I opened my eyes. Morning sun. Cold, very cold. Groggy and disoriented. I was sitting on the ground, my back resting on a railing of some sort. People were walking by me and a scooter passed from the other direction. I looked around; I was sitting on the Magere Brug! How the fuck did I get here? What time is it? It seemed early. I was wearing a coat, winter lid, and shoes. That was good. I frantically searched my pockets. “Fuck, thank god.” I had my keys and wallet. Jesus, what the fuck?
I stood up. No one seemed interested or surprised that I had been sleeping on the bridge. Then again, whoever might have thought it strange was likely long gone. At least I wasn’t robbed. Still, how did I get here? When did I leave the apartment? I slowly walked across the bridge toward Albert Heijn. I looked down while thinking. The last thing I remembered was … I couldn’t remember. Nothing had been coherent for … how long? Impossible to say. I swam without moving in a swamp for an eternity, but nothing stuck out, not even emotions. It was as if I had been suspended in sensory deprivation, denied thought and emotion. Could it be that I was not for an indefinite period of time, existing as a lump? How does a lump put on a hat, coat, and shoes, walk out of an apartment and down the street to a bridge? Had I covered other territory as well? There was no way to know.
I felt good, though. Cleansed. Clear-headed, no mental detritus. Alive. Other than my questions I had no thoughts and other than a gentle buzz of satisfaction I felt nothing. Freedom. Free of desires, free of needs. What does one do when freed of those things? Why was I walking toward Albert Heijn? What if I left my apartment unlocked? I shrugged, stopping to look out over the Amstel from the other side of the bridge. Lovely in the morning light. The buildings on the other side were stately, some tilted this way or that from centuries of shifting pilings below. I remembered that some buildings occasionally had to be raised so that new pilings could be inserted underneath to stabilize the building and prevent it from sinking into the water-logged sand and muck. I had no idea how much an endeavor like that would cost.
I watched pedestrians out of the corner of my eye and saw a woman, maybe thirty but it was hard to tell, wearing a fluffy bright green parka, pink leggings, white ankle-length winter boots with faux brown fur circling the tops, a purple scarf, orange gloves, and an orange winter hat with sandy blonde hair leaking out the sides and back. Well, that’s different. As she passed I began walking alongside her. I said, “I don’t often talk to anyone on the street if I don’t know them, but I didn’t know if I would ever see you again. I’d like to speak to you in Dutch, but I’m American. It’s not my fault, I just happened to be born there.”
The woman kept walking without turning her head. However, her facial expressions changed from nonchalance to annoyance to mildly amused. Amused was good. “My name is Michael. Not that you asked, but you can call me that if you decide to talk. I was simply enjoying the morning sunlight on the Amstel, looking at the beautiful buildings across the river, and wondering about how they put pilings under them when they start to sag. Then you walked up and as I looked at you I thought, ‘I’ll bet she has a colorful personality.’ I could be wrong, though. You might have a very bland personality and you dress colorfully to compensate for being uninteresting. I thought it was worth walking along with you to find out.”
The woman turned her head to look at me. She gave me a once over head to toe and up again. She turned her face forward again without saying anything. I wondered if she was a cyborg, if she had just scanned my face and body looking for weapons or qualities worthy of mating to spawn new half-human, half-robot beings. Father to a cyborg baby, that would be a story to tell my grandchildren … except that my grandchildren would be cyborgs as well and would probably find stories pointless. I decided to look her up and down since she had me. She had a cute profile, a button-nose, rose-colored cheeks wind-bit by cold, a cute little chin and lips that protruded in a natural pucker. Very kissable lips. I couldn’t tell her eye color then I remembered the other night when I thought about irises and realized knowing that meant nothing. Not now, anyway. I looked down at her legs and they were muscular, not thin but also not big. Proportional, really.
I sighed as we passed Albert Heijn. I was tempted to stop walking to buy a pack of smokes and an energy drink, but I kept walking with the oddly-dressed cyborg. “You know, I woke up this morning, not long ago, on the Magere Brug. I didn’t know how I got there. I had been in my apartment, on Kerkstraat just on the other side of the Skinny Bridge, last night. I was dancing happily on moving floorboards then there was just darkness. The next thing I remembered was opening my eyes while watching pedestrians pass by me on the bridge. That was about ten minutes before I met you.”
