Amsterdam Twenty-Six: Friends

Exhaustion. An eye opened looking at a hardwood floor a couple inches away. The horizon of the floor stretched out and revealed dust collecting under the dresser. Breathing, there was that. The floor was cool. I had a thought, a thought that allowed me to be “I” again. Remembering wasn’t good; memories created a frightening context for the present. I was afraid to move. I laid still for a long time, grateful just to be able to breathe. I mustered the courage to place my palm flat on the floor next to my head to try to push myself up. A shooting pain ripped through my chest and I stopped. “Oh, no.” I remained still for a long time then rolled onto my back. I used my abdominal muscles and sat up. My chest felt crushed and it was tough to breathe again. I stood up slowly and shuffled gingerly to the bathroom. I took off my clothes and showered. The cool water helped and the moisture in the air made breathing easier. I felt a little more alive after toweling off.

I dressed with careful movements, deliberately delicate. I took a deep breath when I was done and felt pain in my chest again. “I need to see a doctor.” I was nervous, though, because of the cocaine. I saw the case covered with a white film of powder. There was enough there to scrape into a sizable line, but I wanted nothing to do with it. Instead, I took it to the bathroom and wiped the case clean with a wet hand towel. I slowly put on socks and shoes; the scale of difficulty was in the same range as the Tkachev Salto. I put on my jacket, wincing from having to lift my arms and twist my torso. I took a rest while standing, leaning against a wall.

Rain was coming down hard. Of course it was; nothing would be easy on this day. I grabbed an umbrella and opened it after locking the door. Fuck, it sucked having to hold the umbrella while walking. The air was cold and moist, though, both good things. I walked to Eik en Linde, a painful walk that left me extremely tired by the time I arrived. It was early and only Kasper and his mother were inside, both working behind the bar to ready the cafe for the day. Kasper took one look at me and winced. “You’re white as ghost, Michael. Are you okay?” I didn’t know what to say, but I wanted to tell him I needed a doctor. “I feel pretty shitty. I have pains in my chest, I have no energy, and, frankly, I’m not sure what’s really wrong.” Kasper’s mother was listening and she came over to express her concern. She said, “You should see a doctor. Oh, right, you’re out-of-country. The hospital would be best.” She and Kasper began talking about which hospital was nearest. Kasper’s mother said, “The OLVG. It’s about a mile away.” I looked out the window at the rain and so did Kasper and his mother. It had taken all I could to make it the eighth of a mile to Eik en Linde; there was no way I could walk a mile. I said, “Maybe I should take a taxi.” Kasper’s mother grabbed a phone book and went to make the call.

Kasper looked at me and asked, “What happened?” I sighed. I was embarrassed, but I told him part of the truth. “Well, for starters, I was shrooming.” A smile slowly grew on Kasper’s face. I smiled a little, but I still felt like hell. “I was twirling, really out there, and I fell. Everything was out of whack, I couldn’t tell what was going on at all, but I could hardly breathe and my chest felt like it was being crushed in a vice.” Kasper shook his head, still smiling, but his eyes held plenty of concern. He poured me a glass of orange juice and kept chatting with me, keeping me company.

They were so kind to me, Kasper and his mother. I was glad I had frequented their establishment, but I believed they would have been just as kind had I just walked in for the first time. Dutch kindness is extraordinary. Kasper joked, “Typical American, taking shrooms and getting sick.” I laughed a little. My anxiety was lessening sitting in the warmth of the café and that seemed to make it easier to breathe. Kasper told me a story about taking shrooms when he was younger, “It was the only time I ever shroomed and it was awful. I was maybe 19 or 20, something like that, and I was out with friends. We were all supposed to eat the shrooms and then hang out together. I remember having to climb a fence. Somehow I got separated from the rest of the group and tried to find my way home. It was hell. Maybe I would have tried them again if I had stayed single. You know, responsibilities.” I joked, “You let me know when you finally become responsible.” Kasper laughed and lightly whipped his bar towel at me. During the whole conversation neither Kasper nor his mother made a judgment about me except in a joking way. Nonjudgmentalness, a higher virtue altogether than tolerance.

The taxi arrived and they waved me off. Kasper’s mother said, “Stop back to let us know how you are, okay?” I said I would and thanked them for their hospitality. They both waived their hands as if they had done nothing. I got in the cab and said, “OLVG,” not knowing whether the driver would understand or not. He nodded, turned on the meter, and merged into traffic. The hospital was about a mile drive. I got out, paid, and went to the emergency room. I mentioned to a woman at the front desk that I had pain in my chest and trouble breathing. She asked if I was a citizen or legal resident of The Netherlands. I said no. She turned, grabbed a form, and told me to fill it out. I took a seat, filled out the form, and returned it to her. She said someone would see me soon.

I waited about ten minutes before a nurse came through a swinging door and announced my name. She led me back to a room, took my vitals, and said everything looked normal except for my blood pressure. She said it was high but not significantly. She left and a couple minutes later a doctor came. She asked questions and I explained what had happened, leaving out the part about the cocaine. I was still irrationally nervous about being arrested or getting into legal trouble. She smiled and said, “You have to be careful. This is common, though. We often get tourists who have bad experiences with cannabis and mushrooms because they aren’t used to the potency. Anxiety and panic attacks are typically the worst symptoms, though.” I mentioned twirling and falling so she helped me remove my shirt, checked my upper extremities, my back and chest, had me move about, tested me with her stethoscope, asked if this hurt and I said no, asked if this hurt and I said, “Yes! Ow!” and asked if this hurt and I winced, “Oh my god!” She kept checking me over for a few minutes more.

“Well, it appears you have contusions, severe bruising, on your shoulder blades.” I said, “Huh?” She said, “You must have fallen awkwardly because on one shoulder blade the bruise is high and on the other it is low. There is some lighter bruising, nothing serious, on your upper back and shoulders as well. I checked the back of your head to see if you had any bruising or cuts to rule out a concussion or fracture; there is no sign of damage.” I nodded and she continued, “The bruises on your shoulder blades and your back in general are causing your chest to feel tight, 'crushed' as you said. That’s why it hurts when you twist your torso and lift your arms. It also explains your breathing difficulties, including why deep breaths cause such awful pain. Combined with the anxiety—which likely exacerbated the pain and made it even more difficult to breathe—it’s understandable why you believed you were having a heart attack. You’re lucky there are no broken bones, but to be safe you should see your physician when you return to the United States. My advice for you is to take it easy the next few days.” I nodded. I felt immense relief. The pain was still there, but at least I knew nothing life-threatening was causing it. As the doctor was about to leave, she turned, winked, and said, “While you’re at it, lay off the shrooms for a while, okay?” I nodded sheepishly and thanked the doctor for her kindness. She smiled and said, “Enjoy the rest of your stay.”

I went to the front desk wondering how much the ER visit would cost. I knew they had free or cheap health care in Holland, but I wasn’t a legal resident or citizen. I was a visitor. I was told by the receptionist that I would receive a bill in the mail. I asked her how much it would be and she checked my chart. “Probably about 100 Euros.” Wow, I probably would have had to pay $800 or $900 for a similar ER visit in the United States. Either way, I was just glad to be alive with only bruises on my back.

