standing above the fray though not quite at the height of true greatness.

I knew that merely by putting on a show of subtle bombast such barriers could be broken. How often had I in life? It was no different than what existed in any other city and that broke my heart. I hated reminders that I wasn’t living in utopia. Still, there was a charm to being extravagant at times and the idea, especially, of luring in the lurid classes of quasi-opulence tickled my spine. The mere utterance of a few choice words, delivered with aplomb, escaping my lips as my eyes popped and my cheeks pulled the corners of my mouth into a Cheshire grin while mixing just enough taboo into my exultant exclamations—acknowledging the difficulty of doing so in this present age—in such a way as to set myself apart from them while blending seamlessly within, becoming an enemy that they were compelled to befriend, was a powerful impulse that became overwhelming whenever affronts to utopia presented themselves which they unfortunately did more often than I would have liked which, when it came down to it, was just once.

Before I reached such a state and began bleating in an otherwise pleasant café, I took my leave. I walked back down Utrechtsestraat toward Kerkstraat and when I reached the corner I was called out by a couple of men, one about fifty and the other maybe half his age. The older man was just under six feet, stocky, a bit of a gut, a head of thick silvery-gray hair, decked out in a red and white Paulie Walnuts tracksuit. The young guy was huge, thick with broad shoulders, possibly 6’4’’, not fat but just short of athletic. He was wearing blue jeans and lightweight blue and gray zippered hoodie—with the hood down. The wind had disappeared.

I walked over to them since they had called to me, curious about what two extras from the Sopranos might want from me. The older guy asked me if I spoke English. He had an East Coast Italian accent. I hated that I was thinking of this guy as a cliché, but fuck me if he didn’t fit the stereotype. I said, “Yeah, I speak English.” He turned to the tall baby-faced brute, and said, “Finally! I was beginning to think everyone here was stuck up or illiterate.” Illiterate? I didn't ask. He turned back to me and said, “Are you an American or just a Dutch guy who can speak English?” Oh, dear lord. From high to low. Where was the happy medium? “I'm American, but, honestly, most of the Dutch in Amsterdam speak English to some degree.” The old guy peered at me intensely then relaxed. “Huh, ain’t that somethin’. I wouldn’a guessed it, everyone ignoring us, too good for us or somethin’. I figured you as a Dutch guy, too, what with you being dressed in black and all.”

The accent was so thick I just … stared at him in wonderment. What were the odds of meeting these guys in this place? The young guy didn’t say anything, though. He just stood with his arms crossed looking pissed off, shifting his weight from one leg then the other, whipping his head around to look down Utrechtsestraat to the south every now and then, just full of jittery energy. He looked like he wanted to hit someone, anyone.

The older guy held out his hand and said his name was Sal. I shook it and told him my name. He nudged the young tank to shake my hand and he reluctantly reached out his meaty paw to shake mine. The older guy said, “My nephew, Jimmy. Forgive his manners.” Sal smiled as he continued. “He’s young and stupid.” I held back a laugh as best I could.

Sal started talking about all sorts of things, always expressing gratitude that I was American. He mentioned they were from New Jersey. Naturally. He finally asked why I was in Amsterdam. I said, “I live here.” He turned his head to Jimmy while thumbing at me, “You hear that? This here guy lives here.” He turned back to me and bobbed his head up and down while saying, “What da ya know, an American living in Amsterdam. I never would’a guessed.” I asked Sal what they were doing in Amsterdam while trying to stop myself from asking—half of me said you don’t want to spend any more time with these guys and the other half said they’re probably here to whack somebody. I booted both thoughts out of my head, reminding myself not to be a fucking bigot just because of Sal’s accent. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much the Sopranos really screwed over East Coast Italian Americans. Besides, I had just been complaining to myself about stuck-up assholes too fixated on status to deign others perceived as beneath them worthy of their time. No, I wasn't going to be one of those people--even if Sal and Jimmy turned out to be goodfellas. All I had to do was remember the kindness that had been shown me on my first day in country back in November. Offering a helping hand to out-of-their-element Americans was becoming a hobby.

Sal answered, “We’re here on vacation. My nephew, he said I gotta do somethin’ fun on my birthday so here we are for the next three days. Today,” he smiled at Jimmy then back at me, “is my birthday.” I smiled, thinking that was an exceedingly cool thing to do, and wished him a happy birthday. Sal kept on, “We’re looking for some good spots to party, have a good time. Jimmy says to me that you can smoke pot here, that it’s legal. That true?” I laughed and said, “Yeah, basically.” He looked at me in a strange way. “Seriously?” I said, with all seriousness, “Seriously. There are coffeeshops all over the city.” Sal looked confused, “Coffeeshops?” Jimmy, who had been doing nothing but bouncing around trying to figure out which wall to punch, said, “That’s what I been sayin’, Sal. They ain’t real coffeeshops. They fuckin’ sell weed.” As soon as the words came out of Jimmy’s mouth, Sal cracked a fierce backhand across Jimmy’s face. “What’d I tell ya about the language, huh?!” He stared at Jimmy for a few seconds then said, “What your mother would say?” Unbelievably, Jimmy’s shoulders slumped and he dropped his head. A meek, “Sorry,” escaped his lips.

Sal turned back to me. “Sorry about the kid. He don’t know manners.” He turned back to Jimmy again, “Or to respect his elders.” I had to keep my jaw from dropping. The only word that I could think, at first, was “Wow.” Watching the overgrown beast-child get slapped for saying “fuck” by his uncle, a man about two-thirds his size … something about it just seemed right. I said “fuck” all the time, though, so why should that be? I wasn’t sure, but I liked the old-school “mind your manners and your elders” dynamic. Maybe it was something from my Catholic upbringing, maybe I had watched too many mafia movies, or maybe—no, probably—it was because I didn't like Jimmy. I was bigger than my old man, too—though not to this degree—but I knew he could kick my ass if he decided to do it. I had no doubt that the same was true of Sal and Jimmy. 

I thought about this as we talked more. I remembered growing up in a Waterloo, Iowa, a union town. I saw the same dynamic there. The people weren't Italian, but German and Irish. The common denominators were that they were Catholic union guys and, in that sense, there were plenty of similarities with Jersey Catholic union guys. The mob might have been a bigger part of the show out east than in the Midwest, but there were enough similarities that I understood Sal and Jimmy well enough to get along with them. Of course, I wasn't sure they were union guys at all, but it seemed likely that they were old-school Catholic. 

I discovered they were staying in a hotel nearby on Prinsengracht. Sal asked, again, where they could go for a good time. I thought briefly about pointing them down the street to Rembrandtplein and heading home. I liked Sal, though. I couldn’t help it. He was gregarious, fun-loving, and truly had a wide-eyed “I can’t believe I’m in Europe” vibe. The kicker, though, was when he smacked Jimmy when he felt he was out of line. I really wouldn't have considered showing them around the city if that had not happened. I just didn’t like Jimmy. He carried himself like a thug and until his uncle slapped him he had scowled in every direction in which he looked, including at me.

I asked Sal, “What are you looking for? Music, drinking, drugs, sex?” He said, “Yeah, exactly,” and I laughed. When I finally stopped I said, “Okay, let me think for a second … you’re definitely in the right city, I’ll say that.” As I was thinking, Sal said, “We just left that yuppie joint up the street,” he pointed toward the Huyschkaemer, a place I liked but was definitely filled with young money and, well, these Jersey guys were from an entirely different culture. It was possible they had even more money, but the cultures surrounding the money in each case were entirely different. Sometimes that works, but in this case? Not even close. “There’s a whole ‘we’re better than you’ thing going on there, bunch of stuck-up Dutch frat boys. One even had a crest on his shirt. What kind of man wears a shirt with a crest on it?” Jimmy chimed in, “I told that fucker to meet me outside so I could kick his ass, but the fucking pussy wouldn’t leave the bar.” Sal gave Jimmy another swat and said, “Language!” I thought, “Dear God, I really am hanging out with the Sopranos.”

