The weather had improved, but only slightly. It was fiercely windy. I pulled out my dugout, the little wooden contraption made for the cannabinoid on the go, and filled it with the remnants of Super Silver, leaving the Lemon intact for my pipe. I peered inside the dugout and saw half a team of baseball players. One guy was on deck swinging the bat with two heavy donuts on it. He looked like he had been waiting ages for the start of spring training. I didn’t want to hold him up any longer so I loaded the bat with Silver and let him step up to the plate. The pitcher wound up, sent a wave of heat toward him, and Whammo! He got all of that one. It was heading for the fences, going, going, gone! He trotted around the bases, taking his time, enjoying the cheers from the crowd. When he touched home plate he let out a long sigh, took the bat with him back to the dugout, and high-fived the rest of the team before taking a seat to chill.
After watching a couple innings from the dugout I got up, put on my warm coat, my winter hat, slung my laptop bag over my shoulder, and braved the weather outside. I walked in the direction of Eik en Linde, my intended destination. I chose not to cycle because the wind was wicked. When I arrived, I said hello to Kasper, Peter, and a few regulars then warmed myself with a cup of coffee. Peter looked at me sternly but said nothing. I said nothing in return and purposefully stared back at him with a silly grin on my face. Eventually he shook his head and took a drink of beer. He opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, but then stopped as I exaggerated my smile. He shook his head and grumbled. I took a sip of my coffee and Kasper returned. I ordered an uitsmijter mit ham, kaas, tomaten, en champignonens. Kasper raised a finger, turned to the tiny window, and spoke Dutch into the kitchen where Philip was confined in the mornings.
I turned back to Peter. He was staring again. The sternness had dissipated. His face now resembled a cooked cabbage which was odd because he usually took on the appearance of a ripe mango. I said, “You’re under the weather, aren’t you?” Peter blinked and wrinkled leaves of cabbage fell away from his face. He slowly lifted his beer to his mouth and drank. He emitted a sound of utter satisfaction, but his cabbage head remained. He said, “Would you have me over the weather?” He was sour, possibly rotting, a boiled cabbage tossed in a dumpster next to soiled diapers and used coffee grinds. “Frankly, Peter, I wouldn’t have you at all.” The cabbage smiled and a few more leaves fell from his face. I could see the faintest of bright colors beginning to appear from under his rotted turd-green cabbage skin.
Peter ordered another beer from Kasper as I finished my coffee. I flagged Kasper, pointed to my cup, and he nodded as he filled a glass for Peter. I pulled out my laptop and set up on the curly Q. I was happy to be in my favorite seat. Kasper delivered Peter’s beer and said he’d be back with my coffee in a second. “Bedankt.” Peter looked at me. He didn’t say anything, but he was smiling. Without noticing he had shed almost all of the cabbage leaves from his face. What appeared from beneath wasn’t the ripe mango, though; it was a shiny red apple asking for me to take a bite. I obliged. “You are strange today, Peter.” He leaned back and slowly shook his head, his lips peaked in the middle and the corners forced downward, appled creases layered on either side of his chin. His mouth opened and … then it closed. “Okay, now you’re freaking me out, man. What happened?”
“Nothing strange is happening. I think it’s strange that you think I’m strange.” First a boiled cabbage and now a waxed red apple were impersonating Peter. “Where’s the ripened mango, for crissakes?!” I don’t think that’s what I said, but Peter seemed to understand. He leaned forward and whispered as Kasper put my coffee in front of me. “I left him at home.” Kasper looked at Peter, furrowing his brow, confused. He looked back to me, an unasked question that lingered in the air. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, opening my mouth and saying nothing. Kasper looked at me sideways, his back to Peter, and blinked his eyes in Morse code: “He is fucking weird.” I nodded, dimpling my left cheek as I pulled my mouth to the side.
