Amsterdam Forty-Eight: Leidseplein Busking

Cold and rain. Another indexing day. I was making good progress, nearly finished. The visit thus far had been balanced between work, socializing, and shrooming. I felt content. My body was loose. My body was learning a new language, the language of sensation and there was plenty of whispering between muscles and joints: “Did you hear what Big Toe did last night? He won the battle against language! He got noticed by awareness! That’s huge!” Relaxed as the body was I could tell there was tremendous excitement throughout as long lost relatives were being reunited with one another. My knees never thought they would hear from my hips ever again but now they hugging and laughing, sharing stories about what they had been doing since they had last talked years and years ago. A family reunion, the family of my body. The heart was pumping extra blood and everyone was a little high from the extra oxygen.

I learned that the body had often complained about my activities without being noticed by my mind: “Fuck, he’s watching another movie! It’s three in the morning, go to bed! We’re fucking tired. Eyes are strained, neck is aching, and we haven’t moved in seven hours. What the fuck? No, not more buttered popcorn! Are you fucking kidding? Hello? Ah, shit. The mind zoned out again. We’re screwed.” The body was celebrating now, though. I received thank you notes from everywhere. My shoulder blades were as thrilled as my ankles.

In unison they gave my awareness a message: “You’ve been doing great. We’re proud of you and grateful that you’re finally being attentive again. It’s been years. But the last three months, shit, you’ve been walking, cycling, dancing, and moving around like a teenager. Keep it up! Um, one thing, though: You’re not a teenager. Could you please stretch more, especially in the morning when you wake and after a lot of movement? We know, it’s a lot to ask given that you’ve made so many other changes, but it would really help us out and the mind would be even sharper. We’re asking because you let the mind make decisions and, well, the mind is fucking stupid. It really doesn’t know shit. It can’t even tell when we’re getting dehydrated. We’re not trying to be mean, it’s just that we know a lot more than the mind about these things so, well, do what you’ve been doing, being more attentive to how we feel rather than exclusively focusing on what the mind thinks. That cool?”

Yeah, it was cool. I let the body know I needed to be attentive to indexing the rest of the morning, but that good food was coming, some stretching, and maybe even a walk. As I started typing my fingers said to me, “Dude, you have no idea how much damage you’ve done to us over the years. You have to do more hand exercises. We’ve been damaged, man, and it doesn’t just affect us. We’re attached through ligaments and muscles to your forearms, elbows, biceps and triceps, shoulders, and, hell the rest of the body. Your back has been bitching, too, because it hates the posture you use at the computer. The pain doesn’t seem that bad to you, but that’s only because we’ve been wearing down gradually and you’ve gotten used to it. Things are going to get a lot worse if you don’t make some changes while you’re working. Hey, man, the mind is in this with us even if it doesn’t realize it. You ain’t gonna be able to think straight in a decade or two if you let the spine go to hell. It took a pounding as a teenager what with you thrashing the body around like it was indestructible. Dude, time passes and the body you broke ain't gonna get better without attention. Just letting you know.”

As jubilant as the body was after receiving so much more attention, it had a long list of grievances it registered with my mind. I dutifully took notes, allowing the body to direct the mind for a change. After doing so, I received permission to continue indexing, being more attentive to my posture and the use of my hands. It was not easy to make the changes. I had been working in a certain way for years and ergonomics had not played much of a role. It was going to take time and diligence.

Overall, though, I felt good. My body was relaxed and my mind was sharp. Discovering these new body projects made me happy. I felt engaged with my being. Indexing provided an income, but my body and mind were finally being recognized as more important than anything else. I didn’t know how the hell I was led to believe that anything else was more important. Stupid ideas about work, achievement, money, and success. Enough.