I had paid attention to the cabbie’s route so I walked back the same way. It was still raining a little so I opened the umbrella. The walk was painful, but less so psychologically. I entered Eik en Linde cold, wet, and tired. The café had filled with regulars and faces I didn’t recognize. Kasper came over and asked how it went. “Bruised shoulder blades.” He sighed and said, “Well, that’s not too bad.” Kasper’s mother walked over to me and placed a bowl of chicken noodle soup in front of me. “It’s a cold day and you’ve had a rough go of it.” I thanked Kasper’s mother and ate the soup while thinking, “I am so lucky to have such caring people in my life.” After so many heartaches and heartbreaks, it was refreshing to know people cared about one another … in this case, me. I may not have done much right in life, but I seemed to have a knack for finding exceptional souls and making good friends.

I went home and slept through the afternoon, waking around seven and feeling disoriented. My chest hurt, but not as bad as it had earlier. Weird that my chest hurt more than my back given where the bruising was. I sent emails to my friends to let them know I was okay. I didn’t know what else to do with myself so I took a shower, dressed, and went out. The clouds had gone and the night sky was clear. I walked to the end of the block, the route I typically took to Eik en Linde, but before I got to the bridge I took a good look at the corner café. It was closer than any other café but something about it always kept me from visiting. It was well-lit, too well-lit I had thought in the past. There always seemed to be beautiful people either sitting at the tables or serving those sitting at the tables. It looked too hip to me or maybe too hip for me. I felt that way about the place, anyway. Whether it was true or not, I didn’t know.

The café seemed relatively empty. I thought briefly of going inside, but didn’t feel up to it. Maybe another time. I continued walking past the bridge and café. I hadn’t walked this far down Entrepotdok previously. There was no one on the street but me. It was strange being the only person within view in either direction. I found myself wishing for other pedestrians. I was lonely. All of the excitement with Vanessa had made me feel like I was with someone. But now, with Vanessa out of the country and Eik en Linde primarily a morning hangout for me, I was alone. I felt homesick for the first time since arriving in Amsterdam. I missed my stateside friends and family.

For a moment I missed S. as well. Despite how badly the relationship ended, most of the years we had been together were good. I missed the intimacy we once shared. When we were younger it seemed that life would be a steady unretracting progress endlessly building upon itself with the good times getting better and better. Life hadn't worked out that way, though. In youth, yes, but the good times became less and less frequent. Increasingly, conscious effort was required to create them.

As I walked along the canal down the lane, though, I still felt life was good. I had survived yet another near-catastrophe and was treated with kindness by everyone I asked for help. I breathed deeply, felt the pain in my chest, and noted it wasn't as severe. The lane took a turn and cut away from the canal. The buildings were newer, only two stories. I thought it was strange how Amsterdam had developed, how the urban design through the ages created such a bizarre and wonderful city. Even in these newer areas I liked the ambience. I couldn’t place the feeling I had in relation to the architecture around me; despite seeming cold or sterile in comparison to the old city, the area felt hospitable. Perhaps it was simply the quiet.

There was no one out at all. It was a ghost town until a woman whizzed by on a bike and I heard walkers coming my way. They were young and appeared to be drunk. They waved hello and passed by without incident. I found another side street, turned, found another side street, turned, and found myself back at the canal that ran along Entrepotdok. I found a bench and sat, staring across the canal. On the other side, behind the walls, was the Artis Zoo. I liked that it was there and I didn’t know why. Maybe it kept the neighborhood quieter than it might have been otherwise. I wasn’t sure, but I liked it.

I felt melancholy. It was gentle, but sorrowful. I didn’t have the words and wept without understanding why. I … loved. Not a person or an object, just a heavy, leaden love that had nowhere to go. It felt like a weight. I thought of the lonely and broken-hearted, but only abstractly. I couldn’t connect because I was lonely myself. I could say the lonely were my kindred, but how? The lonely have no kindred; they wouldn’t be lonely if they did.

I put my head in my hands and watched tears fall to the ground. For a long time, tears came and went. They splashed on the pavement, leaving a stain. Not a soul walked near me. I knew where to go if I ever wanted to be alone in Amsterdam again. I didn’t feel like being alone, though. I wanted proximity to people, even if I was sitting alone in a café listening to others talk. Didn’t matter the language as long as the voices were human. I stood up and walked toward my apartment. I knew Eik en Linde would be too crowded; I wanted to be around people, yes, but with space between them and me.

I approached the café I had never visited. The sign outside read “Bloem.” The English translation was “bloom” as in the bloom of a flower. I looked inside as I was passing; it was mostly empty. I shrugged my shoulders and sighed before going inside. I sat at a table near the door. There was a buxom and beautiful young woman sitting at the other end of the café. She had incredibly long, curly, and thick brown hair and wore headphones plugged into a laptop. Behind the bar was a long and lithe proto-Dutch blonde. Her skin was smooth and white, her neck long and thin like a swan. Her eyes were soft blue and she went about her business in a relaxed but knowing manner. A man who appeared to be in his early thirties, at most ten years older than the women in the café, was also working behind the bar. He had short, wavy dark brown hair and the sort of looks that attract women of all ages. He seemed both worldly and boyish. I was in the presence of beauty, elegance, and grace.

The man stepped around the bar and walked over to me. I looked at the menu and quietly ordered a salad and a beer. He nodded his head and turned back to the bar. He said something in Dutch to the young blonde and she began pouring a beer from a tap. He went to the kitchen in the back and shortly thereafter came out with a simple but tasty-looking salad. He grabbed the beer as he made his way and delivered them together.

As I was eating, the woman at the computer laughed. She stopped, laughed, stopped, and laughed again. The man and woman working the bar walked over to her and she let them use the headphones to listen. The man shook his head after listening and then handed the headphones to the blonde. She laughed then gave them back to the brunette. They spoke melodically in Dutch, the most sonorous voices I had heard in Amsterdam, perhaps ever. I studied the three of them, their movements and sounds, their facial expressions. Everything about them was rich and resonant. I didn’t know such people existed. They were effortlessly alive.

Of all the places I could have entered on a night when I needed solace, I walked into a greeting card of warmth and good cheer. The three of them joked with one another, laughed, not a tense muscle in their bodies or a wrinkle of distress on their faces. They exuded relaxed confidence without even a hint of pretentiousness or arrogance. I felt like an anthropologist of the supernatural watching angels coalesce in their natural habitat.

My body, on the other hand, was still in pain. I felt a universe separating them from me. We weren’t the same species. Nevertheless, I felt my mood shifting just by being in their presence. Strange feeling gratitude for strangers simply for being themselves in my presence. That was it, too; they were openly intimate and affectionate. I felt like I was watching a family spending a holiday evening at home. They didn’t seem to mind that a stranger had invited himself inside and plopped down on dad’s favorite chair to quietly chill. It was surreal … wonderfully surreal.

Normally, I would have felt like the oddball of the group, the odd man out, but it wasn’t possible to feel that way in their presence. I couldn’t fathom how that could be. In a way, I wished I had visited the café sooner, but, no, this was the best possible night to first visit Bloem. I don’t think I would have appreciated their presence in the way I was on any other night. I realized, to a certain degree, that being able to see them as they were said something important about me as well. I was seeing them. It was as if I was stranded on a tiny island watching a once in a lifetime sunset, turning to say to someone, “My God, isn’t this the most incredible visage you’ve ever seen?” only to realize I was the only one there, the only one in the world seeing it. They had that effect, making me forget I was alone. I certainly wasn’t lonely any more. It wasn’t possible to feel loneliness with their spirit in the room.