Still, I figured why not show them around, find them a good time, some place where their gruffness played well? They had already eaten and so had I. I asked them if they wanted to find a place to drink or if they wanted to smoke pot? Sal said, “Let's get high.” Jimmy looked less than pleased, but Sal was the man and it was his birthday. I walked them over to the Greenhouse and looked at the strains again when we arrived, but I realized Sal might not know how to roll a joint. Sal responded defiantly, “I know how to roll. What, you think I never smoked pot before?” I shrugged. “I didn’t know one way or the other. Still, they have pre-rolled joints if you don’t want the hassle.” He shook his head so I asked him if he knew what strain he wanted. “Strain? Damn, they got different kinds, huh? I mean, I want to get high, you know?” Having been in the place earlier in the day, I suggested Love Potion #1. He laughed and said, “You’re kidding me, right?” I pointed at the menu. “I’ll be damned. Okay, let's give her a whirl.” I suggested two grams so he could take some weed back to his hotel for the next day. He ordered papers as well and then the three of us went back to the corner lounge space to sit on the deep, plush wraparound couch so Sal could roll a joint on the funky wooden table.

As Sal broke up a bud and started to roll, I took out my dugout and ground some pot into the bat. Sal looked at me and laughed. “That’s a nice contraption ya got there.” I nodded and he looked at it as if it was the first time he had ever seen one. He muttered, “I never dreamed in my life I would ever buy pot in a store. America could learn a few things from the Dutch.” That made me smile. “This is a great city, Sal.” He continued preparing his joint while saying, “Yeah, maybe the Dutch ain’t so bad after all. We just been meeting uptight jerks who hate Americans up till now.” I asked if they had just arrived today and Jimmy said yes. Sal said, “We took a cab from the airport straight to our hotel. We was wandering around, stopped in that bar full of poofs, and then we saw you. Maybe we rush to judgment a little quick.” I said, “Maybe. There are people like that everywhere, you know? Most of the people I’ve met here are great. You’re staying in an area of the city that isn’t so much a party spot. It’s more,” I wanted to say 'refined' even though that wasn’t entirely accurate, but I didn’t want to be insulting so I said, “uppity.”

I continued, “The city is pretty diverse, really. There are a lot of different scenes here. I’ll show you an area you’ll like, though.” Sal said, “Hey, this is a good start. Legal weed.” He laughed as I thought about what their encounter may have been like at the Huyschkaemer. I guessed that Jimmy, as much as anything else, had come across as the “Ugly American.” It seemed more than likely that Jimmy would consider anyone who was different to be an asshole deserving of a beating. Sal, absent Jimmy, would probably get along better. Maybe.

As Sal finished rolling the joint and licking the edge, Jimmy said, “I’ll be right back, I gotta take care of somethin’ real quick.” He got up and walked toward the door. Sal yelled after him, “Hey, we’re smoking here, alright! You better be quick, whatever it is.” Jimmy left the Greenhouse as Sal lit up. I noticed the disapproving looks of the coffeeshop denizens around us, more used to the chill in this location than the bombast of a middle-aged Italian American ... wearing a tracksuit, no less.

I took out a cigarette and started smoking. Surprised, Sal said, “You can smoke inside here? They told us we couldn't smoke in the other place.” I said, “It’s okay in the coffeeshops. I know, it’s weird. Just the way it is.” Sal took another hit and as he exhaled he asked, “Why do they call these places coffeeshops? They sell weed!” I didn’t really know so I made up a story. “Well, when they first started selling weed from storefronts back in the 1970s they had to have a legitimate business license. So they sold coffee along with the weed. It’s not necessary any more, but the name lives on even at places that don’t serve coffee.” He nodded his head slowly. “How you know so much about this, huh?” I shrugged. “I live here so ...” Sal asked how I was able to live in Amsterdam. “I work from home for American publishers. As long as I have an Internet connection, I’m good.” Sal seemed impressed. “So you can work anywhere in the world? And you chose Amsterdam? Why, so you can get high whenever you want or what?” I laughed. “Well, yes and no. I mean, it’s nice to be able to get weed at a shop without worrying about the law. There are a lot of other reasons, though. It’s the freest city in the world as far as I’ve seen and, despite your first encounters with the Dutch, they’re mostly good people in my experience. I might have to keep traveling and find out if there are better places, though. People here rave about Berlin and Copenhagen.”

We kept smoking and bullshitting. Sal was high and he kept thanking me profusely for entertaining him. “You’re a good guy, Michael. You don’t even know me and here you are showing me a good time on my birthday. A good host, a good person. Thank you.” It just kept going, even after Sal said, “I’ve been saying ‘thank you’ a lot haven’t I?” We were laughing the whole time, though.

“Where the hell is that kid?” Sal turned to me. “I swear, that kid, he can’t stay out of trouble for five minutes. He’s got a good heart, but he don’t know how to control himself. He’s doesn’t think, he just acts.” He shook his head then turned to me as he exhaled, “Holy shit, I am stoned.” I chuckled and a minute of silence passed between us until he said, “Oh, sorry. My language.” I didn’t know what he was talking about at first and after fifteen seconds of thought I realized he had said “shit” so I started laughing. Sal turned to me and said, “What?” but then he started laughing, too, which just made me laugh harder.

That was when Jimmy returned, grinning while he stomped toward us. Sal slowly stopped laughing and said, “What the hell you do?” Jimmy said, “I went back to that place and cut the tires on that uppity fucker’s little girl bike.” I rolled my eyes and asked how he knew that the bike was that guy’s. “I didn’t.” Jimmy's smile grew wider. “That’s why I slashed all of them.” Sal grabbed him behind the neck and pulled him forward, “You ever do anything like that again I’ll knock your teeth out! What your mother would think, huh?” Sal released him and Jimmy sat back into the couch. His face was red and he sheepishly apologized. This was a hell of a family. Sal was one thing, but this kid, Jimmy, he was beyond being an “Ugly American.” He was a fucking goon. Sal kept setting the hooligan straight, but damn was the kid a fuckup. It was weird being out with Jersey guys in Amsterdam.

As Sal started to take another puff I said to him, “You smoke any more of that and you’re going to be sitting here all night.” He looked at me and then looked at the joint and said, “You’re right. I’m stoned.” He looked it, too. He tried to pass the joint to Jimmy, but he said no.  Jimmy had no problem slashing tires, but smoking pot was a no-no. Figured. If he smoked any ganja he would let go of his hatred and hatred was definitely something Jimmy wanted to keep locked in his heart. I asked them if they were ready to go. Sal said, “Give me a minute.” A minute turned out to be nearly half an hour. He zoned out a couple times and I brought him back with conversation, telling him bits of history about Amsterdam, some true, some stories I made up to keep him awake. He kept telling me what a great guy I was and every time I said, “Hey, it’s your birthday. Enjoy yourself.” Jimmy, naturally, looked bored and impatient. He glared at the other patrons until they looked away or walked out. I was hoping he would get a contact high and chill the fuck out.

When we finally walked outside, Sal asked, “What’s next?” I said, “Well, it’s a little bit of a walk, but let’s hit the Red Light District.” He said, “You wanna get some whores?” I told him Amsterdam's Red Light was like nothing he had ever seen, that prostitutes sat naked in windows along the streets in a huge neighborhood prowled by guys from all over the world. Sal said, “No kiddin’? How they get away with that?” I said, “Prostitution is legal here.” Jimmy said, “I fucking told you that, Sal!” Sal elbowed him hard in the gut and Jimmy uttered a barely audible apology. Sal said, “Okay, let’s go see some whores!” I walked them toward the Red Light District, but I got turned around at some point. Jimmy complained about how far it was and I said, a little exasperated, “We can grab a cab if you like.” Sal answered, “No, walking’s good. I need the fresh air. It’s beautiful, too. What’s wrong you, Jimmy? You got no appreciation for beauty or history?” I appreciated the old man more and more.

We finally arrived at the edge of the District and the young guy’s eyes lit up. We wandered around as the two of them gawked at and catcalled women in windows and went on about how crowded the place was, completely shocked that it was all legal. Somehow, Jimmy managed to avoid fighting anyone, but it was probably because of the nude women in windows everywhere. I mentioned to them the prostitutes had unions and they both about shit themselves. “Mother of Jesus, can you believe it, Jimmy? A union whore. This city, it’s like Disneyland for adults.” I saw a smart shop ahead and thought the two of them might find it interesting. I pointed to the sign and said, “That shop sells magic mushrooms.” Sal looked at me doubtfully and said, with a little venom, “Come on, you’re shittin’ me, right? Trying to have a laugh on me?” I laughed and said, “No, no, no. I’m completely serious. It’s just like the pot, shrooms are legal here. Come on, I’ll show you.” Sal stepped in beside me and Jimmy followed along behind, whimpering about leaving the whores behind.