I took a deep breath and got back to work. I came across a mention of the “Symptoms of Peace.” The top ten? In no particular order:

1.       Spontaneity

2.       Smiling

3.       Laughter

4.       Appreciation

5.       Nonjudgmentalness

6.       Connectedness

7.       Reciprocity

8.       Acceptance

9.       Allowance

10.   Enjoyment

These were symptoms I experienced daily. I was peaceful … or within peace. At peace? I suppose. If peace had to exist at a location, Amsterdam was as good as any. People were trying to find “peace within” but if peace could only be found “at” then they needed to move their bodies to the place where peace was. Who the hell knew? It was quite obvious that language didn’t know shit about peace because it couldn’t figure out whether it was “within” or “at.” Could it be found “within” and “at”? If so, was finding peace “within” insufficient unless it was also “at”? If the symptoms were correct—I didn’t know if the person or organization that made up these symptoms were properly qualified to understand anything about peace, but I liked the list—then I was within and at peace. Maybe awareness, when functioning properly, was a porous membrane allowing peace to flow inside and out, within and at, while expelling toxins such as frustration or disgust and protecting against external threats such as rudeness or condescension. Amsterdam was a far better environment for peace than, say, Los Angeles.

I continued indexing until noon then made a hearty salad. I took time to gently stretch then went back to work for another hour. I finished the index around two and sent a copy to the publisher as well as an invoice. Now I was completely at peace. I said, “Body, we’re taking the rest of the day off. What do you want to do?” I looked out the window and it was raining lightly. “Shall we go for a walk?” No objections so I put on shoes and coat, grabbed keys and wallet, and picked up the umbrella by the door.

On the street, I opened the umbrella and turned toward Utrechtsestraat. I bowed my head, shuffle-stepped, and tipped a cap I wasn’t wearing whenever I passed another walker. There were responses, I think they were positive, but I paid little attention. My attitude consumed my awareness, it permeated my being. This was something besides peace—what the fuck is attitude? I knew emotions, feelings, and thoughts … but attitude? And what about mood? Ah, shit on a broomstick, fuck a donkey in the ear, bleed out on a sidewalk, curl up next to a hose, lick a broken toenail, and wipe a door handle with a spoon. This was not a time for pondering the meanings of words. This was a walk and I felt chippy, a little snimshabby, partially dwally, a mixture of gooseflesh and fimfaddle.

If there were going to be clichés and sayings then I wanted to make my own. Not a single cliché should mean anything; the clichés of the future were to be composed of nonsense and by uttering gibberish everyone would know that a cliché was meant even if no one knew anything about what was being conveyed. By creating confusion, everyone present would become more engaged, each desperate to escape from the uncertainty of what was meant. “When you say, ‘a turd falls from my hand’ do you mean that you’re going to ‘make hay’ or lay something out ‘flat as a pancake’?” My response would likely be, “Piddle where you know and little there you go.” There was no need for anyone to understand. We were pretending to know what the hell we were saying to each other, anyway, but we had all been so full of shit for so long it was impossible to keep up the charade. Thousands upon thousands of years had passed with no one understanding a thing about anything, themselves or anyone else, so why bother?

There needed to be more gibberish and absurdity passed between one another. I made my first attempt to start the trend after crossing Vijzelstraat. A well-dressed middle-aged man, quite attractive as per usual, neared me as he strode under his umbrella. I adopted a cockney accent and said, “Bit of a warlop jugging out the dolly, ay?” He looked at me as if I had told him a shiny toy was waiting for him at home or perhaps the look was that of a man who had been wondering where he left his comb two days ago. I couldn’t interpret the meaning of his facial expression and that was the point. If there was any way of knowing I would have said, “Good day, sir,” as I walked past. It was much more fun confronting strangers with loud facial expressions, wild gestures, and meaningless jargon.