The man came around again and asked if I wanted another beer. I nodded my head yes. He smiled and turned to the woman behind the bar who gracefully filled another glass. The woman with the headphones continued to laugh on and off. The man brought me the beer and took away my plate. I had finished my salad by then. He put the plate in a sink at the end of the bar and began washing it along with other glasses that had been sitting there.

The brunette laughed so hard that I started laughing. In spite of myself, I blurted out, “What is so funny?!” All three of them looked over at me, shocked, possibly because it was discovered I could speak or perhaps because they finally realized someone who wasn’t an angel was present. Instead of shunning me, the brunette took off her headphones and waved me over. “You’re an American?” she sang. I said yes and her smile grew wide. “Oh, here, you must listen to this!” She excitedly mentioned the name of a person I didn’t know and then handed me the headphones. I looked at the video on the computer screen and listened. It was a British ventriloquist and his jokes were funny but, well, also a bit hokey. I laughed in spite of the corniness.

I took off the headphones and handed them back to the brunette. She gazed up at me with her soft, smiling grey-blue eyes as if I were someone she had known since childhood. She was gorgeous, unbelievably so. My mind kept saying, “Are you fucking kidding me? There’s no way she’s fucking real!” As hot as she was from across the room, she was otherworldly up close. Yet … she exuded innocence and playfulness; she was so real, so grounded, so nonchalant about being a goddess, so lackadaisical with her charm that I forgot she was a goddess. Her face glowed as she rattled off information about the ventriloquist and how funny he was before peppering me with questions about America. She asked my name and I told her. She said her name was Nina and she introduced me to her friends, Daniel and Anabel.

Daniel had an air about him that I couldn’t place. A unique presence. I could feel him even when he said nothing. The feeling was … I don’t know. He was unquestionably his own man, but he was also mysterious. Not in a suspicious or threatening way, though. I had the sense that his depth was bottomless even as he gave off the most relaxed vibes. He smiled easily and spoke sing-song Dutch and wonderful English. He went back-and-forth playfully with Nina and Anabel and, soon enough, me. His presence was like a gravity pulling us closer to him, a gravity I certainly did not want to resist. Why? To escape from being swallowed by pleasurable fulfillment?

Anabel, dear lord, was exceedingly graceful and elegant. She hugged and kissed Daniel and Nina repeatedly as we talked, but not the kisses and hugs of a flighty teenager; no, they were the affectionate expressions of a woman filled with a lifetime’s worth of sensuality. Everything about Anabel—as well as Daniel and Nina, for that matter—was substantive. She turned on a dime and appeared lost in thought, at times, but when her blue eyes searched for the gazes of others nothing could be hidden. When she spoke I didn’t care what she said. I just wanted her to continue speaking so I could hear her voice.

The voices of these three? Not of this earth. The voices themselves, yes, but the spirit of their voices sang even when they spoke. I was having an out-of-body experience. On the one hand, I was with the three of them, talking and laughing in the same easygoing manner they were; but on the other, I was observing all of it, finding myself in greater and greater awe of each one of them, dumbfounded that I was with them, and even more shocked that I was managing to converse as if I was one of them. They made it so easy. I wasn’t doing anything special. I wasn’t trying at all. I’m not sure I even could have tried. Something about the three of them together made it impossible for effort to be put forth. Things happened, things got done, but always effortlessly. Everything was downhill for them. I was a creature of air and light, just as they were. Had I always been without realizing it or was it just this way because of their presence? The inquiry was pointless and drifted away as soon as it had come into existence. Questions such as that needn’t be answered. Why ask why everything is wonderful while it’s wonderful? I might miss something wonderful while wondering.

It hit me what it was about the three of them, about each of them: They were extraordinarily aware and their self-assuredness was proportional to their awareness. They appeared as angels, gods, goddesses precisely because of these traits. My awareness was being raised by being with them, but, again, not through any special efforts I made. It just … happened.

I told them I lived just down the street and that I had passed by dozens of times but had never come inside. Daniel, the manager of Bloem, shrugged it off. “Well, you’re here now. That’s what counts” I smiled and slapped him on the back, “This won’t be the last time I’m here. I just found my new evening hangout.” Anabel said, “Well, actually we’re closed.” It was after eleven. I said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I can leave now so you can clean up and go home.” Daniel waved a hand, “Nah, stay. We always stay late with friends.” Friends. How deliciously inclusive. As we talked more, I found out Nina didn’t work there and that she and Anabel were lifelong friends. They grew up in Haarlem and both were studying at the University of Amsterdam. Daniel was American but had lived abroad nearly his whole life, the past ten years in Amsterdam.

As the clock approached 1:00 AM the conversation started winding down. I excused myself. Smiles and hugs. My head spun in a most pleasant way and I whistled as I walked home with air under my feet. The day started with terror, moved to melancholy and loneliness, and ended in the company of angels. 

Amsterdam Twenty-Five: Toot Toot

Six thousand Euros. Nine thousand U.S. dollars. Given away, no questions asked. Who does that? Sure, to a charitable organization or the cause to fight cancer. But to an individual one hasn’t known for even two weeks? To an escort?!

I smiled as I made an omelet and drank coffee. An online story about the European Union putting pressure on The Netherlands to outlaw shrooms caught my eye as I ate breakfast. Fucking fascists. I showered and dressed. The living room needed cleaning. I noticed we had done all of the coke last night … until I saw a packed baggie on the floor on the side of the coffee table. Had Vanessa dropped it, left it behind, forgotten about it? An early Christmas present? I chose the latter.

I pushed the button to open the blinds. The sun was peeking through the clouds. I grabbed my jacket, phone, and wallet and walked through my favorite neighborhood, found the café I had visited early during my visit, and sat at one of the three indoor tables. I ordered an espresso and watched pedestrians amble on their way to wherever it was they were going. The barista was the same woman who had served me earlier during my visit. She spoke Dutch and I told her, “I’m sorry, I speak very, very little Dutch and I understand even less.” She said, “Ah, you are American. Welcome.” She paused and said, “You look familiar, though.” I told her I had been in her café not long ago and she nodded. “That must be it. I remember faces well.” I asked her if she owned the place and she said, no, she managed the café. An uncle owned it.

So many cafes and shops in Amsterdam were family owned and operated. It reminded me of an America I had never experienced. As I sat with my espresso, sipping it now and then, I thought about the previous evening. My feelings were muted by an inner quiet.

Vanessa sent an SMS, surprisingly early. “I go Romania! Thank you. Love you! Kiss!” I replied. “When are you coming back? I leave next week.” She responded. “I back on weekend. You leave Amsterdam?” I wrote back yes, next Tuesday. She said, “No, you no go!” I responded again, “I see you this weekend. We talk then. Miss you. Love.” It pained me that I would be leaving in a week’s time. When would I return? Surprisingly, I wondered if she would come to the U.S. if I bought her a plane ticket. Maybe I would ask her about it when she got back. I shook my head. Time to think of something else.