Kasper tended to other customers and Peter took a drink from the fresh glass. He looked up at me. “I needed a break from myself. I hadn’t been feeling well.” I felt concern. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He nodded his head in appreciation. “I think it’s the weather. It could be the drinking, but if I let myself believe that …” He trailed off. I nodded, saddened. Despite all of our back-and-forth antics, Peter had a tenderness and depth within him. I saw only glimpses and they were erratic at best as he typically covered his persona with fruits and vegetables. Not to say those fruits and veggies weren’t a part of his personality—they were—but they were usually the only parts of himself that played at the café. I didn’t like the idea that his roots might not be receiving enough nutrients. How to rectify the situation without tearing down the trellises he had carefully placed around his inner garden. I couldn’t stomp around expecting to improve it. I couldn’t tell if he needed more rain or sunshine, let alone a downpour versus a mist or midday sun versus late afternoon rays. I simply didn’t know enough about his garden.
Kasper delivered my uitsmijter and I asked for a glass of water. “Coming right up.” The food was still a little hot so I waited for the water. Kasper again looked at me concerning Peter. I shrugged and shook my head again. Kasper nodded and went back to work helping others at the bar. When Kasper brought my water I took a drink and began eating. I noticed the flavors without even being conscious that I was noticing them at first. I had a flash from the previous night and as I ate I focused my attention intensely on each bite, identifying how the mushrooms mixed with the tomatoes, ham, and eggs then noticing how the ham mixed with the eggs, tomatoes, and mushrooms. I continued savoring the flavors in this way, washing my palate with water and mixing the richness of the coffee in my taste experiments.
Peter was staring at me again. I wiped my mouth with a napkin and looked at him expectantly. He shook his head, meaning “nothing, just looking.” Strange. “Peter, have you eaten today?” He shook his head no. “You should have a bite. It might help.” He nodded then drank the rest of his beer. He put down a bill on the bar, walked to the hangers, and put on his coat, scarf, and hat. He waved to Kasper and the regulars then said to me, “This day will end and tomorrow we’ll all start over.” He walked out the door. I took a deep breath. Nothing I could do and, hopefully, he was right.
I finished my meal and coffee. I paid my tab and left a tip as well. As I put on my coat and returned my laptop, unused, to my bag, Kasper asked me what was wrong with Peter. “I don’t know. He was weird. Not in the good way. Downtrodden. The weather and the drinking, I think. I asked him if he ate and he said no. The man needs to eat if he wants to stay healthy.” Kasper nodded. “I think he eats at home, saves his money for drinks.” I grabbed my wallet and gave Kasper a bill. “If he comes in tomorrow, bring him some soup or something and just tell him it’s on the house. Hell, tell him it’s the official day for feeding people with names beginning with the letter ‘P,’ whatever it takes to get him to eat something.” Kasper handed my money back and said, “No need for you to pay. I’ll give it a shot, though. We’re talking about Peter, though …” I nodded. “True. Well, I’m off. See you soon.” Kasper waved and I walked out the door.
I fought the wind to Bloem. I lost most of the battles on the way, but I made it. I walked through the front door, allowed myself to slump, and shuffled back to the table nearest the side door. I sat in the seat with my back to the wall, a large window to my left and the walkways through the café to my right. This was my favorite seat in the café besides sitting at the bar. From this seat I could see all the happenings on the first floor of Bloem including the activities behind the bar. I realized it was Bloem’s version of my seat at the curly Q in Eik en Linde. I liked people watching. There was nothing more to it than that.
Daniel walked back from the kitchen and went behind the bar. He hadn’t seen me as I was hidden from view. I was the only customer in Bloem, although there could have been people upstairs. If it got busy downstairs—not likely on such a nasty day early in the week—I would give the upstairs a try for the first time. I sat still, waiting for Daniel to notice me. As he was organizing glasses, bottles, and whatever else was below the bar, he looked up. The look on his face was priceless. He was seeing the ghost of Michael siting in the corner.
I laughed at him, as much to let him know I was real as anything else. He was released from from his shocked stupor and said, “Michael, you scared the shit out of me. How long have you been sitting there?” I stared at him without expression. “Since last night. You locked me inside, you bastard.” I saw Daniel’s muscles relax and he asked if I wanted anything. “Yeah, I’ll have a Floreffe.” An early afternoon beer to accompany my indexing work. Daniel poured and brought the beer to my table as I pulled out my laptop.