I stopped in front of a metal garage door on Kerkstraat not too far past Vijzelstraat and fancied myself a real-life Liliom, better known as Billy Bigelow—if, indeed, he was better known—a barker extraordinaire, and I exhorted those passing by to listen as I spoke. “Ladies and Jokes, I have right here, a thrilling gate you all must hate, for behind it, my friends, is a beer. To pass this door, there is a lock that to open needs a cock, or so goes the lore. If you pass on this and roam away, you’ll miss everything you hold dear. Nothing that you do or say is likely to be anything but sheer … delight. Or fright. Please, dibble yourselves with juice and dumplings, pass the potatoes and make a scrunching; if you don’t mind, I’ll take four or more, make it six because I’ve grown bored.” With that I turned and marched away, kicking my legs high in the air while purposefully whistling out of tune.

I left behind a smattering of men and women. I heard chatter, but understood none of it as they were speaking Dutch. I thought that made us even because not a damn thing I said was understandable at all … even by me. I wasn’t sure if I was within and at peace; it seemed more as if I was within and at play. Play, as far as I could tell, was of a higher order altogether than peace.

As I kept walking I came upon Conscious Dreams. Well, why the fuck not? I prepared myself for entry by doing calisthenics: Jumping jacks, running in place, lunges, squats, and a cooling off period. I paid little attention to the gawkers laughing. No doubt the people around me had never seen such a routine before entry into a smart shop. I hoped the practice would catch on over time.

I walked in confidently, head held high while taking ridiculously long strides to the counter. There was one fellow ahead of me deliberating over which shrooms to purchase. A few potential customers were looking about at different items throughout the shop. I stood a few feet behind the chap and took the opportunity to continue warming up for my turn. I wanted my body and mind to be in optimal condition to utter a few words to the woman behind the counter. She was talking with the gent, but she was also watching me hop and flail my arms, “hooing” my breath rather loudly. She looked at first disturbed--possibly because the look on my face was so serious--but then just confusion.

Having sufficiently wooed the young woman with golden brown hair—a very odd mixture, for sure—I proceeded to spread my legs wide and touched my toes with opposite hands, “hooing” each time I returned to an upright position. The poor woman couldn’t help herself and let out a yelp of laughter. The bloke in front of me turned around, but by then I had assumed a relaxed standing posture, my body and face nonchalant, bored. I lifted my hand close to my face and curled it to look at my fingernails. The Australian turned back to purchase a dose of Thai.

I hadn’t tried the Thai. It was along the lines of the Colombian in the sense that it was considered to be of moderate strength. After the male paid and walked away with his bag of shrooms, he looked back at me, perhaps wondering if I was mocking him. I walked up to the counter and smiled at the young woman. I allowed my smile to linger as I looked into her eyes. Such pretty eyes, hazel. A rounded face, cute puffy cheeks. She smiled back at me creating heart-melting dimples in her cheeks. I sighed and said, “My God, your dimples. How much do you want for them? I’ll give a hundred Euros for each.” The dimples sunk in deeper as she laughed, but winked back as she reverted to a smile.

“You probably want to keep those—I know I would—so I’ll go with two doses of Hawaiian and one dose of Thai. She nodded her head and pursed her lips in an apparent attempt not to smile. She bent down to pull out the doses and as she did she exposed the entirety of her cleavage through the wide neckline of her loose-fitting t-shirt. She wore a scanty bra and those breasts, damn, so soft and supple, too firm to dangle, half moons of tender white flesh begging to be cupped by a pair of hands, hers being closest but mine far more eager. I sighed and thanked the heavens for glass-encased counters. She rose up and I saw how her hips curved to hold up her blue jeans. Her body suggested sex, but her face exuded adorable cuteness. I never knew what to do with that combination. My emotions were so confused. I wanted to hug her to heaven and fuck her to hell.

As she was counting the money and retrieving my change she said, “Do you always do exercises before buying shrooms?” I sighed. “That’s privileged information. But I don’t know you at all so I can trust you. It’s a new regimen to help me get into the proper mindset to make the best shrooming choices possible. Shroom shopping is not a frivolous act.” I raised my hands to the outsides my eyes as she looked up. “It’s about focus, training the mind and body, getting in sync with the inner core of my being.” I loosened my face and body. She shook her head and raised her eyebrows. “Whatever works, I guess.” I slapped my hand down on the counter. “Exactly! You get it. It’s about what works for me. It’s all about me. You’re the first person I’ve met who understands. Amazing. You must be very special to see that. You should feel special. Mostly because of the dimples. My offer still stands. One hundred per. Think about it.”