Shrooms. Fuckers wanting to outlaw the shit. I had heard a story about how a fifteen year old French girl had fallen or jumped from a ten-story hotel the previous summer—or maybe it was two years ago. She was supposedly shrooming. As if that was what caused her to jump. Anyone jumping from a building likely had a lot of other problems or else they wouldn’t jump, no matter how bad the trip might be. Either way, that event had ramped up the discussion about outlawing mushrooms. Fucking ridiculous sensationalist bullshit. The U.S. and the EU, of course, had to meddle in the sovereign affairs of The Netherlands. Hell, that’s what the U.S. does as policy! Apparently, the EU had incorporated the bullying tactics of the Fascist States of America.

The bullshit pissed me off and depressed me. Well, if they were going to outlaw the fun stuff I figured I had better get my rocks off while I could. Time to “get back up on the horse,” pick some up later. I left the café and wandered slowly through the Oude Zijde and past the canal rings to Vondel Park, my since I had arrived. It was a long walk from my apartment on Entrepotdok. The park was lovely and my mood was even lovelier.

The day was chilly, but good for walking. I was getting fit on this trip while eating well and walking everywhere. I felt more energy. I wished I lived in a city in the United States that was structured like Amsterdam, but of course there were none. Even in Chicago and New York the walking is not the same. The feel of those cities is hyperkinetic whereas pedestrians in Amsterdam were mostly relaxed except in a few key places. I didn’t know much about the city outside the center except for the few neighborhoods bordering it such as the Jordaan, De Pijp, and the Plantage. I had visited neither De Pijp nor the Jordaan this trip. In fact, I had never explored De Pijp--not purposefully, anyway. I had gotten lost and wound up on one of its streets during a past trip. The Jordaan I knew better, having wandered through its quaint streets and touring the Anne Frank house in the late 90s. The latter had been a sobering experience, a history lesson of horror and inspiration.

After my stroll through Vondel Park, one of the great parks of Europe, I bought fritjes, a broodje, and sparkling water at a stand. I ate on a bench while watching the city move back and forth past me. Back on my feet, the smart shop on Kerkstraat was open so I bought a dose of McKennai. Body high. The Ecuadorians seemed stronger, the dose accompanying my panic attack the night of the Melkweg adventure. Anxiety and panic attacks are part of the risk of doing shrooms. What the hell was a fifteen year old doing with them anyway? Only those eighteen and older were allowed to buy shrooms, but, like drugs and alcohol everywhere, those underage will score if they want them bad enough.

I ambled home, legs tired, and smoked a bowl. Nothing important in my email inbox except the PDFs for indexes due in January. I downloaded them and made sure they were readable. It was mid-afternoon; I napped to be fresh for shrooming later.

I woke around six, put on sweats, and made pasta. Pasta seemed to fit the bill rather well whenever I took shrooms. It was becoming a tradition or perhaps a ritual. I added a few different spices and ate heartily. I had a glass of a cab I had purchased the previous week. I went to a corner store not far from Eik en Linde to buy a six pack of Floreffe. I returned around seven, loaded a bowl, and puffed. I gobbled the shrooms and turned on the CD player. A concert version of Phish’s “Ya Mar” filled the living room. “Oh, yeah, the blow!” The baggie held what looked like an eight-ball; it was much bigger than the gram-sized bags Vanessa and I had been purchasing. I dumped about a gram of coke on the case. I paused for a moment. Shrooms and coke? A combination I hadn’t done since the night I met Vanessa. Hmmm…

I mashed the coke into a fine powder and formed three fat lines. I did a card bump to alert myself, but decided to wait until I felt the shrooms to do more. I filled a couple glasses with water knowing I could easily get dehydrated and put them on the coffee table—visual reminders in case I forgot when the shrooms took over. I looked at the lines. I wasn’t feeling the shrooms, but I was still high from the pot and feeling good from the card bump. The blow spoke to me: “Why would you wait for the shrooms, you fucking twit? We belong up your nose! Sniff, sniff, give your nose a blast.” What the fuck, right? I rolled up a bill and tooted one of the fat lines. “Yeeeeeowwww, mama mama mama mama!” I switched nostrils and Hoovered another fattie. “Zingzingzow!!!” I poured the rest of the cocaine onto the case, mashed and diced it into a fine powder, mixed it with the existing line and made two massive lines. “Holy fuck, those are big lines! Wowza!” They were thick, bulging lines that stretched nearly the length of the CD case. Each one was well over a gram in size, probably a gram and a half each.

God, I felt like heaven. I wanted to do more. Should I do more? Wait for later? Why not do one of the fucking lines right now. Fuck yeah! I nailed half of one down and came really close to finishing off the other half. I pulled back, though. “No, no, I might need more later.” I turned off the Phish CD, shaking like a leaf and contorting my face as I did. “Whoo! Yeah! Fuck yeah. Motherfuck yeah!” I found an ebullient trance station on the satellite radio and put down the remote. Fuck yeah! Doing a gram of coke and shrooming? You bet your fucking ass, motherfucker! What could go wrong?

Soon enough the shrooms made their first appearance. I was hot. I went to the bathroom, turned on the shower, took off my clothes, and positioned myself under the shower-head waterfall. The water was too warm; cooler, cooler, cooler … cold. Yes, cold. Better. Fuck, still flush, though. The water was as cold as it could be, but it wasn’t cold enough. “Why am I so fucking hot?!”

I got out of the shower because it wasn’t helping matters. I dried off, put on shorts and t-shirt, and went to the coffee table. I smoked a couple puffs of weed to try to come down a little. I sat back on the couch, my legs doing a jig, feet tapping, toes twirling. My mouth swirled in circles and my nose sniffed and sniffled. “Why are my eyes constantly blinking?” The room spun faster and faster. I was on a carousel! “Tickets. Tickets, anyone? Step right up and get your tickets before the ride goes off the rails!” I was whacked and the shrooms were just getting started. The pot did nothing but intensify the effects. The water glasses. Yes! Smart to put them in eyesight. Great foresight. I drank one and then the other. My feet led me to the kitchen, first by taking gigantic fifteen-foot steps and then short half-inch shuffles. I breathed deep and felt good despite the churning heat. I put the glass under the fridge’s water dispenser, drank, refilled, drank, refilled and took the glass to the living room.

I turned off all the lights in the kitchen and living room except for a couple lamps, one with a dimmer switch I turned low. The saw the light and it was good. I looked out the living room window. I didn’t like the darkness outside so I pushed the button to shut them. “My god, that’s amazing.” I was enthralled by automation. I drank more water and went to the kitchen to refill. Back to the living room. The radio was bleeping and zwooping. I knelt in front of the coke. It was so white, whiter than fluffy fresh snow on Mont Blanc. The softness of the powder soothed me. I felt waves of tenderness washing over me. I wept as I spoke to it, “Oh, beauteous cocaine. You are so white and soft and good. Thank you for your white softness. I would hug you if I could.”

I was losing touch with reality little by little. I zipped the half line which was probably close to a gram and then curved the other huge line in a circle. I re-rolled the bill and zoomed a third of it. I shot back against the couch and laughed hysterically. “Oh-ho-ho-ho! Santa Claus is coming to town!” The walls throbbed, pulsing with the music. I switched stations and a sound hell broke loose. I couldn’t tell what type of music it was, what genre. It was an audio track of a devil gnashing sinewy flesh, chainsaws ripping through bones, a banshee wailing while chasing a little girl screaming, wind whistling through chimes, swarms of locusts decimating corn fields, apples thrown against the side of brick walls, wooden fences splintering from sledgehammer blows, a car backing over thousands of trash can lids, Aborigines swallowing exploding firecrackers, a chorus of soldiers charging through a forest, newscasters announcing the apocalypse after sucking helium from balloons, and billions of sounds that couldn’t possibly have originated within the solar system.