We went inside and the place was packed with all manner of people, young and tattoed, middle-aged long-haired hippies, women in tight miniskirts, regular Joes in jackets and khakis, men and women with every shade of skin color. I squeezed the three of us to a spot at the counter and Sal looked down at the shrooms in awe. Jimmy was more fascinated by the people. He turned to me, looking pissed. “It’s a freak show in here.” I shrugged while Sal continued looking at the shrooms under the glass case and said, “Relax, we won’t be here long.” Jimmy, for some reason, showed some respect and nodded his head, turning around to look with his uncle.

A shroom merchant, a young guy with a dyed-green mohawk, walked over to us and asked if he could help. I asked Sal. “Do you want to shroom?” He asked if I was going to shroom, too. “No, I gotta get going soon.” He pleaded, but I made up an excuse. “I’ve gotta get up early and work.” He shook his head in wonderment. “You can do this any time you want, can’t you?” I grinned wide and he said, “You’ve got it all figured out, you know?” I thought to myself, “Yeah, I do.” He looked back at the server and said, “I think I’ll need a couple minutes.” The mohawk walked away to help someone else and Sal asked me, “So, what, there are different types of mushrooms?” I said, “Yeah, they all have somewhat different effects. Some give you more of a sensuous body high, some are really visual and trippy, some are more cerebral, some are more social, each lasts for different lengths of time, they vary in intensity, and so on. It’s like choosing a wine, really.” Sal shook his head in disbelief. “This country, damn.” He turned back to me and said, “I can’t imagine anyone else doing this for us. I can’t believe you are. Michael, thank you.”

Sal asked me what I would recommend. I felt like a sommelier. I said, “Well, I think you’d probably enjoy a body high more than anything else on your birthday. Something to make you feel a buzzing but relaxing energy flowing through your body. The Hawaiians are way too cerebral and you don’t want to get too far inside your head tonight. Something with visuals might be fun, especially with all the neon in this area—although it might also feel hellish. No, I think something that creates a feel-good happy vibe.” Sal said, “Yeah, that sounds good.” Even I, at this point, started thinking it was rather amazing that a person could purchase a substance that could create specific moods, varied sensory experiences, and new perspectives within an hour after eating. It took a pair of brand new eyes to remember just how spectacular it was that psilocybin existed, let alone that it was legal. Of course it should be legal! Why shouldn’t magic be fucking legal?!

I was thinking McKennaii, though a bit strong, would be perfect, but this Red Light shroom shop, which was every bit as garish and packed full of tourists as the District was, did not carry McKennaii. I saw the Colombian strain and thought that would work. They were less potent, but they were somewhat social. I pointed to the container and suggested Sal purchase something to drink to help wash them down. Sal said okay and eventually another server came to help. Sal pulled out his wallet, paid, grabbed the container and the drink, and the three of us walked outside.

Sal said, “Look at the sign, Jimmy. American Express, Visa, MasterCard. Geez.” Jimmy smiled, but he still seemed uncomfortable. When Sal pulled out the package he asked why there was so much. “Oh, right, you’re probably used to dried shrooms. You have shroomed before, right?” Sal looked at me indignantly. “I’ve been around the block a few times, kid. I ain't no friggin’ Boy Scout.” I was a little taken aback. “I didn’t want to assume. I was just asking.” Sal apologized and I continued, “The shrooms are sold fresh so instead of two dried grams of mushrooms, you’ve got about 35 grams there. Most of it’s water weight, but it’s about the same as doing a couple grams of dried shrooms. The difference is that you know exactly what strain you’re getting and the exact weight. I mean, they’re still shrooms, so you never know how you’ll react, but it’s more predictable than taking dried mushrooms from a plastic baggie you bought from some guy at a Dead show.”

Sal laughed and started gobbling up the shrooms, washing them down with a soda. Looking at them, I couldn’t help myself from saying, “You know, if you only want to eat half in case you haven’t tripped for a while, I’ll eat a few stems and caps for you.” Sal pulled away and barked, “Buy your own, man!” I laughed and he quickly apologized. “Sorry, that was uncalled for. But I can do a full dose. I’m not a child.” Interesting. Maybe I was mothering him a bit with the shrooms. I didn’t mean to do that, but I just didn’t want him to have a freakout, especially since I was going to be heading home while he was tripping. Could Jimmy handle a panic attack from his uncle? Maybe, but probably by punching every person within ten feet of him.

Sal finished off the container. “God, they’re awful.” I nodded in agreement then told Sal and Jimmy I was heading home. “If you guys can’t find your way back just hail a taxi and tell the cabbie the name of your hotel.” Sal tried to talk me into staying. “Come on, it’s one night, you know? You should keep partying with us.” I graciously said no and pointed to the heart of the Red Light District. “Wander around and enjoy. You'll find a bar somewhere around the area. If you don't, get a cab and tell them to take you to Rembrandtplein.” Sal said, “Okay. Michael, you're a great guy, you know? Pot, shrooms, and whores, you believe this guy, Jimmy?” Jimmy smiled genuinely. I was surprised. Sal pulled out his wallet, grabbed a couple hundred Euros, and tried to hand them to me. “For what you done for us tonight.” I said, “No, no, no. It’s your birthday, Sal. Besides, I was having a good time, too.”

Sal reluctantly put the cash away after a couple more efforts. “You could do this for a living, you know. I got friends back home that’d pay good money for you to guide them around like this. Make it even better if you could hook us up with the right whores.” I looked up and after a moment said, “Yeah, I could do that, too.” I stopped myself from saying more—I was ready to call it a night. Sal handed me his card and I looked at it. A classic car restoration business. Interesting. “You ever come to Jersey, you look me up. I got a 40-footer, we’ll go out deep sea fishing. It’ll be my turn to show you a good time.” I smiled. “That sounds great, Sal.” He shook my hand and said, “You sure I can’t give you something for your hospitality?” I replied, “Sal, you already did. It was a pleasure being out with you and your nephew.” Jimmy reached out his hand and looked at me with appreciation and respect. Maybe he had potential after all. I shook his hand and told him, “Hey, look out for your uncle. When those shrooms kick in he’s going to think everything’s unicorns and rainbows.” Sal interjected. “Enough with that talk, already.” Jimmy paused and then said, “Thank you for helping us tonight. You’re a good guy.” I nodded and turned to walk away, waving goodbye. They waved back and I walked home.

Amsterdam Eighty-Three: Café Life

It was becoming increasingly clear that I was going to need an assistant or, perhaps, to become an assistant. There were no two ways about it, it had to be one or the other. My preference was for a young, tiny Vietnamese woman who was advanced in martial arts, could speak every Asian language in addition to English and Dutch, and had money to burn. However, I realized I was more likely to find a person who needed an assistant and help them with their various needs through cleverness and creativity, my ability to be vulnerable and nonjudgmental, and my willingness to do any type of drug offered to me. The latter had to be worth something to someone. I didn’t care about being paid; usefulness was my goal. What else would it have been?

Whenever I stood in line at a patisserie waiting for an éclair, I thought of such things. And whenever I bit into an éclair after waiting in line, the thoughts disappeared. By the time I had finished I wouldn’t even think to wonder what I had been thinking about while waiting in line. Instead, I would rub my belly and be happy. Why it should be different, I wasn’t sure. I knew it wasn’t different, though, so I didn’t worry about it. What would have been the point even had I remembered? No, it was better to remember that I thought these things the next time I stood in line waiting for a tasty pastry and then forgetting about them again after taking a bite.

I rode my sugar rush to Eik en Linde. It was too early for Bloem and I hadn’t seen Kasper and company for longer than I could remember. After I locked my bike and walked inside, I saw Peter as well as two older gents I didn’t know sitting around the curly Q. One was sitting in my spot, but I had pretty much forfeited claims to any particular seat since I hadn’t visited regularly since the fall. Nevertheless, I found a good spot against the wall. I placed my laptop bag on the counter, put my coat on the seat, and sat down.