I bid her adieu, walked out the door, and headed toward Leidseplein. By the time I arrived the rain had ceased. There wasn’t much of a crowd given that it was the weekend, but that was likely due to the weather. The Leidseplein square was a favorite spot for talented buskers. In years past I had seen a young shirtless guy with the greatest of beards and the wildest hair standing on top of a VW van juggling three revving chainsaws, going behind his back occasionally, performing all manner of juggling maneuvers. The crowd around his van was huge. I had also seen sword swallowers, fire breathers, fantastical story tellers, gymnasts contorting their bodies and performing amazing acrobatics, talented break-dancers, musicians, and more.

The square was empty, though, busker-free. I contemplated performing in some way. Even though Leidseplein was empty, performances at this spot were high quality. I also didn’t know if there was a busker code or a busker community determining who performed and when. I walked around the outer edges of the square. There may not have been many meandering, but there was enough pedestrian traffic to gather an audience if the performance was intriguing. What would I do, though? Uttering gibberish was not going to cut it at this location. I knew no acrobatics or physical tricks to attract attention. Calisthenics would be ridiculous. I could purposefully perform badly in numerous ways while appearing to be entirely serious, projecting a belief that what I was doing was amazing and worthy of everyone’s attention.

I decided against that, though. I didn’t have the energy to do that. Earlier I could have, but I had used up a lot of my juice. Besides, the point of play isn’t to impress or entertain; it’s to enjoy and share. If there’s any self-consciousness in play then it isn’t play at all. I was playing earlier because I didn’t really care how others reacted. The spirit of my play was for enjoyment and since it wasn’t at the expense of anyone else I didn’t care whether I was being judged. If I had given it that much thought I wouldn’t have done any of it. Nothing defeats playful spontaneity as effectively as analysis.

I may not have had the juice to play like I was earlier, but I still wanted to play. As I stood in the middle of the Leidseplein, I thought about how I had played as a child, about how friends and neighbors picked up the slack when my energy waned and how I picked up the slack when their energy dipped. I wondered, “What if I ask others to play? Something easy, something inviting. That would be an interesting challenge and might get the juices flowing again. I could ask someone to do mundane things, things so simple that anyone could do them.”

I reached in my pocket and pulled out all of my change. I had eight coins: a two-Euro coin, three one-Euro coins, one fifty-cent Euro coin, two twenty-cent Euro coins, and one ten-cent Euro coin. What if I “reverse busked” by convincing passersby to perform and giving them a gratuity as if they were the buskers? Hmmm ... converting an ordinary person into a busker for a short time, showering them with praise, seeing what happens? Not a bad idea. If the rain started again, well, I would open my umbrella and walk away.

I looked around the square again, onto the streets, across the way. I haphazardly counted thirty people; some were walking away and some were walking toward. The flow seemed regular, constant. I needed to stand on the edge of the square nearest Leidsestraat. That was where most were walking when the trams weren’t riding by. I put down my bag of shrooms and umbrella then walked over and stretched my arms high in the air, trying to make myself as big as I could, trying to be seen. I became a barker once again, jumping up and down and waving my arms above my head while bellowing, “Everyone, please, gather round! There is something I need to share with you, to show you, to beg of you! Will it be a song of silence? A mood you can touch? A moment to the more? There’s only one way to know—come and see the show!”

As I belted out the last line I had a flash of the ELP song, “Karn Evil 9.” I knew the lyrics pretty well as it was one of my favorite songs. It was perfect for attracting a crowd. I continued, raising my voice, becoming louder, mixing the lyrics I remembered with flourishes of my own, “Come, let me set you free … from your banality, to help the refugee … from the worst of humanity. Come on, step inside, I’ve got thrills and shocks, supersonic fighting cocks, separate from the flocks, and let your body rock!”