My body slinked and slid on the hardwood floors, propelled not by me but the pressure from pulsating walls. I crawled to the glass topped labyrinth, rolled underneath it, and popped out next to the couch. I saw a bill that could have easily been a leaf from an ancient redwood that accidentally grew next to the Nile River in Egypt. A pharaoh had likely left it for me so I could inhale the white powder that contained secrets only gods could fathom. Could I be Ra or Shiva or Zeus? There was only one way to know. I spent decades rolling the bill, my fingers gnarled from a heavy gravity pulling inward to the palms of my hands. A nostril expanded to the size of an air duct and I levitated over the case to will the last of the stardust into the HVAC system.

“Oh … I am god. I didn’t know.” I stood, twisted, turned, and twirled. Elation spiraled outward, bottle rockets exploded from eye sockets that I had once thought of as mine, but now realized could never be possessed by thoughts. I twirled and twirled and twirled as the lights of the room became bright white then orange-yellow. A tint of green fell over every object. I was blueness in a room continuously changing colors as I twirled. Dizziness arrived, disorientation followed. Neither could have been related to me because I was color. How could a color become disoriented? A schism was developing, a part called “me” and everything else that existed. This “me” was the problem; the rest of the universe was getting along just fine without “me.” In fact, “me” was being punished for believing it existed as a separate entity.

My balance and the world turned at different angles until I crashed to the ground. I felt all of myself thrust back into “me.” I wasn’t sure where I was or what was happening but I felt tremendous pain in my chest, like someone had lassoed me and was tightening the rope. I cried out in horror but no sound came. I couldn’t breathe and all I saw was whiteness.

I wasn’t sure how long I laid there, but I was becoming hotter and hotter. I felt like I was on fire and my lungs had caved to the pressure of what was no longer a rope but an anvil crushing me, a giant’s foot squashing me like bug. I felt sympathy and regret for all the bugs I had stepped on in my life and tried, desperately, to say I was sorry but again no sound came. I lost focus and my mind could no longer access verbal thought. There was only panic. There was a visual of the coffee table and I crawled to it in excruciating pain. I sat up and this time a scream escaped my lips. The scream was eternal, would exist forever throughout time as a sound wave bouncing around the universe. The phone on the coffee table, I needed it. I recovered my verbal capabilities and clicked on “contacts.” I dialed the first one.

I wished, momentarily, that Vanessa hadn’t left Amsterdam. Today of all days! I wasn’t sure who I was calling but my friend Brooke answered the phone. I wasn’t aware of time in any traditional sense, but I was glad that someone was awake to answer the phone. I recognized her voice and said, “This is Michael. I’m in Amsterdam and things are falling apart all around me! I can’t breathe and my chest … I think I’m having a heart attack.”

Brooke talked me down. Her voice was calm and she asked a series of questions. I managed to understand a few of them and told her I was shrooming. I wanted to tell her about the coke, too, but I was sure the phone was tapped, probably by a wide array of different intelligence agencies: The CIA, the NSA, Scotland Yard, whatever agencies exist within the EU and Holland. I couldn’t risk telling her even though it might help her to know I had just done an eight-ball of blow a night after doing half a gram of coke after doing coke day after day for … how long? Impossible to know. Could have been centuries or maybe just a minute. There was no telling.

I felt okay telling her about the mushrooms since they were unregulated. I was coming back into my mind again thanks to Brooke's serene and rational voice. She asked more questions and the answers seemed to eliminate the possibility of a heart attack, but I remembered again and again that she didn’t know about the coke. I kept forgetting and almost told her a thousand times, but I always remembered that my phone was tapped and fascist thugs were outside the door waiting to arrest me. I was in a pickle. I wanted to go to a hospital to save my life, but if Brooke was right and I was fine then I would be thrown into a dungeon to be tortured by an endless parade of men named Boris. Every torturer in the world was now named Boris. If they had had a different name before becoming a torturer they were forced to change it. It was the only way their techniques could be effective. Fuck Boris!

After several years on the phone with Brooke—she was a saint, I was convinced—she said she had to take care of some things and that she was going to call our mutual friend, Anne, so that she could talk with me, help keep me calm. She asked if I would be okay for about fifteen minutes. Of course I would be fine; her calm voice was now a part of me and it would talk to me while she called Anne. I got up and walked to the bedroom. My chest still felt tight and hurt quite a bit, but I was breathing a little slower, a little better. When I entered the bedroom, however, I collapsed on the floor. I saw all white again until I blacked out. Who knows how long? My consciousness returned, but I couldn’t breathe. My arms and legs wouldn’t move. I was paralyzed and panicking again. Some part of me said, “Breathe, breathe, breathe,” so I did, breathing within the mantra of “breathe.” I managed to move an arm, the one with the phone in hand. the process was terrifying and incredibly painful, but I put the phone next to my face so I’d be able to hear the phone ring. I remembered she was supposed to call, but I wondered if I would die before she did.

The phone rang and I answered. I put it under my ear so I could talk without holding it or moving from my prone position on the floor. The floor felt nice and cool. I didn’t want to make any moves; movement seemed to result in heart attacks. My body was still overheated but slightly less so. Anne let me know she had called my friend Mark as well, the triumvirate brain trust who, besides my brother and parents, had helped me survive the separation and divorce. I spent about a year on the phone with Anne as she helped keep me calm, reassuring me I hadn’t had a heart attack after I told her all my symptoms. Still, I felt that if I moved I would trigger another one. Anne reminded me, again, that I might not have had a heart attack at all, that I might just be having a really bad trip and an incredibly severe panic attack. This made some semblance of sense to me even without telling her about the cocaine. Anne eventually calmed me down to the point where I felt at peace. She said she would be available all evening and to call back if I needed help. She said Mark was available, too. I was so happy for the time difference between Amsterdam and the U.S. I was also glad that my sense of time was returning.

When I hung up I remained on the floor breathing, returning to my mantra of “breathe, breathe, breathe.” Eventually, I fell asleep on the hardwood floor with the phone next to my face.

Amsterdam Twenty-Four: The Agony and the Ecstasy

I sat at my favorite stool at Eik en Linde eating breakfast and drinking coffee. Kasper asked if I was still seeing Vanessa. I said yes. He sighed. “Philip’s a hound, too.” I said, “Red-haired Philip, he of the pony tail, the man who cooks the delicious uitsmijters?” Kasper nodded, “Yep, that’s the one. With your torrid new affair and his nightly conquests, well, let’s just say I sometimes miss the single life.” I had seen Kasper’s wife and two darling kids on a couple occasions as they were heading in or out of the café. I said, “You know, Kasper, I would trade places with you in a heartbeat. To go home to your family every night, hug your beautiful wife and sit your kids on your lap to read stories, man, it sounds like a dream to me.” Kasper nodded, “Yeah, unfortunately it’s not always like that. Sometimes I come home and my wife is hollering at me to grab the kids while she’s pulling something hot out of the stove because they’re scrapping. Then it’s trying to get them to put away their toys, the temper tantrums, my short fuse ignited by my wife’s, and so on.” I laughed and countered, “Before Vanessa, I spent about 250 nights in a row without a woman in bed next to me. The only racket I heard was on the television.” Kasper smiled and nodded. “The grass is always greener, huh?” Indeed.