The woman turned to me, her eyes lively, and asked, “Were you drinking?” I shook my head. “No, not at all. That’s what’s so strange.” She continued looking at me as we crossed the bridge over Muidergracht, the way I usually went to Eik en Linde and Bloem, but she turned right on Muidergracht instead of going straight on Plantage Kerklaan. The woman said, “You should see a doctor.” I turned my whole body to her and walked sideways next to her, very animatedly saying, “That’s just it, though. I feel incredible, possibly better than I have ever felt in my entire life. Like I said earlier, I don’t usually talk to anyone on the street unless I know them. But today,” I turned my body forward and looked at the sky, “Today is different.”
I was looking straight ahead, but I could see her head was turned toward me. She said, “I don’t know what to say.” She turned her head straight and then turned back again. “How far are you going to walk with me?” I turned to her and said, respectfully, “Until you want me to stop walking with you.” She nodded her head and turned forward with just a trace of a smile.
“You know, I have never started a relationship with someone I previously knew. Every friendship I’ve ever had started by meeting someone I didn't know. They didn’t know me, either. So, you see, what we're doing now is really not that unusual.” I paused then said, “This is how relationships begin. It's not possible to start a friendship with someone you haven't met.” She looked at me and said, “So ... you think relationships start by talking with strangers walking across a bridge ten minutes after you woke up on a street not knowing how you got there?” I held in a laugh. “Admittedly, this is a first for me and I didn’t intend to begin a relationship with you. But what's so different about meeting on the street versus meeting in a cafe or bar? Besides, every friendship I’ve had started without any intention to become friends. That just sort of happened as time passed. It’s very strange now that I think about it.” The woman said, “You are really weird.”
“I don’t know whether you’re complimenting me or not, but I agree with you. I am weird. Even I think I’m weird, like there’s some part of me trapped inside terrified that he has to be in this mind and body, saying ‘I didn’t ask for this, man. Why can’t I be inside a normal person’s head.’ I always tell the guy, ‘There are no normal people. We’re all weird but you can’t tell because you’re so fucking scared.’” The woman laughed. I said to her, “Look, I have to give you a name because you haven’t told me yours. I’m only doing it because inside my head you’re the 'colorfully dressed woman' and it’s really burdensome to think of you that way. I need something more personal even if it leads me to create a false persona for you. What do you think of 'Mona'?” She shook her head. “No. I mean, it’s a good name and in a way it fits, but I like ‘Che.’”
“'Che' as in 'Che Guevara?'” She nodded. “Okay, Che it is. Are you a communist?” Che shook her head. “No, I’m an autonomist.” Hmmm... “That’s intriguing. I’ve met anarchists, but never an autonomist.” Che said, “There are similarities, but … there are differences, too. I’m not militant. I just want to live, but if the government keeps fucking with us that might change.” As we crossed the bridge over Muidergracht at the southeast end of the Artis Zoo—we had been walking on an island—Che turned to me and asked, “Why are you talking with me?” I said, “I don’t know. You’re wearing an odd color combination and it just seemed like the thing to do.” She laughed. "Honestly, now that I know you’re an autonomist I’m even more interested than I was earlier. Differently interested. I want to know more.”
We crossed the bridge over the Singelgracht then wandered to the south past the Tropenmuseum into Oosterpark. We walked silently. I had only been in Oosterpark once previously, but I didn’t remember much of it. Like most parks in Amsterdam, it was lovely. We came to a bridge spanning a pond and stopped to look out at the water. The temperature was still cold, but there was less of a wind than there had been earlier. The sky was now completely overcast, but it didn’t look like rain.
As Che and I peacefully looked out over the water, I said, “I don’t know anything about autonomism as a political philosophy, but I can imagine what the principles might be. For instance, I don’t believe property rights and ownership are socially healthy. They cause more harm than good. The economic system—all economic systems I’ve examined—are faulty. Political systems, too. None are coherent or consistent with the good of human nature and relations; they don’t enhance the experience of living except for a very few. I like Amsterdam and The Netherlands, though. At least here squatting is legal.”