I stopped hopping and twirled toward the middle of the square, ending with a cartwheel—which I pulled off far better than I ever imagined I could. I hadn’t done a cartwheel for probably a decade. That was the beauty of spontaneity, though—I performed better if I didn’t know what was coming next. Instinct, intuition. I waved my arm, gesturing to the few who were looking from afar, “If you follow me there’s a speciality, no tears for you or me, not a blink of reality! Next upon the bill in this house of vaudeville, is the popping of a pill! What a thrill, what a thrill.”

My smile grew wider, my eyes driving wilder, my body a frenzy of gusto and thrust, my voice filled with lust: “Not content with that, with my hands behind my back, I pull Jesus from a hat—get in to that, get into that. Imagine behind a glass stands a real blade of grass; be careful as you pass, move along, move along.” I moved as if walking to another exhibit, gesturing to the growing crowd to follow. I saw curious faces.

“Come and see the show, it’s a dynamo! You’ve got to see-eeee the show … or you’ll never knowwwwww. Soon the gypsy queen in a glaze of Vaseline will perform on guillotine, what a scene, what a scene. Coming right after that a big, furry cat dropped into a vat where a homeless beggar shat!” I laughed maniacally as the crowd recoiled. “Oh, you don’t want that? Maybe a baseball bat lying on a mat where the Buddha sat! Or a performance on a stool, a sight to make you drool, seven virgins and a mule … keep it cool, keep it cool.”

I slowed my movements and drooped my head as I stopped. I looked up and around at the group gathered, maybe a dozen. A few started clapping and whistling, but I put my hands up and commanded: “Wait!” The meager applause stopped and there was silence. I looked at the faces and saw smiles, giggles, impatience, and shaking of heads. I shifted gears and said calmly while clasping my hands together one on top of the other, using the bend of my torso and head from the hips and neck, relying on soft facial expressions to convey whatever meanings were not evident in the words: “I abide all comers, welcome strangers, cherish wanderers. I drink in their flavor, consider their character, leaving them with an enlightened freedom and an engorged liberty. If this results in a communitarian spirit then let there be generous hugs. When we are through, look about you to reflect on the evidence of the past, the temper of the present, and visions of the future. This is your reality.”

I gradually quickened my pace, noticing more gathering round. I gestured toward the new arrivals, “Come hither, wander, whither you will. Smile devilishly or at least try to grin. Cancel your plans, hop on the flow, it’s here you must go! Don’t hesitate; no need to wonder. Climb aboard and you’ll know. A wonderful world awaits as long as you choose anything but straight! Is there a destination, something that awaits? We may never know. Are we on a ride past no return, a trip to the edge of the mind, a light dimming in the dark of uncertainty, or a time and a place when and where nothing is understood?” I paused, turned away from the crowd, and said, “Your choice.” I turned back, “Mine, too, of course. Always is.”

I took a deep breath as I walked in a small circle with my head down, an arm behind my back, and a hand on my chin. “If my voice is a siren drawing you near, I may send you spinning, untethered yet again. If you wake from your stupor and come back in control, you may find yourself itching for whatever came before.” I stopped and looked at the group. “No matter, though, because what comes is only ever what comes next.” I took on a more pleading tone and body language, “We can pass signs seen in lifetimes past! There’s a special kind of strangeness on this ride. Do you feel it clearing cobwebs from your mind? Are you filling up with feelings you could never ignore?” I softened and tilted my head, a far off look of wonder: “It’s a fine how-do-you-do when the knock you hear is you. How might it be, me meeting me?”