As Kasper went about his business I thought of Leonard Cohen. He had sang or written or said, in response to his reputation as a womanizer, that everyone knows about the affairs but no one knows about the 10,000 lonely nights. After S., I had wondered if that would be my fate, thousands of lonely nights interspersed with short-term affairs. That had been the pattern thus far. In a gloomy way, I saw it as my future. Weird to think that after such an insanely wild night with Vanessa. Night? It was barely over two hours and yet it felt like months. Damn if she doesn’t pack each moment with a lifetime of living. Unlike anything I had ever experienced and I had been a wild fuck in my youth. She had me beat, though. By far.

Peter walked into the café and was removing his scarf to hang it on a hook near the door. I yelled at him, “Where the hell have you been?!” He shuddered then looked over at me. “Jesus Christ, Michael! I haven’t even had a beer yet and you’re already yelling at me. Christ almighty.” He hung up his coat and sat across from me on the other side of the curly Q. He waved at Kasper then turned to me. “You know, it’s hardly polite to yell at a man when he enters a fine drinking establishment such as this. ‘Welcome, Peter, haven’t seen ya in a long time. Come, sit and have a snort.’ That’s the sort of thing a decent fellow might say.”

I nodded. I agreed, of course, but it was Peter so I said, “Come on, Peter. You know there’s nothing decent about me.” Kasper set a glass of beer in front of Peter. He picked up the glass and took a big drink. “Ja, that’s true. Don’t know what I was thinking.” I chuckled and said, “So nothing’s changed since I last saw you.” Peter put down his glass and straightened up in his chair. He looked at me, exasperated. “Christ, kid, you’re unloading both barrels on me today. This is an entirely indecent hour for this. Wait until I’ve had three or four beers first.” I looked at my watch and said, “So, what, five minutes?” He slapped the table and began shaking with laughter. “If you buy ‘em for me that fast then okay. Jesus Christ, I haven’t had to say Christ’s name so often in the morning since, well, I first met you. Christ, Michael, you’re going to make me responsible for the Second Coming. Don’t put a burden like that on me. There isn’t enough beer in the world for me to handle something like that.”

I smiled and put up my hands, nodding okay. “Fair enough, Peter. It’s usually the other way around, you know.” Peter took another drink of beer and fished out a cigarette from his pack of Galoushes. He lit it, inhaled, and exhaled a reply. “Is it? Have I ever put you in jeopardy of bringing Christ back to earth to condemn us heathens?” I didn’t have a pithy response. I realized this was the first time I had ever seen Peter before he had been drinking. Such a different personality. Hmmm. “I suppose you haven’t, Peter. I don’t have the personal relationship with Jesus Christ that you do.” Peter exhaled more smoke. “Oh, I don’t have a personal relationship with Jesus. I just call out his name when I’m verbally assaulted before I’ve had a beer. I worry he’ll come one of these times. He can’t ignore me forever … No, I take that back. He’s been ignoring everyone for two thousand years. Strange, you would think people would stop hoping he’d come to visit after not returning calls so long.”

I laughed so hard I almost fell off my stool. “Yeah. I suppose it’s not his fault. After all, he’s been dead a long time. I think it’s a little weird to expect a dead guy to show up to a celebration thrown for him. It would be fun to go to a funeral, though, and see the guy in the casket get up to start drinking with the mourners.” Peter got a kick out of that. He finished his beer, stood up, and made his way back toward the WC. Kasper put a beer in front of Peter’s empty seat then turned to me. “Michael, the regulars are willing to pay your tab if you keep Peter occupied for the rest of the day.” I laughed. “If they’re willing to do that I’m going to start ordering the good stuff.” I waved down to the other end of the bar and got a laugh. “How bout an espresso, Kasper? I’m going to take off soon.” He nodded and turned away.

When Peter came back we chatted amiably. He wasn’t in a jovial mood. Melancholy, no different than any other human being in that he had different moods on different days. One of the things that happens when seeing a person over time is that caricatures crumble and a complex person appears. I had been interacting with a person Peter wasn’t, but fortunately I had my eyes and ears open so I saw him as he was on this day. We both shifted gears and settled down into a slower, quieter conversation. I enjoyed it and I felt closer to Peter than I had previously. There was a greater warmth in my belly because of it, a sense of being full in the middle of my being rather than way up above my head or down below my feet. It’s soothing to be within oneself, like being in a womb, a good place to go to recuperate from the frazzle of the world before being born back into it.

I bid Kasper and Peter adieu and went to an ATM. I stood in front of the machine for a good minute. I thought of the three-way corner I had been at the previous day and cherished this fresh moment of decision. 6000 Euros, that was what I was going to give Vanessa. I looked around to make sure I wasn’t making anyone wait. There was no one in the area at all. I sighed deeply and turned very slowly in a circle. I saw the red-bricked street, the gray sky, the brown trees with just a few yellow and green leaves left, the bicycle lane, the sidewalk, the three middle-aged women walking away from where I stood on the opposite side of the street, each dressed warmly in winter coats, scarves, and caps, and then I came back around to the cash machine again. I inserted my card, pressed buttons, and 2000 Euros shuffled out. I retrieved them and my card, put them in my wallet, and walked away from the ATM.

I went home and sent an SMS to Vanessa knowing she was likely asleep. I worked all afternoon, finished the index, and sent it to the publisher along with an invoice at 6:00 PM—11:00 AM in the Midwestern United States. I smoked a bowl in celebration then remembered I had cocaine. I did a small line while listening to Phish’s “Stash.” Would Vanessa be happy tonight? “Maybe so, maybe not” sang Trey Anastasio. I answered instead, “Definitely so.” I danced happily around the room.

At seven Vanessa sent me an SMS. “What you doing now?” I responded, “I’m dancing!” Vanessa didn’t reply so at 7:30 I sent another SMS. “What time are you coming over tonight?” She sent a text back, “Who you dance with?” I laughed as I texted, “With you!” Moments later the phone rang. “Who you dance with?” I laughed and said “I’m going to be dancing with you when you come over!” There was a pause and then that wonderful lilt, “You want I come over, baby?” Duh! “Yes!” She asked what time. I said now. “No, I not ready. Nine, okay?” I said yes then said, “Can you stay all night?” A pause. “You want I stay?” Jesus. “Yes, Vanessa, I want you to stay tonight. Okay?” Another pause, “Um, okay. I let agency know I no work tonight. Is Monday. Work slow so okay.” Excellent.