Kasper was busy down the bar so I looked over toward Peter who hadn’t yet realized I was there. As usual, he had a beer sitting in front of him. Each of the old cusses on either side of him also had glasses filled with beer in their hands. I turned to look at the backwards running clock. About 12:45 … meaning it was 11:15 AM. Well, at least it was after eleven. Maybe they had just gotten started.

Not that it mattered. Social mores seemed especially ridiculous with time moving backward. What struck me was not so much the drinking at this early hour, but that Peter didn’t seem to recognize me. The conversation between the three of them switched back and forth between Dutch and English. In a way, it should have made following the conversation a little easier, but that wasn’t the case. I understood referents to marching bands then gorgeous women cycling in the rain and then the fascism of taxing cigarettes. I understood just enough to know that this was a typical brown café conversation. It was, like most Dutch conversations, an equal opportunity affair: no subject would remain uncovered.

When Kasper finally saw me and wandered my way he extended his hand and I shook it vigorously. I asked, “Hoe ben je geweest?” He answered, “Kan niet klagen. Heb je honger?” I said, “Ja, een koffie en uitsmijter mit tomaten, paprika, en champignons.” He nodded his head, but gave me a look. “Je hebt gewerkt aan uw Nederlandse.” I smiled and said, “Niet op doel.” Kasper laughed then said, in English, “You’re getting better, but your translations aren’t quite right. Pretty good, though. Amusing, but good.”

When Daniel turned away to place my order with Philip in the kitchen cubby hole, I turned to look at Peter and the other gents. Peter was eyeing my warily. He said, “Ik dacht dat ik je kende, maar spreek je Nederlands te goed om Michael te zijn.” Motherfucker. Too many words I didn’t know. “Peter, I was pretty much at my limit talking with Kasper.” He guffawed. “Oh, I see. So, you can speak Dutch with Kasper, but I’m not good enough for you.” I shook my head. “No, Peter, you’re too good for me.” This did not sit well with Peter at all. “You disappear for a month and then you come back full of American cow shit.” I corrected him, “Bullshit.” I could see the confusion on Peter’s face so I explained, “The term is ‘bullshit,’ Peter. Cow shit is just cow shit.” Then I added, just to fuck with him, “But maybe that’s what you meant.”

Peter sighed. “No, I remember this now. The cow is the woman and the bull is the man. Why the shit of a man should be so much more deceitful than the shit of a woman? It’s the other way around so I stick to my saying: cow shit.” I laughed then he switched to Dutch, “Twee kunt dit spel, je eentalige Yankee.” The two Dutchmen sitting on either side of Peter laughed heartily. I wasn’t sure what he had said, but I knew it wasn’t flattering. “Peter, all I heard was ‘cunt,’ though I doubt it has the same meaning that it does in America. We’ve already established that I’m the one with linguistic limitations, you know. There’s no need to flaunt it with words I don’t understand.” Peter raised his eyebrows. “Judging from your response, I think you may understand more than you know. Still, you’re not drinking beer yet so my respect is limited.” I shrugged, “I wouldn’t want you to waste it all at once. Glad you’re pacing yourself.”

Kasper returned with my coffee and said, to Peter and I, “It’s too early for this.” Peter shot back, “It’s too late to say ‘it’s too early.’” Kasper waved his hand at Peter dismissively and leaned against the counter in front of me. “So, where have you been? I thought maybe you had left for the States.” I added cream to the coffee then said, “No, no, I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. Never. I’m on the other side of the Amstel, remember? I don’t make it over to this neighborhood too often in the mornings.” Another customer called for Kasper and I sipped my coffee as he walked away.

I talked with Peter and the other two gents intermittently until Kasper brought me my food. As I ate, I listened to the sounds of Dutch resonating throughout the café. I ordered an espresso when I was finished, told Kasper about some of my adventures and misadventures, eliciting a comment about how he missed the single life. I told him I would be happy to switch places as his life seemed idyllic to me: a beautiful wife, a darling daughter, managing his parents’ café, everyday conversations with a mix of fun-loving patrons, both locals and tourists, veering from the lackadaisical to the utmost seriousness. The grass is always greener.

I went out for smokes with Peter occasionally, talking about nothing, jabbing and needling. As the afternoon grew I wondered if I did want Kasper’s life. I certainly had just months earlier, but as I thought about it more seriously I wasn’t so sure. Being single, particularly the way I was living, was in many ways more fulfilling than even the best years of my married life. Would I really want to go back to living that way? I realized I hadn’t spent this much time at Eik en Linde since November and I thought back to that time, about who I had been, how I had felt, my outlook on life. I could barely relate to that person. November had been a weird and wild month, a month of escaping from depression to take control of my life again, to enjoy it, and to direct it in some fashion, even if haphazardly, fumbling according to desire and pleasure as much as anything else. And yet, I made critical decisions that allowed me, in the early spring, to shift as easily from wild partying with sex and drugs to meandering mornings and afternoons in free-flowing conversations with witty, down-to-earth friends and acquaintances at a cozy, familiar café. There was no more anxiety, no depression, only creativity, adventure, and appreciation.

When I ordered a beer from Kasper mid-afternoon as the café continued to fill up, I thought about how unusual it was to experience so many different modes of being within such short periods of time, how each moment simultaneously shifted both subtly and strikingly without contradiction. Every person sitting or standing within view, within earshot, moved or spoke with different rhythms, different cadences. They contrasted with the movements and sounds of the party over the weekend and yet there were similarities in the sense that the interactions were familiar while being diverse. The commonality was vitality. There was life here just as there had been there. The forms life took seemed different on the surface, but not at their core. This told me nothing in particular; I had no great insight. I felt alive, though, and I appreciated being in the presence of life.

I hadn’t touched my laptop since arriving. When I saw the clock at 7:30—meaning 4:30—I paid my tab. I had already said goodbye to Kasper as his shift had ended at four. Peter and the other two fellows had left early in the afternoon. I hadn’t spoken much in the preceding hours except with Kasper, but I had felt fully immersed in the life of the café just the same, observing expressions and gestures while listening to Dutch, French, and English throughout the afternoon.

I left the café, unlocked my bike, and rode to Bloem. A full day of cafés. It had been some time since I had lived such a day. I locked my bike and walked into Bloem, taking a seat at the bar. I waved to Daniel as he served a customer at a table. Isa was working behind the bar and I ordered a Floreffe. He poured it, knifed the foam off the top, and placed it on a coaster in front of me. After a few minutes of simple but amiable chatting between us, Daniel pulled up a seat next to me. There were only a few customers present so it seemed he had time. The three of us talked about inconsequential matters for a couple minutes then Isa went to attend to a couple that had walked in the door.

Daniel checked on a table then asked me if I wanted to join him for a smoke outside. Once we were outside, Daniel sighed and said, “I’m thinking of breaking it off with Sophia.” Whoa. “Really? Why?” Daniel took a drag and exhaled. “We’re too different. She’s, well, she’s a slob.” I laughed. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.” He shook his head and threw his butt into a coffee can serving as an ashtray. “She gets up at noon, smokes pot, and either goes back to sleep or sits stoned in front of the TV or listens to music. She’s lazy.” Wow. I really wouldn’t have guessed that. I hemmed a bit, though. “She does work late so maybe …” I trailed off as Daniel looked at me sharply. “So do I, but I don’t sleep all day.” I asked in what way she was a slob. “Clutter everywhere. She doesn’t clean up. Too stoned.” Huh. I was usually productive and energetic while high, but then again being stoned was another matter. Daniel continued, “It’s okay, it’s her choice. It’s not what I want, though. I mean, she’s twenty-six. That’s young, yes, but she acts like she’s still in college. We’re not a good fit. I love her spirit, but ... I don’t know, it’s not enough, not long-term.”

They had only been seeing each other three weeks, as far as I knew, and they had been full of fire every other time I saw them. But Daniel was certainly not lazy. He had a consistent high energy, working seventy or eighty hours each week often with enough juice to keep going after work. I had wondered about that in the past, how he always seemed to be fresh even after a long night out. Month after month maintaining that stamina? I didn’t allow myself to wonder too much, though. It wasn't my business. Some people are high-octane, although Daniel never seemed harried. Maybe that was it, too: he was always within his skin, he didn't over-extend himself. Being that relaxed, eighty hour weeks may not have felt like eighty hour weeks.