I clapped my hands together, stood on my toes, and said, “Okay, now that I have your attention, it is indeed time to start the show. Yes, yes, that was just the introduction to the real thing. This show, you see, is not about me.” I waved my arm to the crowd. “May I have a volunteer? Anyone, really, you all seem capable. Nothing too disturbing, nothing causing too much fright or even scarring you for life. I believe, in fact, that you may even enjoy yourself! Oh my! You see, whoever steps forward will gain two things if he or she is able to complete a simple task: one, a sense of accomplishment and, two,” I reached into my pocket to retrieve the coins, “A coin. The coins range in value from ten cents to two Euros. The coin any one of you receives may or may not be determined by the difficulty of the task you successfully perform. Failure to accomplish the task, I warn you, may result in a hug or a pat on the back.”

I looked around and prompted, “Do I have a volunteer?” Some from the early crowd had moved along, but there were also newcomers. It was hard to say how many were present, maybe 20. A young woman with short brown hair stepped forward. She was bundled in a warm black coat and a white scarf. “Excellent, excellent.” As she stepped next to me, I put my arm around her shoulders. “And your name is?” She shyly said, “Julia.” I removed my arm and gestured to the crowd, “Everyone, a round of applause for Julia, a courageous woman if ever there was one. Yes, yes, very good.” I was amazed at how my playfulness had engaged the crowd. They clapped enthusiastically. I turned back to Julia and asked, “Where are you from, Julia?” She said, “The United States. Denver, Colorado.” I nodded, “Ah, an American. Excellent. Welcome to Amsterdam. Is this your first time?” She nodded her head. “Yes. I’m studying in London and we’re here for a few days.” She motioned to the crowd and two women beamed good vibes while waving with excitement.”

I said to Julia, “I am going to ask you to do something that may or may not be something you want to do. It might be difficult or it might be very easy. There’s no way of knowing yet. I haven’t decided which task to give you because I don’t yet have a sense of who you are, what you like, and what you don’t. Please, tell all of us one thing about you that captures who you are as well as one thing you like and one thing you don’t. Be honest. We’re all in this together, Julia! We’re rooting for you, on the tips of our toes, intrigued by your presence, desperate to know you, to hear about your likes and dislikes. Why? Because we love you, of course. You are, at this moment, surrounded by the love of all who are present. Isn't that right?" I turned to the audience and they cheered, her friends screaming, "We love you, Julia!" I turned back to Julia and said, "You are standing in a cone of loving protection. You are so safe right now, cuddled under the coziest blankets of goodness the world has ever known, absolutely adored by the heart of the universe." Julia seemed overwhelmed, but fully engaged—being in front of an expectant crowd can do that.

“Take your time, whenever you’re ready.” Julia stood and looked around, looking a bit nervous as she saw the number of people watching. I began whistling the “Jeopardy” tune which made her and some in the crowd laugh. Good, release of tension. She took a deep breath and said, “I really love reading. I’m studying Victorian literature so I guess one thing I really like is reading.” I interjected. “Ah, see, you killed two birds with one stone.” Julia continued, “I don’t like rudeness.” I nodded and said, “Well, that’s unusual. A very brave stand you’ve taken disliking rudeness. Most people, far as I know, prefer to be treated rudely. But good for you for taking a stand!” I turned to the crowd, clapping my hands, “Julia, everyone, lover of reading and hater of rudeness!” I whistled and the group laughed and clapped. I noticed Julia was blushing, embarrassed. I softened and said, “It’s all in good fun. Here, watch and follow my lead.” I titled my head back, closed my eyes, ran slowly in place and shook out my arms. I heard the crowd laugh so I crooked open an eye to look at Julia while continuing to move. Sure enough, she was doing the same thing. Synchronized loosening of the body, undoubtedly a future Olympic event.