I showered, wrapped fluffy around my waist, and checked email. The editor sent a note thanking me for finishing the index early. I celebrated with a puff from my pipe and chopped a line. The phone rang; it was Vanessa. “I here, baby.” She arrived early, very much unlike her. I went down the stairs and opened the door. Vanessa’s eyes went wide and said, “Baby, you ready to go!” I smirked and invited her inside. “I just got out of the shower. I didn’t expect you so soon.” Vanessa said, “Yeah, I come early. Is okay, baby?” I planted a wet kiss on her lips and then twirled around. My towel unraveled. “Of course it’s okay! Tonight is a night of celebration!” She laughed but looked at me wearily. “You crazy. I like, but you crazy.” She seemed in better spirits. I almost asked about her dad but stopped myself. Shit, that would have been bad. Completely naked, totally vulnerable, and I was going to ask about her dad?! What the hell was I thinking? I could have lost my penis! I shivered and wrapped the towel around me again.

Vanessa saw the coke on the CD case and said to me, “No wonder you so happy!” She sidled up to the table, pulled out a bill to do the line I was going to do before she rang, and poured almost half the cocaine out of the baggie. She mashed and diced up the coke, spread out four lines, and left a little pile of cola to be lined up later. She switched nostrils and did another line.

Vanessa had on a light jacket, jeans, and white tennis shoes. I had never seen her dress so casually. I took it as a compliment—she didn’t feel the need to impress me by getting all dolled up. We had become that comfortable and familiar with one another. She was sexy even in casual clothing. Vanessa broke the silence. “You want me stay all night, baby?” I said, “Yeah. I told you that earlier, remember?” Vanessa sniffled and rubbed her nose. “Yeah, I checking make sure.”

I sat down next to her and put my arm around her. She snuggled into me and said, “I make line for you. You have bill?” I went to my bedroom to get a bill. The 6000 Euros were wadded up in a rubber band in the top dresser drawer. Not yet. I was waiting for the right time. I wanted to see how things played out before I gave her the money, to wait for the right moment to truly surprise her.

I was ready to get at the yayo, but thought for a second. I worried about Vanessa. We spent one visit together without doing coke and that was the night she told me about her father’s accident. Otherwise we always did blow. Did she need it to get up for her nights? It wouldn’t be good for her over time. I wished I could get her out of this life. For me, the coke was a temporary gig, a rollicking good time for a couple weeks. This was the beginning of the end of my trip to Amsterdam. It dawned on me, though, that I wanted to come back—and soon!

I returned to the living room and Vanessa asked if we could listen to music. I said yes and retrieved my MacBook from the kitchen table. She searched on YouTube while I did a line. A weird gypsy fiddle came into play and Vanessa opened Yahoo! Messenger, chatting with several friends. I put my arm around her and kissed her cheek. Vanessa said one of her friends thought I was cute. I didn’t really care, I just wanted her to stop playing and give me her attention. I said, "I am cute. That’s why you love me and want to marry me." Vanessa slapped my arm while smiling. “That my line!” Speaking of lines … zoom!

Vanessa closed Messenger. I was grateful; I was selfish: I wanted her attention. She started dancing, but in a relaxed way as the music slowed down. I grabbed a couple beers and gave on to Vanessa. She continued swaying while drinking. I danced with her, drinking my beer as well. Her smile was infectious. “Why you smile, baby?” I put my arm around her. “Because you’re here.” We danced for another ten minutes, finishing our beers. I grabbed two more while Vanessa vacuumed a line. She was lining up more and was about to zoom another, but I grabbed her arm. She said with more than a little surprise, “What you do?” I asked her how her dad was and her nostrils flared. “I told you no ask me! Fuck you!” She got up quickly and I wasn’t sure if she was going to hit me or leave.

I was smiling because I knew what was coming next. I was poking the beast with a stick, taking more than a little risk. Vanessa stopped and glared at me, but her lip quivered. It looked like she might cry. “How could you?! After last night?!” Tears rolled down her cheeks. I felt guilty. “I’m sorry, Vanessa. I just … I’m worried about you.” She paused and shook her head. “You … you are not good man. You are  mean!" She angrily and sarcastically asked, “Can I do line now?!” I nodded yes. She did a sizable line which was quite a bit for one snort.

I re-rolled my bill and snorted one using both nostrils. “Wow!” The stuff was dynamite. Vanessa found a long-playing Romanian tune, one with techno beats and House bleeps. She rose to her feet and danced. I watched her groove. When the music stopped Vanessa glared at me. She walked to me, though, and put her arms around me. She embraced me in a hug. "What I do?" Quite a difference from last night. I was disappointed, in a way, because I was ready to give her the money while she was pissed at me. Weird, yes, but it was what I had pictured. Something about being ready to be assaulted gave me a rush.

I figured, “What the fuck,” and moved her to the chaise lounge near the top of the stairs. Vanessa looked at me quizzically and shrugged her shoulders. It was where I usually tossed my coat after coming inside but otherwise I never used it. I said to her, “Stay here. Just one minute, okay? I have something for you.” She looked bewildered but curious. “You have present for me?” She smiled delightfully and rubbed her hands together. Her eyes were alight with excitement.

“You’ll see. Just wait a minute.” I went to the bedroom dresser drawer and pulled out the wad. I looked at it for a moment and a brief wave of panic came over me. I said aloud to myself, “It’s now or never, Michael.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I took the rubber band off the wad and heard Vanessa say, “What you doing? Why I sit here?” Her voice was filled with a mix of anticipation and impatience. I laughed, both to myself and at myself.

I casually walked to the chaise lounge. My hand was behind my back. “You know, I’ve been thinking about your papa.” Vanessa rolled her eyes and yelled with fierce disgust, “No! I no want talk—” I cut her off by holding my finger to my lips and making a very loud “Shhhh” sound. “Trust me. Please, Vanessa. I promise this will be good. I will not hurt your feelings. I promise.” Then I “locked” my lips by turning my fingers and pretending to throw away a key over my shoulder. Vanessa cocked her head and looked at me like I was insane. Nevertheless, she giggled and copied the gesture. Okay. “Vanessa, I think I can help you. But I have one favor to ask first.” Suspicion peered through her eyes as they squinted. Her lips thinned and she tightened her jaw. “I have a gift for you, but I want you to stay tonight without charging me as an escort. The gift is very, very good and I think it will be worth it to you. I can’t afford to pay you for tonight because of this gift. Is that okay?” Vanessa threw up her hands. “How I know is okay? I no know gift!” I said, “If you like the gift will you agree to stay for no pay?” Vanessa considered this and said, “Must be very good gift for no pay.” I opened my mouth and laughed then stopped but kept it open in a big grin. “Oh, Vanessa, it is very good gift.”

I pulled my hand from behind my back and tossed the money in the air. The bills exploded like an atom bomb, mushrooming high over the chaise lounge before 120 fifty-Euro bills fluttered down over her body and all around her. At first she looked angry. “What this? What you do?” Then she picked up a few bills and saw they were 50s, dozens of 50s. Both hands went over her mouth, eyes shocked and wide as saucers. She pulled her hand away from her open mouth. She was speechless. She looked up at me like she had seen something that couldn't possibly exist. I said, “For your papa.” Vanessa grabbed two handfuls of bills and tossed them in the air. “Wheeee!” She shook her head, her mouth still open in delirious shock, her hands slapped against her cheeks. She looked up at me again, a million wonderful emotions bulging through her eyes. She jumped up and hugged me so tight I could barely breathe. She stood on her toes and pulled my head down to wildly kiss me, a messy kiss fueled by abandon.