I understood his feelings about his relationship with Sophia, though. She wasn’t just a friend; she was his girlfriend and they had gotten serious fast. That measure of day-to-day sharing of life meant giving up at least some of one’s self in order to make the relationship work. If Daniel’s perspective was accurate—and I had no reason to believe it wasn’t—then he had been giving much more ground than Sophia. I had a hard time seeing Daniel hanging out all day doing nothing with Sophia sitting in a cluttered room. Daniel was patient and nonjudgmental, but giving up so much of who he was all the time? I couldn’t imagine that being satisfying for him. Or anyone else, really, but I was probably more like Daniel in that regard. I liked a clean space and I preferred activity.

“Have you mentioned any of this to Sophia?” Daniel folded his arms. “Yeah. We’ve had a couple arguments, but that hasn’t changed anything. The longer we’re together the worse it will be. Better to end it early. Better for both of us.” I thought about it, though. She seemed crazy about Daniel. Even after only a few weeks, this would sting. Sophia seemed like one who dove in heart first. She may have had her other habits, but her heart was passionate, beautiful. It was a shame because they had seemed like such a great fit emotionally--she brought out something in Daniel I hadn’t seen before they started seeing each other. Emotions alone are never enough, though. Neither is great sex, though that makes up for a lot. Still, it wasn't like Daniel would be wanting for bedroom companionship.

As we walked back inside, Daniel said, “Don’t tell anyone about this. I just needed to get it off my chest.” I patted him on the back and said, “No problem. If you want to talk about it more or, you know, after, just give me a call.” Daniel smiled a little then got back to work. A few more tables were filled and Isa seemed to be scrambling. I sat back at the bar, my Floreffe nearly finished.

After Isa had dealt with the new tables, he came around the bar to fill drinks. He poured another for me then took a tray full of drinks to the tables he was serving. Daniel was in the kitchen placing orders. Busy for a Monday. I took out my MacBook and placed it on the bar, turning it on while drinking. I figured things would be busy for a while and I wanted to take a look at the PDFs for the next indexing project.

After checking email and reading a little news, I shut it down. The rush had slowed and I ordered the special of the day, chatting with Isa here and there until the food was ready. Daniel took a break and talked with me a bit from behind the bar while Isa waited tables. We kept it light, jovial. When I finished eating I went back to the kitchen and complimented Dorlan. He was Turkish, but spoke Dutch well. Most of our communication was nonverbal and when it was verbal we communicated mostly through tone, volume, and inflection. I liked him, but it wasn’t possible to get to know him well with the language barrier. Most of what I knew of him came from Daniel. I imagined it was the same for Dorlan.

Daniel joined me for another cigarette and this time we smoked in silence. I felt more intimacy with Daniel when there were no words. I noticed his presence more acutely. I still hadn’t figured out a way to describe the dynamic, but I cherished it. If I was stranded on a desert island with only one person, I would want that person to be Daniel. I would choose him over a woman even. Yes, the sex issue, but I would never feel alone if he was present. We could go without talking for months and I wouldn’t feel any distance. He had that quality and I didn’t know any women who had that—I didn’t know anyone besides Daniel who had that.

As the hours passed and Bloem’s customers cleared out, Daniel, Isa, and I talked about all manner of subjects, mostly politics, economics, and philosophy. Isa listened more often than he spoke and he seemed to enjoy when Daniel and I argued over politics and economics. We agreed on many things, but Daniel was more of a capitalist. I understood his point of view and his arguments had merit, but there were flaws. We didn’t see eye to eye over the damage of international trade.

When Daniel’s wife, Ana, walked into Bloem late, she and Daniel spoke in Dutch at the end of the bar. Isa told me he was fascinated by the conversation. “You’re both passionate. I’m learning quite a bit, too.” I knew Isa was an economics major, very intelligent, but he was only 21 so he lacked real-world experience related to a number of economic issues. Ana, meanwhile, walked toward me on my side of the bar. I stood and kissed her on each cheek. Daniel said, from across the bar, “You just picked up an ally, Michael. Ana’s views are aligned with yours. It's bad enough dealing with the Dutch on these issues, but you, Michael, an American?” Danile shook his head and threw up his hands. “What's the world coming to?” Ana seemed perplexed. I said, “Politics and economics.” She smiled knowingly as she sat down next to me.

From our first meeting, I knew Ana volunteered at Greenpeace and lived in a squat. I figured her politics would be more in line with mine. Daniel possessed a minority view in Amsterdam, but certainly not an exclusive view. There were many international businesses in the city and certainly in the country. The Dutch, I had learned, certainly had a “capitalist class.” Daniel was a fan of the United States—for the most part—but it seemed that it was more because he had been surrounded by radical Dutch culture for a decade and held onto an American ideal tightly. He may have been somewhat conservative as a Dutchmen, but he would have been a liberal in the States, certainly on social issues. His wife was a lesbian, for crissakes, and he had as many gay friends as straight. That seemed typical in Amsterdam, though. Daniel was tolerant and, at least socially, libertarian. He wasn't quite as libertarian when it came to fiscal policy. His issues were with what he thought were excessive rights and privileges for workers, but from the conversation he understood that the United States was on the opposite extreme. A happy middle was what Daniel desired and I could understand that sentiment even though I didn't believe such a happy medium could feasibly be achieved.

Ana left at closing time and I stayed only a half hour after that. It had been good to see her again; it was a surprise I hadn’t expected. I had spent over twelve hours in my favorite cafés with good friends over the course of the day. From the wilds of the weekend to the softer rhythms of the early week, I felt fat and happy. I rode through the cold on the way home, marveling, as I so often did, at living in such a magical city.

Future Status of Tiny Houses

Imagine that in a decade, technology advances to the extent that machines, gadgets, computers, and all manner gizmos take care of literally every need and desire of everyone on the planet. However, the governments of the world agree that to maintain a sense of responsibility and community for every person, everyone has to be a housekeeper … for the house or apartment directly to the east of their own house or apartment. Everyone is granted one year to move and to otherwise get their affairs in order to adjust. But … housing prices are frozen for that year based on existing assessments and rents are frozen based on current prices and once that year is up no one has to pay rents or mortgages any more. Money disappears because technology, as I said, has advanced to the point that every need and desire can be provided—at no cost and with minimal environmental degradation.

Now, it’s known by everyone during that year that whenever they are not cleaning and maintaining a neighbor’s home or apartment that the rest of their time can be spent on leisure in whatever ways they want. Every person has to work only for as long as it takes to clean the neighbor’s home. Through speculation and calculation, people realize right away that the smaller their neighbor’s home or apartment is, the more leisure time they will have.

Additionally, each house/apt. always has to clean the next house on the east, even if the next house/apt. is a hundred miles away. Meanwhile, each house/apt. on every continent that has no property to the west has no housekeeper which means that the people living in those homes and apartments will have to clean their own house/apartment as well as the one to the east. On the other hand, each house/apt. on every continent that has no property to the east has no housekeeping duties meaning all of their time will be leisure time.

Given all that, imagine the scramble of people to relocate. No one can ever move to a new location (save for a nursing home) after that first year has ended. I know this doesn’t account for children becoming adults and moving into places of their own, but just imagine new properties are only built as needed in such situations based on a random computer-generated process, like a lottery, to place them in reasonable locations if empty houses (or soon to be empty houses) are not available. Otherwise, people are stuck in place after that first year. Everyone is allowed only one residence so vacation homes and the like are converted to residences that are available on the open market. Every excess house/apt. will either be maintained for housing of children when they become adults or demolished. When a person or couple or family dies or moves into nursing homes, hospitals for care—whatever—the residence will open for new children or adults.

After constructing this scenario, my first thought was that studio and one-bedroom apartments would become incredibly hot properties and ten thousand square foot McMansions would strike fear into the hearts of every person everywhere in America and, of course, the world. But not necessarily. Families have varying numbers of children of differing ages, including couples with no children and single adults. There would be couples and single persons who may want children in the future and couples or single parents who have one child remaining in high school who would be moving out in a year or two. Single people may be thinking they will eventually want to get married and married couples (or couples living together), one spouse or the other if not both, may be thinking they may eventually want to divorce or split up—and divorce/separating would be a significant issue because relocation would only be allowed if there were existing houses/apts. available (meaning, the divorced couple may have to remain living together for some time before a property became available).