“I’m surprised to see you today. Hell, I’m surprised to see anyone today. The weather.” I nodded. “I know. I was indoors all day yesterday, though. I wanted to get out for a while, try to get a little work done this afternoon while I’m here.” Daniel looked around. “You have plenty of privacy. I’ll let you get work.” I opened a PDF and began indexing.
I worked for about ten minutes and a few young people walked inside, roosting in the lounge area. Daniel walked past to serve them. I kept working another twenty minutes, Daniel bringing me another beer. He asked if I wanted to join him for a smoke. I put on my coat and hat to step outside. The wind wasn’t as bad through the tunneled side of Bloem. There was an archway that allowed through-traffic to pass to the road behind Bloem. It wasn’t so much an archway as a tunnel--there were four more floors above attached to the buildings on either side. I never really looked up much because I was usually underneath the tunnel while having a smoke—protection from wind and rain. Well, rain, anyway. Neither Daniel nor I had much to say. We were in similar states; too much juice for the crappy weather. This manifested as nervous energy with nowhere to go. I wasn’t much in my mind at all; my body was alive and wanted to play. Fucking weather. Throughout our smokes we simply glanced at one another, incredulous that we had to endure such indignities.
We returned inside and before I started working again I thought about how Daniel and I were able to spend relaxed wordless time together. I didn’t know him and yet … I knew him. It was the same, as far as I could tell, the other way around. I felt this awareness from him the first time we met. The sense grew stronger over time. I sometimes wondered if I was a different species and I occasionally met “my kind,” my culturally conditioned mind dismissing the possibility as hogwash—how could that be? Neither science, religion, nor any other belief system supported the possibility. Maybe we were aliens left behind and had been dispersed throughout the planet over the ages.
It didn’t matter what it was; there were some with whom I forged instant connections and then there was everyone else. In a way, they didn't really exist. They couldn’t, not for me, because I couldn’t feel them, couldn’t sense any energy or electricity from them. They were the walking dead, extras wandering the earth to provide more moving objects for the few who were alive. In the end, though, they constituted a mass of unimportant beings no more consequential than Saturday night’s after-hours vomit. Of course, they may have been just as real but operating on different frequencies and they thought I was an extra filling up space. Everyone's an extra in someone's movie and yet we were all the stars of our own shows. I was surprised my show hadn't been cancelled, but I think I pulled out of my slumps just in time to live interestingly enough that the cosmological producers allowed me to continue playing my role. Sometimes I wished they would just pull the plug and let me start over. I thought I could do better with a different script. As it was, i had to do the best I could in the role I played. One shift I needed to make was to act as the star of my own show. Sometimes I let the supporting cast play the lead. Fucking stupid.
Yesterday, though, had been a gold mine of sensory awareness. I had certainly played the lead in my life since landing in Amsterdam thus far during this stay. I was filling out as a being, but today everyone was bound and gagged by intangibles. If I could adjust my eyes and sense of touch I might be able to detect what it was that was trying to suffocate liveliness, but I wanted to get more work done on the index. Maybe that was it as much as anything else: The weather and the bindings of the indexing project were chaining me to the ground even though I wanted to fly. Daniel seemed the same way. He was chained to the slowness of Bloem at the moment and the man liked working. Ultimately, I had no idea what the fuck was happening. The earth may have been spinning at half speed or the sun was to exhausted to shine at full strength.
I took a swig from the glass and continued indexing. I had a good rhythm going after about half an hour. Ann hour and a half later I was ready to stretch my legs. The group in the corner was still hanging out, university students from the way they gathered, laughed, and talked. Two other tables had a single occupants eating, a middle-aged woman reading a newspaper and a late-30s/early-40s man with an open laptop. Daniel was in a rhythm as well, busy enough to keep him moving and happy. I motioned to him to see if he wanted a smoke. He said, “Five minutes.” I nodded and saved my progress as I had found a good stopping point. I went online to check my email and saw it stuffed with new mail. Half of it was junk mail. I went through the process of deleting it, marking it as spam so I wouldn’t have to be inundated by the same crap over and over again. I opened one email from a friend and barely began reading when Daniel tapped my shoulder. I put on my coat and hat then walked out with him.