Eventually she pulled back and shook her head. “No. No, you no do this. This, this, this, this … is too much.” She looked up at me with such confusion I didn’t know what to say. I was at a loss just as much as she was. It was almost as hard for me to wrap my mind around what I had done as it was for her. “You are …” She stopped and then looked at me suspiciously. “What you want for this? You play trick on me?” I laughed, doubling over. Vanessa said, “No funny, Michael” She never called me Michael. I pulled myself together and sat her down. I sat down beside her on the chaise covered with bills. “Vanessa, I am giving you a gift so you can help your papa. I don’t want anything in return. It is a gift. No strings attached.”

Vanessa considered this. She held her chin in her hands as she looked down at the ground. Her hair covered the side of her face, but I could see the profile of her cute nose and pouting lips. She breathed more regularly. “Michael, baby, I … no one do this … what you do?” She turned to me. “You afford this, I am sure, but is so much money. I feel … I no know.”

I sat back and thought. I had to choose the right words. “Vanessa, this is for your papa, but it is also for me.” She didn’t understand and I wasn’t sure I could explain. “I need to do this. It is important for me to do this for your family. You have given me so much, so much more than you know, just by being who you are and treating me like a real person instead of just a client. It means so much to me and … I don’t know how else to say it. You are a good person and I want to do something that you really need, something that no one else but I can or will give you. You deserve good things in life and you love your family, your papa.”

I said, “Iubescu.” Vanessa looked at me with such tenderness and affection. A light smile and a lean to kiss my cheek. “Okay. I understand, but I no understand. You wonderful … and crazy!” A laughing hug. She rose and picked up a few bills but I stopped her. “Hold on!” I yelled. She stopped in her tracks. “Sit back down.” As she did I threw money on her. “Wait here.” I ran to my room and got my camera. I came back and started clicking photos of her. Squealing laughter. She tried to cover her face and then took her hands away, grabbing wads of cash and throwing the bills in the air. Her head was bent back, ecstasy in her upward-gazing eyes, and a smile that stopped time. I captured the shot perfectly and just kept clicking. She stood up and twirled several times and then struck a pose as she waved a fan of money near her face.

We laughed and played. She tackled me and kissed me, I hung her upside down over the railing of the stairs while she screamed. We were elated and free-spirited, existing in a world separate from the one going to hell everywhere else. My heart was warm. I felt a surge of love, not strictly for Vanessa or myself, not focused on any person or object. I simply felt love. Vanessa said, “Play time over?” I nodded. She breathed deep then we collected the money. When we stacked it the pile was a few inches high. Vanessa walked back over to the table. “We celebrate, no?” I said yes. She rolled a bill and bent over the CD case to Hoover a line. I joined her and zinged one. We listened to more music, danced, and soon it was midnight. Vanessa grabbed her bag and asked if she could use my bathroom. I said yes and went to the kitchen to get water and beers. I brought them out on a tray and put it on the coffee table.

I turned on some light jazz and sat down. Wow. Giving the money and the celebration together was so wonderful, so electric, so dreamy, so fulfilling and the yayo amplified the euphoria. I couldn’t stop smiling. My cheeks hurt, but I didn’t care. Possibly the best pain there is, cheeks hurting from smiling and laughing. When Vanessa exited the bathroom she was dressed in sexy red lingerie. She put her hand against the wall, dipped her head to the side, crossed one slender leg in front of the other and said, “Come here, baby.” Oh, my. Oh my, oh my, oh my ... oh my. I walked toward her, but as I did she walked into the bedroom. Over her shoulder she curled her finger to say, “Follow me and I will take you to heaven. I have a divine white cloud reserved just for us.”

As I entered the bedroom, Vanessa was laid out on the bed. She had a chocolate in her teeth, half of it poking out for me. I undressed and slid on top of her, biting down on the chocolate, letting it melt in my mouth as I kissed her. I felt her body through her lacy lingerie, her breasts supple and firm, bulging beyond my hands, her stomach taut but ticklish as she giggled and squirmed, her hairless pussy warm and moist through the silk and lace. She sighed excessively and ran her fingers and hands up and down and across my back and arms. She reached over to the dresser and grabbed a condom. I looked and saw several there. Ooooh, very, very good. I began undoing her lingerie, but she stopped me, rolled me off of her, and performed a sexy dance on her knees as she undressed. It was all I could do to sit still.

She bit open the condom and applied it with her mouth down my shaft. She worked me and worked me. “Woman, your mouth is a gushing melonberry squish with a lime twist.” Gurgle, mphle, urmph? "Never mind, sweetcheeks, just do what you do. Don’t mind me, I’m cocaine jabber, pulses of jibber utter; you play that fellatio fiddle in that special gypsy way you do." Pop! “What you say?” I looked down at her, my member at attention saluting her cheek. “I’m flying from the cocaine. Don’t pay attention. I can’t stop talking. I don’t want to stop! I’m just layering the sounds of poetry onto the lyrics you’re singing to my cock.” A shake of the head, “So strange,” and her lips around me once again. Sigh.

She sucked then we fucked, more beer, cocaine, music, and dancing, then sucking and fucking then more coke, beer, making out on the couch, moving back to the bedroom, tenderness overflowing into lovemaking, gentle caresses, whispers of affection, exhausted heap, abundant sleep. Vanessa woke at ten and smacked me in the face while yawning. “Morning, baby.” I propped myself up on my elbows and checked if my nose was bleeding. “You want breakfast, sugar?” Vanessa smiled and got out of bed to go to the bathroom. On the way she said, “Yes.” I got up and made omelets, cut a cantaloupe, and placed yogurt on the table. Orange juice, milk, coffee or water? “Water and coffee. Mmmm, smell good, baby.” We ate in silence, naked, quiet smiles on our faces, shared glances, sleepy relaxation.

“Wow, I was famished!” Vanessa asked, “What is ‘famish’?” I said, “It means I was really hungry.” Oh. Vanessa left the table and took a shower. I put on sweats and relaxed on the couch listening to a 70s rock station. Peter Frampton, ELP, Allman Brothers, and then Vanessa came out of the shower. I gasped at her still wet body. She looked at me while naked and said, "You like me, baby?" Oh dear god. My heart flib-flammed and I said, “Vanessa, can you stand there for a minute, please.” She asked why. “Because you’re so fucking sexy and I want to take pictures with my mind.” She giggled and tried to cover her body with her arms, pretending to be shy. She ran back in the bathroom and came out wrapped in a towel. She walked to her bag to get a change of clothes. She collected her things, got dressed, and walked to the couch. “I go, baby. You call taxi?” I said yes and went online as she continued to get ready. I ordered a cab then Vanessa sat down next to me to wait. She leaned her head against my shoulder and folded her arm under mine and caressed my hand with hers.

Her bag was near the stairs. We looked at the table. There was coke, a tray of drinks, a laptop, and a nice fat stack of 50s. I turned to Vanessa as she turned to me. We smiled at each other and she said, “Is really for me?” I kissed her forehead, picked up the stack, and handed it to her. I also gave her the bill I had used to do blow, a twenty. “For the taxi.” My phone rang. The taxi was out front. Vanessa got up and put the money in her purse—it barely fit—and her purse in her bag. She stood next to me at the top of the stairs shaking her head. She turned to me, her eyes misty. “Thank you, Michael. I never forget this.” She walked down the stairs, opened the door, and blew me a kiss.

Amsterdam Twenty-Three: Wild Thing

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