Divorce/separation (meaning also couples living together but not married) would also be significant because one spouse would remain in the current residence. Because there may be many couples who wind up in houses they didn’t like, there could be quite a battle to leave the house rather than to keep it. On the other hand, it won’t be known by either partner/spouse where they will relocate or into what size of house/apt. Because of the problems involved, a flip of the coin will determine the outcome.

So, as I said, it’s not clear which properties will be the hottest commodities and which won’t. It’s likely, though, that houses larger than, say, 4000 square feet will be unattractive to most people because they’ll likely be living to the west of a similarly large house—which a person or family or group (roommates) would have to clean. My thinking is that areas with large mansions could become the equivalent of dilapidated inner cities. Some could be razed or left empty for children becoming adults or spouses/partners splitting up because those living in them who managed to purchase or rent another house, condo, or apt. were not able to sell them.

Still, I think studios, one bedrooms, and two bedroom houses, condos, and apartments would be hot sellers because they would likely be in areas where the next house/apt./condo to the east would be similarly sized which, of course, leaves that much more leisure time after cleaning each day. And if I didn’t make this clear earlier, cleaning has to occur according to specific regulations of cleanliness/maintenance. A residence has to be cleaned every four days no matter what (although everyone gets six weeks of vacation time each year and during times when people are on holiday people are responsible for cleaning their own home in addition to their neighbor’s homes—imagine the wrangling amongst neighbors related to when someone to the west takes a holiday!) If it takes six twelve hour days each week to meet regulations then so be it. If it takes four hours every four days to clean a place, so be it. I think this makes it clear why living in an area with smaller properties becomes extraordinarily attractive.

So, as a thought experiment, what happens that year of scrambling? Because money is going to meaningless in a year, what are people trading in order to purchase hot properties in certain locations? Will those living in a studio apartment with a studio apartment to the east near the beach in San Diego be willing to give up the place for any price, for any trade? Perhaps, if the person is engaged and wants to have children. It’s really a crap shoot even up to a certain square footage and even then it might depend on location. Maybe it’s worth it to someone to live next to a seven thousand square foot house if they have ocean views in Monterrey, California. Maybe. Will people try to move from one country to another? Since technology will provide for everything everywhere in the world, maybe a nice house next to a nice house in a coastal African town seems great to some. If it’s part of the deal that all homes will be fixed up and all plumbing, electric, roofing, and other upgrades will be done, formerly dilapidated areas of cities may become attractive because of smaller-sized houses/apts. and maybe poor people in those areas not thinking terribly clearly would be willing to swap their two-bedroom flat for a splashy pad next to a fifteen-thousand foot house. Maybe some offer sex (for a year or however long) in exchange for a desired property. Who knows?

On the other hand, how is life after that first year? How are neighbor relations affected by persons and families who are incredibly messy? Will people be inconsiderate or disrespectful toward others? Will alliances develop among people living two houses apart in order to keep neighbors honest (so to speak) in order to discourage people from living like slobs? After all, the amount of time people spend housekeeping will be largely dependent on how well each place is cared for by residents.

The possibilities go on and on. Interesting to think about how different life would be, how status would change. Single women who got stuck in 5000 square foot homes are suddenly going to bars and parties or using online dating sites to try to hook up with men or women (or both) living in one and two bedroom apartments:

“You live in Manor Apartments?”

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t those all one bedroom apartments?”

“Yup.”

“Have I mentioned how hot you are?”

Amsterdam Eighty-Two: So It Goes

There was no one around when I woke up. From where I was lying on the bed, splayed out and unable to move, I could see a tall, narrow window rising toward the ceiling. The light coming through seemed pre-dawn, jaundiced from a low-hung blanket of clouds catching the dulled orange light of the city. My body ached. My head throbbed. Water, more than anything I wanted water.

I didn’t dare move. It would have been a grave mistake. I was possessed of some madness, remnants of the previous night--or possibly several nights. I couldn’t tell how long I had been in this bed nor what had last happened before I had passed out and slept. There were no memories to access, nothing accessible; my thirst was too distracting. Even though I couldn’t remember specifics or time frames, I felt untethered by unending wildness. That was good, perhaps, possibly just what was needed. How much more was needed, though? What would I take away from these adventures? I was separating from the past, falling into the present, but what of the future?

I shook it off. It wasn’t wise to think of the future, not in such states. Perhaps never. That was what had gotten me in trouble in the first place, lamenting the past and fearing the future. Past and future, though, provided orientation. How could I anchor myself without them? How could I use them to position myself without the present disappearing, as had happened in my bleakest depressions? If I was to think of the past and future there had to be a more beneficial process. Maybe I was ready for that. Events such as those with Auriana, Ellie, Sterre, and the throngs of unknown faces in places I had never been provided windows for reflection.

I forced myself into a sitting position. My head, dear fuck, my head throbbed. I hadn’t drank any alcohol, not that I could remember. Cocaine, LSD, what else? I didn’t know. I crept toward the edge of the bed and stood up. I looked around the floor and saw nothing that looked like clothing. I had a flashing memory of a pink robe and bunny slippers, but I didn’t see them anywhere. The room looked familiar to me. That seemed odd, because the room of hidden sex, as I thought of it, had been completely dark. Could I have blacked out for a day, two days, a week? I wasn't hungover; exhausted and dehydrated mixed with an odd, vaguely anxious feeling of “what-the-fuck-happened?”

I pulled a pink sheet off the bed and wrapped myself in it. Pinks and reds seemed to be following me everywhere. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but my mind was trying like crazy to find a meaning. Why? Reassurance? Shit, thoughts layered on thoughts. A maze.

Enough. Water. I stood up and walked to the stairs. As I descended, I saw the couches and then the paintings on the wall. Auriana’s apartment. How the fuck? The living room, bathed in the sounds of Sigur Ros’ Svefn-g-englr, seemed impossibly present. I looked into the dining room and saw Auriana and Ellie drinking from glasses filled with blood-red liquids and fruits. Sangria. They looked over at me, smiling. Auri said, “Hey, you’re awake.” Debatable. Ellie poured me a glass and handed it to me. The first touch of liquid red to my lips filled me with sugar. I drank it all and sucked a slice of blood orange into my mouth.

Ellie took my glass and refilled it. When she handed it to me, I put it down and hugged her. “I’m so glad you’re here right now.” I looked at Auri and said, “Both of you.” Auri fixed me a plate of an avocado salad. I disembarked from Ellie’s arms then drank and ate voraciously. By the time I had returned to some semblance of humanity, we were in the living room, sitting on a couch together, our legs intertwined, our bodies enmeshed. We smoked from a hash pipe now and then, talking about nothing that mattered as if it meant something. It was the best feeling in the world.

Eventually, I asked where Sterre was. Auri looked at Ellie then at me and said, “She left this afternoon. She had to catch a train to Berlin, remember?” No, I didn’t. “Wait a minute, she just got back from Berlin.” Auri responded, “Michael, she moved to Berlin today. She was just back to take care of a few things, say her goodbyes.” What?! “Nobody said anything to me? We were at the party and then ... I don’t remember what happened.” Ellie said, “You didn’t talk about it with her? You came back this morning and went upstairs together to sleep.” I didn’t remember any of it. I had no memory of sleeping with her. Underneath the shock, I could feel my heart aching. “Shit, I never even had a chance to fully comprehend that she was here. What happened between being at the party and waking up today? I don't even know what time it is. She left in the afternoon? Isn’t it morning now?” Ellie put her hands on my cheeks. “Baby, it’s seven o’clock.“ I asked, “AM?” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “It’s Sunday night.” Fuck, a whole day passed without my knowing.

“You don’t remember coming back here?” I turned to Auriana and said, “No. I have a vague remembrance of walking downstairs from the ...” I didn’t know how to finish. “I went upstairs with you, Auri, but at some point everything just ... I can’t access it. It’s all a jumble, sensual chaos.” Auri smiled. “I don’t know what happened to you once we were up there.” I looked into her eyes, “Wasn’t I with you?” She nodded her head. "You were, but I lost touch with you and then, well ...” She trailed off.

