I never learned their names. After we ate breakfast they did more coke. We listened to music, talked only a little, and once the sweater was dry the women bought a gram of coke from me and took a cab to wherever the hell they were going. I was glad they were gone. I was exhausted and didn’t want any more blow. Just sleep. That was all. Just sleep.
…
I couldn’t sleep, though. I kept waking up wondering how I had gotten into a situation like that. It was all too easy to say yes when someone suggested a shot or offered a line, an invitation to keep the connection going. With even the slightest hint of saying no, I could see a shroud of darkness forming between us. It was as if we were being transported to a distant past when they were about to set sail to America to embark on new lives and new futures while threatening to leave me behind in a war-torn or famine-plagued land. I would be creating a permanent gulf between us if I said no.
It had been that way for longer than I could remember. I suffered from a perfectionism of heightened connections. Rejecting an opportunity for a shared experience? Perhaps I had been raised in the Great Depression of Relationships. It seemed likely; I came of age in the United States of Reagan, a time when communities collapsed, families split, and migrations began. I went a decade without seeing friends and family during my childhood. There was no way to pick up where we had left off once we reconnected; there was only starting over. But that didn’t happen, certainly not in the same loving ways.
Migration had been my way as an adult, too. I had learned by then how to meet people, make friends fast, and then allow them to drift away as, inevitably, either they or I migrated onward. The globalized economy had made humanity nomadic again. The civilization that the agrarian revolution began had been toppled in a unique way. The world now existed as an economy. There was a big difference between the two. One had been rooted in the land while the other was bound to technology.
All of these things made connections between people fragile. The most unstable relationships in the contemporary world were between friends. It was difficult to maintain relationships. The world’s economy under advanced technology made humans move like electrons in excited states. We were more often colliding than connecting. Under these modern laws of economic and technological physics, it was a real risk to turn down an offer to do another shot and part ways for the evening. Weird, but the world had not adjusted its ideas about what was dangerous. Most people still thought it was drugs or violence, but conventional wisdom was no longer conventional nor wise. It had become risky to pass up a chance to merge with another at a time when opportunities were dwindling.
…
I woke in the evening and still felt disoriented. Smoking pot seemed like the only good idea so I loaded a bowl and puffed, boiled a can of soup, and ate straight from the pot. I put in a load of laundry, mostly sheets and pillowcases, took a shower, replaced the bedding, and slept.
…
I felt human the next day. Groggy at first, but happy to feel somewhat like myself. I wondered about the bender again and realized I had made no real connections. The excitement suggested there were, but once that passed there was nothing left but foggy memories and strange worries about what I couldn’t remember. If Amsterdam had provided me anything it was a multitude of opportunities to connect with quality people. Why did I waste time with the fashionista party patrol when I could have gone to see Daniel or Kasper, friends who provided genuine connections rather than the fleeting variety?
The Schuim woman. That was why I had gone there after finishing the index. I was work-free for the rest of my stay and was expecting to hook up with the woman who had passed by my window when I was shrooming the previous week. When I didn’t find her there, the opportunity to “clean the pipes” after all that work seemed irresistible. I had met so many other people who became friends through happenstance meetings while in Amsterdam so why not try it again? I realized there was something to what I had thought in my fits of sleep the previous day, something related to an insecurity regarding relationships.
Was it possible I didn’t trust the relationships I had made, that they would last? Did I think I needed to endlessly meet more and more people “just in case”? I sat with that for a while and realized that this was exactly what I wanted to learn about myself and the reason I thought of my stay in Amsterdam as a vision quest. I didn’t like what I was learning in this case. I had a fundamental insecurity about relationships. What I couldn’t yet figure out was whether I didn’t trust others to maintain connections with me or that I didn’t, down deep, believe I was worthy of truly fulfilling relationships. The emotions were too powerful and too jumbled. I couldn’t think clearly and I definitely wasn’t going to be able to solve this rubric quickly so I unleashed the hounds, detonated a neural bomb, and made my way to the shower.
I wanted to go out for breakfast and I needed cigarettes, but I wanted to see how much money I had spent the previous days. The damage wasn’t terrible, but it was certainly more than I ever intended to spend. The biggest chunks were from cash advances—most likely for the blow—with a few bills from cafes and clubs. I was still solvent, though, so I bundled up to go out.