I stopped and touched Julia’s arm to let her know she could relax. I raised my hands as I turned toward the crowd. I asked them, “Do you want Julia to perform a task related to reading or rudeness?” I looked back at Julia, her face a mix of shock, dismay, and amusement. She put a hand—a white mitten—to her face but kept smiling. Her friends barked out, “Rudeness!” The crowd entirely agreed. I said, “Very well, very well. I believe we have a unanimous decision.” I turned to Julia with all of the melodramatic overacting of Regis Philbin hosting Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. “Julia.” I walked around her in a circle. “Are you … ready … to perform a task that will result in,” I dramatically held a coin high above my head, “a coin and perhaps the greatest sense of achievement you are likely to experience in your entire life?!” Julia balked while the crowd chanted her name. I heard a few yell, “Come on, Julia! You can do it!” There was one “You can do it” that sounded like Rob Schneider from the movie The Waterboy.

I folded my hands and bent down a little so I was looking directly into her eyes just a foot away. “Julia … you do not like rudeness. Remember, this is a task you will perform … you don’t have to worry one bit about anyone being rude to you. Not at all. However,” I paused dramatically, “in order for you to really understand why you don’t like rudeness, I want you,” I paused and turned to look at the crowd, to soak up their anticipation; I couldn’t help but smile widely and laugh a little as I turned back to Julia, “to say three incredibly rude things to me! Just three sentences, rat-a-tat-tat.” I looked at her and saw she was clasping her mittens together and looking toward her friends in the crowd, as if she was on the Price Is Right wondering how much to bid on … a brand new washing machine! “Well, what do you say, Julia? I’ve got a coin in my hand right now. I don’t know which coin it is, but it’s yours if you can explode with three mean, nasty, hateful statements about me. Get every last drop of ugliness out of your system, feel what it’s like to be rude! Then—and only then—will you know whether you truly dislike rudeness.”

I raised my eyebrows and waited. Julia shook her head and pleaded with a nervous smile on her face, hopping a little and shaking her arms as if she had just squished a dozen worms with bare feet, “Oh my god, this is horrible. I can’t be rude to you, I just, I can’t!” The audience that had gathered—and grown in size—cajoled Julia. I gently put my hands on her arms and looked her in the eye. “It’s okay, Julia. I want you to be rude to me—and they want you to be rude to me. Just three sentences then it will all be over. You can do it. I know this is difficult for you, but everyone is rooting for you. You’ll be filled with so much joy and relief when you’re done that you’ll be walking on clouds the rest of the day.” I gave her a special look, deep into her eyes, the type of look I sometimes had given Vanessa when I was hungry for her. I licked my lips and raised my eyebrows again, nodding my head, encouraging her, drinking her in, willfully pulling latent rudeness from her as I let go of her arms.

Julia squeezed her eyes shut and thrust her arms straight down with clenched fists then furiously spewed venom at me: “You are a filthy piece of shit! I hate your fucking guts and I wish you’d never been born, you motherfucking asshole!” Holy shit! I doubled over laughing and I could hear the crowd erupt. I stood up straight and saw Julia holding her mittens over her mouth, her eyes wide as hubcaps. She was muttering, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” I couldn’t stop laughing and the audience was whooping as well. I hugged her and she hugged back. I released her, raised one of her mittened hands with mine, and announced, “Julia, everyone! Julia!” Cheers and applause.

I turned to Julia and asked, “How do you feel?” She meekly shrieked and covered her entire face in her mittens. I couldn’t stop laughing. I said loudly, “Julia, you were so awesome that I’m going to give you all of the coins!” I pulled a mitten from her face and placed the coins in it. She smiled, her face beet red with a great mix of embarrassment, relief, and excitement. Her friends ran up to her and hugged her, hopping up and down. I turned to the audience and said, “Everyone, thank you for coming, watching, and participating. I am late for a very important date so I’m afraid the show is over.” The crowd awwwed with a couple boos—a good sign. I said, “I hope you all enjoyed yourselves. Until we meet again!” Applause then a gradual dispersal. I grabbed my bag of shrooms and umbrella then turned and exaggeratedly skipped toward Kerkstraat. I turned my head to Julia and her friends as I bounded away. “The world is now yours, Julia!”