It was nearing eleven and I was getting tired. “I think I’m going to cruise.” Auri said, “You don't have to go. You can sleep here.” I was tempted, but I declined. “I need to rest tonight.”  Eliene laughed, “What, you can't rest here?” It was so easy to be honest with them. “I'm getting horny just thinking about staying here.” I heard laughter instereo, Ellie high-pitched and girlish to the right and Auri a deeper belly laugh on my left. I sat up and looked out the window. It didn’t appear to be raining, but I could see from the trees it was windy. I was sure it was cold as well. I looked at Ellie, her eyes sparkling an invitation. Fuck, it was difficult to leave their apartment. I felt like I was in a different world when I was with them. They were so different from anyone else I knew. But, as I thought about it, that was true of nearly everyone I had gotten to know in Amsterdam. It took my breath away.

I really wanted to sleep in my own bed, though, to wake up in my apartment the next morning. I needed to settle down, to give my head a rest. I felt my chest tightening, though, as I thought of leaving. I didn’t want to leave; I was confused. It felt like I might be leaving them forever and that thought hurt more than I was ready to feel. An image of Sterre became clear in my mind, she in her rainbow stockings, but otherwise dressed all in black and red. I saw her nose, her lips, those hazel eyes blinking between strands of orange and strawberry-blonde hair. Oh, it hurt. Leaving them would be like leaving her even though she was already gone. I took a breath and wiped the tears away from my eyes. “I can’t believe Sterre is gone.” Auri hugged me and said, “I think you should stay tonight.” I shook my head. “Promise me that if I leave we'll get together again before I return to the States.” She said yes. I breathed easier and got up off the couch.

Auri got up with me and showed me to my backpack so I could change. When I was dressed, Auri gave me a couple bumps from her vile, a happier energy to make cycling home more pleasant. She hugged me and told me to call soon. Ellie gave me a hug, too, then I put on my coat, hat, and scarf. As I slipped on my backpack, I said to Auri and Ellie, “I love you.” Then I was out the door and down the stairs.

It was worse than I expected outside. The wind was whipping, freezing. If there had been any precipitation it would have been sleet or snow. I unlocked my bike and started down Marco Polostraat with the wind was at my back. I rode fast and hard. The streets were all but empty. The sky was blue-black, the clouds high in the sky. As I pulled out to the northeast and crossed the bridge, the canal spread like watered glass even as the trees lining either side waved violently. The trams crept like caterpillars next to me before I cut harder north.

My memory was packed with vivid details, a mix of visions from reels of films. Faces, bodies, and movements intertwined along an abandoned church edifice made of flesh, a fickle facade built equal parts of dreams and reality, all of it a vessel of mystery. I wandered to the hidden room of belligerent sex magic, a sacred space of enlightened madness. The scent of lawless abandon filled in the air, a jungle of limbs, swampy ebullience, and lush overgrowth oozing the liquidity of chants culled from the forgotten languages. It had been a volcanic environment of unashamed aggression between hungering monsters and moist souls, a bubbling crater of lust erupting between legs and flowing from mouths. Nature dominated; nature won. There was nothing more fundamental than fucking through screams of ecstasy indistinguishable from howls of terror.

No matter how much I tried, though, I couldn’t place myself within the throng. Skirts had been hoisted and elastic bands of panties ripped; there were bellies round, thighs slim, hips curvy, and laughter husky. I couldn't remember a word being uttered, just grunts, moans, bellows, noises I couldn't identify. Masks had been lifted, tossed out windows, shattered on the pavement outside. An identity of squirm and swarm overwhelmed etiquette and decorum. Individuality was lost in the mass and, perhaps for that reason, time was immeasurable. 

When I reached the tranquility of Vondel Park, the memories faded and my thoughts settled. The wind was weaker, buffered by the trees and tall shrubs. I was flying. The blow had fueled my manic memories, but now I felt a relaxed euphoria. By the time I crossed under the Stadhouderskade I had stopped thinking altogether. Observing the lights, the cyclists, and the buildings while feeling the cold and listening to the wind was enjoyable, but the sensations became milder as I turned onto Zieseniskade, then Spiegelgracht, and then Prinsengracht. When I crossed the bridge on Utrechtsestraat and turned toward home on Kerkstraat, I felt numb. I was functioning, but that was about it. My street filled me with no more amazement than if I had been riding by a strip mall. Maybe the coke had worn off or I was just exhausted from the wildness of the past days and nights. 

I parked my bike, locked it, and slogged upstairs with my backpack, dropping it inside the door as I walked inside the apartment. I tossed my hat, gloves, and scarf on the table then let my coat fall to the ground halfway through the living room as I went to the couch along the window. I opened it and smoked a cigarette, staring blankly while smoking, thoughts arising only after I snuffed the butt in the ashtray. Sterre had moved to Berlin. The news registered with a different reality, a finality. Ellie had dosed me before I even knew Sterre was there. I wouldn’t have let Ellie place the tab on my tongue if I had known Sterre was there. Had she thought I knew Sterre was leaving for Berlin? Why didn't Sterre tell me? Questions without answers.

I had the sense that I would never see her again. I didn’t know with certainty, but my insides were churning in a way that made me think that I wouldn’t. I couldn’t remember sleeping with her after we left the party; I didn’t even remember leaving the party. There would be no memories of our last hours together.

I felt robbed, but the feeling lasted only briefly as memories came flooding back. It seemed like I had met her years ago, but it had only been a couple months. I had woken on the street after a night of shrooming, amazed and wide-eyed at being alive in Amsterdam, at first surprised that I hadn’t been mugged, but then remembered I was in the city of love. I had been looking at the buildings lit by the rising sun along the Amstel when I saw her walking over the bridge in mismatched colors. It was as if no one else saw her, as if she was visible only to me. Filled with the lively possibility that anything could happen by simply reaching out my hand or uttering a word, I walked alongside her and peppered her with ridiculousness for block after block until she finally relented and engaged with me. On any other day, I might have let her walk on by me. But that day, I had eyes for the strange. As I thought about that, I realized it was because I was every bit as strange as she was.

I sat back on the couch. I wasn’t awed by having become who I was. I hadn’t been for some time. Everything that had happened, the decisions I had made, the way I had been living, the experiences I’d had, they all fit who I was. I felt that, in Amsterdam, I finally was becoming the person who had been buried underneath the suffocating muck of American adolescence and adulthood. I also felt like I was still wiping the muck off my skin. At least I could see. I was a traveler, a vagabond, just as much as Sterre or anyone else. I had been delusional thinking that I was the identities I had adopted to survive in the United States. Those had been masks I had put on to protect myself, masks that in Amsterdam were unnecessary hindrances.

I leaned forward and loaded a bowl on the coffee table. I didn’t feel sad that Sterre had left. I had so many other friends in Amsterdam and I would meet so many more. People come and go. Making rigid attachments left no room for change. The time I had spent with Sterre had resulted in remarkable changes. Nothing was going to erase those experiences and, I thought, nothing had been lost. I would probably never have any new experiences with her, but as I lit up and inhaled, I thought, “I wonder what will happen tomorrow?”

Dystopia, Inc.

“Mr. Erogance!”

“What is it, Fetchwater?!”

“I’m going to hand you your lunch!”

Erogance looked at the toadies sitting around the conference room table who wiped his ass with words of praise every day as he pointed at a middle-aged bald man with sagging shoulders and a rumpled suit while saying, “You, what’s your name?!”

“Werth.”

“No, fucknuts, your last name!”

“Liskisasch.”

“Liskisasch, yeah, that’s right! Tell me why Fetchwater appears, on the surface, to be showing initiative!”

Werth Liskisasch shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, sir, I believe it’s because, um … I, uh ... I don’t know, sir.”

Mr. Erogance, a manly man who was thirty-five, tall, and built like a lion with a head of Viking-like white-blonde hair, a chiseled jaw with high cheek bones, steely blue eyes, and a perpetual tan, adjusted his red tie, removed his suit coat, and said, “Liskisasch, you piece of shit, hold this while I think!”

Liskisasch, dowdy and uncoordinated, stumbled out of his chair and shuffled quickly with his head hung low to hold Erogance's suitcoat. Whenever he inhaled, Erogance’s chest heaved, stretching his blue undershirt tight across the chest. Before Liskisasch could grab the coat, Erogance let it drop to the floor and bellowed, “Liskisash, you incompetent buffoon! Pick up my fucking suitcoat and take it to the dry cleaner! I’ll beat you for your insolence later!”