Without looking away from the water Che said, “For now.” I looked at her with surprise. “What do you mean?” She sighed and drooped her head a little, playing with her thumbs. “The government is threatening to ban squatting. Things may get ugly soon.” How the fuck did I meet this woman? Thank you shrooms for the bevy of gifts. Jesus. “Are you a squatter?” Che looked at me and nodded her head somberly. She looked back at the water. “There are a lot of squatters who hate your guts. You don’t speak Dutch and you come to the country to rent an apartment in an upscale neighborhood. Even with your beliefs, it wouldn’t be enough. You’re still living within the system and occupying space in a country that is overcrowded with capitalists as it is.” Whoa. “And you?” Che took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I don’t know you well enough.” I said, “Yeah, but you’re speaking with me, you’re listening, you don’t appear to hate me.”
Che looked at me again. “No, I don’t hate you. Maybe I’m making it seem worse than it is. There are a number of people who would probably be cool with you. If you believe those things, though, why are you still part of the system?” That was a damn good question. I looked up and watched the indistinguishable layer of clouds covering the city like a cozy blanket. “It took a long time for me to get to this point. I’ve had to sift through layer after layer after layer of indoctrination. If I believed in anything supernatural I would say it’s a miracle that I’m not a fundamentalist capitalist. I have a degree in marketing, for crissakes. In a way, that was the beginning of my disillusionment. Everything was predicated on manipulation for the sake of profit. Humans weren’t beings, they were consumers; that was their function and purpose in the world, to buy shit.” I paused. “There’s a lot more I can say. I know my own history of change and I can see that I’m likely to become more and more radical in my political and economic views over time. I have to heal myself first, though. That’s why I’m in Amsterdam.”
I saw Che looking at me out of the corner of my eye. “Healing yourself?” I looked at her more fully in the eye. Whatever light-heartedness I felt earlier had dissolved. The weight was substantive, but not emotional. I could feel how I was looking at her. There was a lot of force being directed through my eyes. I enunciated purposefully and spoke authoritatively. “My life has been a series of nightmares. I have had pockets of joy and I relished them, but they never lasted long. I have never been able to rid myself of the shit I’ve witnessed and endured. I’m staying in Amsterdam for three months at that apartment and my primary intention is to live this visit as a vision quest.”
Che considered this. “Exactly how are you approaching this vision quest?” I continued looking at her with the same weight. “By shrooming. I have to find out how my mind works so I’m not ruled by the thought of the world, but in communication with it. I’ve been making changes, but the pace has been too slow. There have been too many losses, too many heartaches. I feel an urgency to accelerate the process. The shrooms help.” I eased up a bit. “You know, I never would have approached you three months ago. I would have remained inside my shell, protecting myself from persons I didn’t know or understand. I was too damaged to take risks, all but crushed by life. I’m a survivor, though. I’ve gotten up every time I’ve been knocked down and I’ll keep going until I’m dead.”
Che peered into my eyes for a long time. She was very serious. “I respect that. I respect you.” She took a breath and looked down as she held the railing of the bridge. She crossed one foot in front of the other and leaned her body away from the railing, holding herself up by her hand. “I … have to meet some people soon. I wish I had more time because I’ve become more interested in you. Differently interested, as you said. I want to hear more.” Che smiled and shifted gears. “I’m glad I didn’t tell you to fuck off earlier.” I laughed as she continued. “I was really close, just waiting for the right moment, but you became more interesting as we walked.”
I said, “I’d like to talk with you again.” Che nodded. She seemed to be thinking. “Meet me in front of the Stedelijk tomorrow at noon.” I nodded. “Okay.” Che walked backward down the bridge. “You need to learn Dutch!” She turned away, walking east through the park.
I watched Che walk off then I turned back to the railing of the bridge and looked out over the water. The park was so peaceful. The few people I saw were walking so slowly I had to watch them for several seconds to make sure they were moving. It was as if time had slowed in the park, running at quarter speed. Someone needed to come up with an equation to measure the speed of walking in a park. The speed of light, the speed of sound, and the speed of walking through a park. I wandered around the paths of Oosterpark until I came back to the Tropenmuseum and exited.