“Things picked up a little.” I nodded. “Yeah, I saw that. I got into a groove with my index, too. I was struggling earlier.” Daniel looked over at me with his cigarette dangling. “Yeah, I could tell you were feeling it, too.” I smiled and as I did a gust of wind came through the tunnel. We both ducked out of the way. We bitched in stereo, “This fucking weather!” I tossed my cig and said, “Fuck it. I’m going back inside.” Daniel followed.
I went back to work on the index for another hour. I noticed the sky brightening outside and the trees across the canal were blowing less. Thankfully. The sun even made an appearance for a minute before disappearing again. All signs of better weather. I stopped indexing and began writing. I was on my fourth beer so I figured enough was enough. I didn’t write so much as think. The past week played in my mind and it seemed really fucking weird. No rhyme or reason, the only constant being the shrooms. I was stunned at how different each trip was, each one had a diversity within itself and yet each one seemed to have a theme, like I was taking shrooms not known for “body highs” or “cerebral excursions” but “relational thinking discoveries” and “experiential differences illuminated by sensory awareness.”
I could open my own shroom shop and become a connoisseur in my own right. “Sure, sure, I understand you want to experience a body high, but do you want so much twirling that you lose touch with your body or would you prefer the sensation of rolling around in warm mud? I have some other shrooms on hand that provide a specific six-hour narrative and, regardless of setting, you’ll experience the prescribed phenomena of the shroom story exactly as it was written by the gods.” I had been partially joking with Nina when I told her I was a shroom guide, but I was beginning to think far more seriously about the possibility. The specifics? No. In fact, I thought specifics would defeat the whole purpose.
As I was thinking, Suzette entered through the front door. I waved at her and invited her to sit down. She first went to Daniel and gave him a kiss. She put her coat on the rack by the side door then came to sit with me. Daniel came over and took her order. I asked her how she was doing and she shook her head, laughing.
“I don’t know. I’m nervous.” I asked why. “I was working yesterday translating for a contingent of Russians and Americans. I was translating Russian into English and the Russian delegate said something about going on the offensive regarding a particular matter. It was an innocent statement, but there are several translations for “offensive,” you know? I think I translated to the American delegation that the Russians found the Americans approach offensive.” She put her head in her hands. I laughed. "Holy shit!" She looked up, her face more serious and her voice a little nervous as she said, “Shit, I think I fucked up.” Then she changed her mind. “No, if I had done that I would have heard about it by now.” Still, she was upset. Hiding it fairly well, but she was nervous. I asked her if she’d like a glass of wine—on me. She said no, but quickly changed her mind. “There’s nothing I can do about the matter now, anyway, so I don’t know why I’m stressing over it. I’m just terrified that I’ll return to work having to explain why I caused a ruckus between the delegations. I haven't received a phone call, SMS, or email about any problems, though, so maybe I translated the statements correctly. It sucks not knowing, though.”
Internally, I whipped my head in a circle. Fuck. I realized, at that moment, the seriousness of her work. I had sweated over indexes in the past, worried about whether I had made a cross reference to an entry that didn’t exist. Authors and publishers would no doubt be upset, perhaps never work with me again costing me thousands or perhaps tens of thousands of dollars in future projects that would go to other companies, but nothing I did while indexing would cause an international incident. My respect for Suzette grew. It was an impressive skill to be able to translate three languages and working at the International War Crimes Tribunal was certainly serious. Never before, though, had I thought about the important role translators played in international affairs.