Liskisasch, humiliated as he had been every day of his life, picked up the suit coat and waddled out of the room with tears in his eyes.

Erogance looked directly at the woman sitting next to Fetchwater. “Let that be a lesson to you, Ballichre! I'm the man waving around the big fucking dick! You were shit when you were born, you're shit now, and you'll forever be shit until I tell you to be something besides shit!”

Trenchant Ballichre nodded her head vigorously but said nothing. She had become used to such verbal abuse and harassment. While she disliked being mistreated so cruelly on a daily basis, she also knew that she had no job title nor any responsibilities of any sort. Of course, no member of Erogance’s staff had a job title other than “staff” and not one of them had any responsibilities at all except to listen to Erogance berate them every day.

Erogance looked about the room. Heads had turtled between shoulders and the suits of both women and men seemed to be worn for armor rather than corporate protocol. Erogance grumbled haughtily and yelled, “Where was I?!”

Fetchwater’s hand flew up in the air, waving vigorously.

“Fetchwater, I’m right here you fucking dipshit! Speak up and stop waving your damned hand like a fucking school girl!”

“Sir, I’m going to hand you your lunch!”

Erogance peered into Fetchwater’s large, round eyes, almost entirely white except for a tiny ring of brown around his black retinas. Fetchwater gulped and pulled his hand down slowly. Erogance bent down, put his hands on his knees, and moved his face within inches of Fetchwater’s.

After nearly a minute of silence marked only by the flaring of Erogance’s nostrils and Fetchwater’s incessantly blinking eyes, Erogance’s mouth exploded violently and, with wild flapping of cheeks and smacking of lips, shrieks of violent noise assaulted Fetchwater’s face: “Goddamnit, Fetch, you festering pustule, hand me my fucking lunch before I shit a hole in your chest!”

At that, Fetchwater timidly leaned over the side of his chair and lifted a Styrofoam container. He then dipped his head and handed Mr. Erogance his lunch. 

Erogance took hold of it, stood up, and opened the container. “What the fuck is this, Fetch?!”

“I believe it’s a calzone, sir.”

“No, you fucking shithead, the fucking container!”

“Wh-wh-what do you mean, sir?”

“Wh-wh-what the fuck do you think I mean, you stupid fucking twat?!”

“Well, it’s, um, I guess it’s, uh, Styrofoam?”

“Did you just tell me in the form of a question?! You don’t have the fucking balls to come out and say ‘It’s Styrofoam’ when you know goddamned fucking well that it is?! You gutless fuck!” With his free hand, Erogance slapped Fetchwater’s face so hard that strings of snotty saliva flew two seats down and landed on the tiny bird-like face of Titlittle Patchsnatch who flinched momentarily but otherwise said nothing while allowing the gunk to remain stuck to her forehead, cheek, and nose. Fetch’s combover stood up straight in the air as he righted himself. He put his hand to his right cheek which was rapidly turning from pasty white to bright pink.

Fetch’s eyes were watering which caused Erogance to ask, “Are you crying, you little bitch, cause I can smack you a fuck-ton harder if you’d like?!”

Fetch meekly stuttered, “N-n-n-no, sir.”

For the first time all day, Erogance muttered barely above his breath. “Stuttering pussy.”

Almost immediately, though, his fiery indignation returned. “Why the fuck am I holding a Styrofoam container?! Anyone?! Do any of you living turds remember what I said about Styrofoam containers?! I want fucking ten of them with every fucking meal! And what the fuck do I get today?! ONE! One motherfucking Styrofoam container from a frumpy little twaddler who can’t even live up to his fucking pathetic name! Fetch, I will torture and kill you if you ever disappoint me again! Do you understand me?! Am I making myself clear?! You will be exterminated in the most heinous fucking way if you so much as blink the rest of the day! I own you, motherfucker! I literally own you!”

This was true. Erogance owned every single member of his staff. In the Corporate States of Dystopia, Inc., corporate owners owned all of their employees, often purchasing them at birth then having them raised to become sycophants, lackeys, and brownnosers. Erogance’s staff members, while owned, were not slaves. According to corporate law and charters, employees were assets, having lost their rights to be humans because of unpaid debts. With bankruptcy outlawed, humans were legally required to sign over their rights as humans in exchange for loans from corporations if they lacked sufficient funds to purchase goods such as food, water, and shelter. If they were unable to pay back these loans, which they inevitably were as there were no jobs for humans, they either relinquished their rights as humans and became assets or signed over their children or potential offspring—to be delivered by a certain date determined within the terms of the loan—as assets to corporations.

While none of this would have made much sense to generations past, corporations had wiped out history and the illicit study of history was a crime punishable by relinquishing rights to be humans and becoming assets which were often denigrated, humiliated, tortured, or killed depending on the whims of corporate owners. This was common corporate practice because other than granting loans, corporations no longer produced anything or served any economic function. Technology had advanced to such a degree that every possible need and want of every human being--and asset--could be provided at any moment. Corporate ownership in generations past had seen this change coming on the horizon well before the public so they gradually changed the laws in every nation around the world and eventually eliminated governments entirely by instituting what amounted to corporate feudalism. Resisters were eliminated during long wars in places where corporate owners did not live until there were only cowards who chose to remain alive in a world in which they were most likely to lose their status as human beings as they were assimilated by corporations as assets.

For generations past, questions about why corporations weren’t abolished and near-utopian societies established never arose because those who would have asked such questions were killed before technology provided for all of society’s needs and desires without any management or effort from humans. Thus, things were as they were because humans with proclivities for curiosity and skepticism had been bred almost entirely out of existence. A species of unthinking cowards was being bred to replace them.

Corporate owners were quick to pat themselves on the back for eliminating poverty and homelessness. They had done this by holding press conferences declaring that poverty and homelessness had been eradicated. Thus, they had been. Corporate society had progressed, as owners liked to say, to the point where there were no more humans living under bridges or out in the elements. This was true. Those who had been homeless or were about to become homeless were forced to accept loans for housing and then when they defaulted they became assets owned by corporations. The early homeless, which included what had been the middle classes and even the upper middle classes, were often exterminated immediately after becoming corporate assets to eliminate the possibility of rebellion or revolt, but as new generations succeeded those from the old world, immediate terminations became less and less necessary due to successful eugenics programs which had all but eradicated qualities such as courage from humans who were not corporate owners.

The Corporate States of Dystopia, Inc., were on the verge of eliminating all humans who did not own corporations because nearly every newborn was coming into the world as a corporate-owned asset. A countdown to the last human, based on computer algorithms, was being watched by corporate owners—who could have easily made every human an asset at any time but didn’t because, well, where was the sport in that? Each owner, man and woman, anxiously awaited the indulgent celebrations that were set to take place once the last human became an asset. A person from past generations may have asked, “Where is the sport in that?” The answer to that question, had it been asked even though it wasn’t, was that the very last non-asset, non-owner human would be granted ownership status. One from the past may have thought that would have created killing sprees or remarkable and ingenious strategies for remaining alive while others perished, but initiative had been bred out of all non-assets who were not currently owners.

A man or woman from long ago may have wondered how any of this could have been exciting for owners, but such curiosities never arose long ago and, thus, no one wondered, but had a person wondered then the answer might now be that it simply didn’t matter what anyone from the past thought because they weren't present. The excitement for owners, though, came from thinking about future generations of corporate owners. By making an owner of one human who had been bred without any redeeming qualities, there stood the chance that all future owners might eventually be overtaken by the spread of cowardly, sycophantic genes thus ending for all of humanity any enjoyment of being alive in any way, shape, or form. The reason that this was so exciting for owners was because they thought of themselves as living in possibly the last age of civilization in which life was worth living. This made mortality much easier to swallow; the elimination of history hadn't hurt the cause, either. The logic may have been flawed, but then again corporate owners were known for their cunning ruthlessness rather than the use of logic or reason, both of which had gotten in the way of profits during ages when profits still existed.

Thus, Mr. Erogance continued his tirades while buying new assets so that he could abuse, rape, torture, and kill them. He lived a depraved and unsatisfying life.