It was windy and cold with overcast skies. I walked to Utrechtsestraat, crossed the street, and turned to the south so I could hit the mini market first. I bought an energy drink and smokes from the Moroccan fellow behind the counter. I had been there how many times, but this guy never remembered me, rarely even looked at me. Not every Moroccan was like this. There was a little eatery down the street to the north where two young Moroccan guys worked. I only ever hit that place in the evening for fritjes or a kebob. The first couple of times we didn’t really interact and I bought the food to go. But one night when I was tired and just wanted easy, cheap eats and a place to sit, I ordered there and began reading the newspaper. I listened to the guys speak in their language, but mostly tuned out.
What I noticed, though, was just like the first two times I was there: I was the only person present. So I asked one of the guys if it was always so slow. They looked at me as if they were shocked I could speak. One asked, “Are you American?” I said yes and, surprisingly, they became excited and we got into a conversation. They said most of their business came at lunch and late afternoon. I asked them why they were so excited about an American eating there. They said they didn’t usually get Americans, but when they did they were always more friendly than the Dutch.
I found that surprising, but they explained the status issues, the immigration issues, that things had gotten worse since Theo Van Gogh had been shot. The Dutch that ordered were sometimes rude and the others, well, they didn’t engage. But the one guy pointed out to the other, “Yes, but they are hungry. They want food to go, not to talk. They do not care we are foreigners.” The other guy disagreed and then they began arguing in their native tongue until I started laughing. They stopped and the guy behind the counter said, “We disagree here. He is innocent, thinks Dutch are good.” The other guy spoke up, “They are good. We welcomes to the country, we are free, it is good.” Then the other guy went off in their language again and I ate while enjoying the show.
I would have gone to their shop to buy some food and smokes, but they didn’t open until eleven. When I left the market I looked up and down the street, trying to figure out where to have breakfast. I walked north, past Kerkstraat again then past Keizersgracht. Halfway down the block I came across a place called Zuivere Koffie. I peered in the window. A narrow shop with bright walls, the tables and chairs were made of light-colored woods, and there was a black-and-white checkered floor. I saw a couple of empty tables so I stepped inside. The smell of coffee and a quiet chattering of Dutch filled the air. I sat down at a table for two. A server came with a menu and I ordered an Americano. After looking over the menu, I decided on an omelette. The young woman, relaxed and friendly, brought my coffee. I had already pounded the energy drink I had purchased so now I just sipped at my drink. I noticed there was an outdoor patio in the back. It would have been enjoyable if it hadn’t been so cold.
I swam in lazy thoughts, happy the intensity of my emotions had abated and that the wildness of the weekend was behind me. The overcast skies felt cozy, almost as if it was a purposeful fixture within the cafe. Zuivere Koffie was homey and warm as if it was made for these days. It dawned on me that I didn’t have to be anywhere or do anything. The indexing work was finished, both barrels had been emptied celebrating, and I had the rest of my stay to myself. Everything was downhill now. On this day, at least, I didn’t care to make anything happen. Things as they were felt how they should be.
I ordered an apple tart after I finished my omelette then covered the check and left a tip before heading outside again. The wind was blowing harder. A couple doors down from Zuivere was Barneys. It was a weird coffeeshop, but it had a great reputation. Like the Green House, they had won quite a few Cannabis Cup awards over the years. There was not a lot of room to purchase weed, but at least there was only one other person buying. The woman who was serving? A silky milk-chocolate-skinned mixed-race goddess. I stood for a moment in awe. When I ordered I just pointed at the G-13 Haze on the menu and said, “Three grams.” Then I pointed at Laughing Buddha and said, “Four grams.” I fumbled with my wallet, managed to pay, then ran away before I made a fool out of myself.
It never ceased to amaze me that on one day I could have two hot women in bed and be bored with them while on another I could barely even get a word out of my mouth when in the presence of a beautiful woman. Maybe it had something to do with clothing. I seemed to do just fine when women weren’t wearing clothing. Put a coat and a scarf on a woman, though, and I could speak nothing but gibberish.
That wasn’t entirely true, though. I couldn’t explain it and, back outside in the cold wind, I didn’t care. I was glad to be loaded up on buds again, but I just wanted to get home and out of the cold.