After a couple glasses of wine Suzette seemed much more relaxed, even a bit tipsy. The conversation had shifted to other subjects, but the possible gaffe was never far from her mind. It was evident on her face. I tried my best to focus attention elsewhere and lift her spirits, but she was stuck on that issue. Not that I blamed her; I would probably be sweating it, too. Bloem had filled out a bit as we spoke, including a few upstairs. What had started as a slow day now saw Daniel rushing about, so much so he had called in Tom to help out. Suzette excused herself, saying she was going home to relax with her boyfriend. I stood up and gave her a kiss on each cheek. She thanked me for the conversation and providing some distraction. “It’s so weird. It didn’t bother me nearly this much yesterday, but today I can’t shake it.” I said, “Hey, I'm glad you stopped by. It was great to see you again. I’m sure everything will turn out fine.” How the fuck would I know? Just something said to people who are upset. “What? You pushed the red button in the President’s office? Oh, well, probably just for pizza deliveries. I’m sure everything will work out.”
Suzette kissed Daniel goodbye and I ordered from Tom. “Varkensvlees en sla mit tomaten, wortelen, en parika.” Tom went back to the kitchen. “Oh, and another Floreffe when you get a minute.” I heard a distant “Ja” then went back to my laptop. Definitely no indexing at this point. Too many drinks. Writing? Nope. Not in that type of mode and the place was too busy for the quiet I needed to really concentrate. Email? Perfect. I went through the many unread emails on my computer and sent short replies. One required more attention than the others. Just after I sent a response, my food arrived.
Things were slowing down. People paid their tabs and left. Bloem was half as full as it had been an hour earlier. Daniel was behind the bar cleaning glasses. I ate and enjoyed the growing quiet. I had a nice, relaxing buzz. Tom cleaned tables. I asked Daniel how he was doing. He came over and sat down next to me. “Tired. I wasn’t expecting this much work on a cold Tuesday.” I nodded as I continued eating. I wiped my mouth with a napkin and said, “Yeah, the weather improved.” I was almost done eating so I asked Daniel if he had time for a smoke. We went outside and lit up. From out of the blue, I asked Daniel if he had heard from Anabel. “I don’t know. I hardly ever go online so she might have sent an email.” I found that refreshing. I had held out until the early 2000s before caving to get a cell phone, but I was technologically up to date for the most part. Living abroad and working as an indexer made it a necessity. It was nice being abroad, though. Fewer phone calls and text messages. Unlike Daniel, I preferred email to other forms of communication. So much more flexibility in terms of response time. I had shit I wanted to do in person most of the time and I didn't need bullshit calls and texts cluttering my time.
Daniel asked if I had plans for the evening. “Yeah, staying warm.” He smiled. The last two days had been the worst since I had been in Amsterdam. Daniel said, “Every year there’s a cold snap like this. It won’t last.” I hoped he was right. We finished our cigs and went back inside. Daniel went upstairs to check on customers while Tom continued cleaning up downstairs. I shut down my computer. I thought about having another beer, but I wanted to walk home before the weather changed for the worse. The wind wasn’t as bad, but it was still unpleasant. Daniel came back down the stairs and I told him I was going to head out. I paid my tab and said goodbye to Tom. Daniel bid me farewell. I said, “I’ll see you when it gets warmer.” A pause from Daniel, “So, what, I'll see you in March?” I laughed and left through the front entrance.
I noticed the tops of trees in the zoo were swaying more violently. Fuck. Not good. The bitter wind was back, worse in some stretches than others. It was whipping at the corner of Plantage Kerklaan and Middenlaan and almost unbearable over the Magere Brug. By then, though, I was nearly home. I unlocked the street door, checked the mailbox, brought the mail upstairs, and unlocked the apartment door. I put Susan’s mail away and put down my computer. I went to the kitchen and made hot chocolate. I took the cup with me to the living room and loaded a bowl of Super Lemon. I sparked the bud and felt the cloud of goodness fill my lungs. Oh, dear Me, thank you. I had completely forgotten that I’d had my dugout with me the whole day. Damn, would have been nice mixed with the beers. Whatever. I felt good now at least.
I was spent so I did something I rarely did in Amsterdam: I turned on the television and flipped through channels. I found a soccer match. Or futbol. Or whatever the Dutch called it. It wasn’t Ajax, the local team, but a match between teams from cities I couldn’t pronounce. I had no idea if the game was live or a rerun. It didn't matter. Good enough for a day like this. I fell asleep while watching and when I woke around eleven I dragged myself to the bed.
No comments:
Post a Comment