I walked back to the Magere Brug the way Che and I had come. I went into the apartment and checked the time. Just after noon. I made a broodje and as I did I thought of all of the privileges I had. Still, I was living on borrowed time. The money would run out eventually and if anything happened with my health, well, I would be fucked. I drank water from the tap and decided to ride over to Spui to get more shrooms. I took a puff of Super Silver to relax my muscles before leaving. I took my small black backpack, locked up, and went out to unlock my bike.
I rode down Kerkstraat and thought of just popping over to Conscious Dreams, but I wanted to see the guy I met the previous day. I hadn’t even gotten his name. It might have been Darren, but I couldn’t remember. I sped down Vijzelstraat past the Muntplein onto Rokin and turned west on Spui pedaling far down the street to Inner Space. I locked my bike and went inside. Unfortunately, the young long-haired fellow wasn’t there. Instead, there was an older guy, possibly sixty, with a dirty white beard and a captain’s hat on his head. He had a big gut, a shirt two sizes too small, and nasty look in his eyes. He chewed on a cigar like a dog on a meaty bone.
I walked up to him and said, “I’ll take two doses of Golden Teacher and one does of McKennaii.” The man sat still for half a minute just staring at me. I asked him if he spoke English. “Yeah, I speak English. What did you want?” I said, “Two doses Golden Teacher and one dose McKennaii.” He grumbled as he removed the doses. I pulled off my backpack and held it up so he could put them in there. “You have not paid. I put in sack when you pay.” Fine. I handed him a hundred Euro bill and he made change. I held up my bag again and he held the doses in his hands, waiting. My patience for this asshole was wearing thin. I bit my lip , refused to say, “What the fuck is your problem, dickhead?!” I couldn’t control my eyes, though. I could feel the way they looked. I wouldn’t want to be on the other end of my eyes at that moment. The old man put the doses in my bag. I zipped it shut, turned my back to him, and left. Once the door closed I let out a primal scream, purging the negativity from my body and mind. I didn’t want to fuck with the old man because I might want to purchase shrooms there again. Why the fuck was that guy working at a smart shop, anyway? The first asshole I had ever come across in a shroom shop.
I unlocked my bike and rode back the way I came. I wasn’t in a sightseeing mood after that interaction. The intersection at the Muntplein was insane. A woman walked into traffic right when the light changed causing everyone, including me, to honk and ring their bells. She was an idiot. She turned to look at the traffic like a deer caught in the headlights. I yelled out, “Either cross the street or go back! You’re holding up traffic!” I resisted the urge to call her a bitch. She was already rattled enough. Hilariously, she took one step back then two steps the other way then ran back to the side of the street from where she had come. The guy on the bike next to mine shook his head, laughed, and said something to me in Dutch, obviously derogatory given the tone of his voice. Che was right; I needed to learn Dutch.
I arrived back at my apartment around three and chilled out with a puff of Haze. I opened the window to smoke a cigarette and watched the day go by. The previous night seemed like a million years ago. For the first time since I ran to the coffeeshop the previous night, I had a chance to think, to process all that happened. The only thing I really wanted to think about, though, was how I wound up on the street in the morning. I had never had a blackout while using shrooms or LSD. It didn’t even seem like a blackout, just a heavy darkness that lasted indefinitely. I felt fine when I woke, just disoriented from being on the street. Fucking weird.
Then meeting Che, that was ... if I hadn’t woken on the street and hadn’t been in that frame of mind … just weird. A squatter. I had admired squatting, thought it was a righteous act of liberation from political and economic oppression. I had never seriously considered it, though. It seemed like a far off idea, a fairy tale of defiance. Che certainly didn’t fit the stereotypes I had unwittingly concocted. She was bright, clean, grounded, and amicable. What the fuck is autonomism, anyway? I thought of looking it up online, but I was exhausted. I wasn’t sure how much sleep I had gotten. I took another hit off the pipe and lied down on the couch to crash. I wanted to be fresh for the shrooms in the evening.
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