I slept until 5:00 PM. It felt like trams were screeching over my head every time I moved. I rolled out of bed and fell to the floor, crawling to the living room before forcing myself to my feet. I looked at the coffee table. My pipe was there, but no pot. My day bag was hanging on the back of the dining chair. I zipped it open and stuck my hand inside, swirling it around until I found the bottle. I pulled it out and walked over to the coffee table, popping open the lid and crudely jamming a bud into the bowl. I found the lighter, lit up, and inhaled as hard as I could, holding the smoke in my lungs until I couldn’t any longer. I exhaled then took another hit and as I exhaled the throbbing pain in my head began to dissipate.
I went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out a liter of apple juice, drinking a third of it before going to the sink and filling a glass of water. I took the glass with me to the living room, put it on the coffee table, and pulled a cigarette out of its pack. I sat on the couch with the cigarette and an ashtray then opened a window. The air outside was cool. The traffic on the street was light. After finishing my cigarette, I grabbed the bowl again and finished off the bud before lying down and dozing off.
When I woke again it was after eight. I felt better. The glass of water looked appealing. So did the pipe. I put another bud in the bowl, more thoughtfully this time, and toked. As the bud turned orange I let up on the lighter and let go of the carb. Smoke wafted from the mouthpiece as I held the hit in my lungs before exhaling. Much better; no more ecstasy hangover.
The window was still open and it was colder than it had been earlier. I didn’t shut it, though. Instead, I lit a cigarette, looked outside, and saw a buzz of activity heading this way and that. Strange for a Sunday evening. There was a parade of fucking scooters; their whiny whirring drove me nuts. Once the scooter convention slowed, I blew smoke rings while watching the cyclists and pedestrians. It was a mindless activity, an old habit that had never died. I wondered what the neighbors thought of me, but not with any real interest. They could think what they wanted of me. In this country, at least, most neighbors were actually neighborly and if you had a few quirks then you had a few quirks.
I got up and went to the dining table to turn on my computer. I checked email, read a few notes, and surfed a few sites related to Amsterdam before going to the kitchen to heat up a frozen dinner. I watched soccer while I ate and when I was finished eating I took another puff of Cheese. I spent the rest of the night smoking pot and cigarettes watching Dutch TV, wondering if it would be possible to learn any of the language that way. Nope. I got a headache from watching so much overacting, though.
***
I indexed all morning and most of the afternoon. When I finished the history textbook I sent a copy to the publisher along with an invoice. I grilled vegetable kebobs late afternoon then sat on the couch doing nothing at all for an hour. Without lights, the gradual darkening into the evening felt eventful. What in the hell was I doing? There was nothing I needed to do, nothing I wanted to do. I didn’t even feel like smoking pot or shrooming. I went back to the computer and downloaded the PDF for my next indexing assignment and went to work.
***
I put the book and the paper in my small backpack then left to retrieve my bike. I rode along the busy bike path of Frederiksplein following behind a woman who was riding her young daughter in a basket at the front of her bike. These front-end baskets—more like boxes—were used to haul everything: groceries, children, flowers, dogs, lamps, tables, chairs, stuffed animals, large backpacks, gift-wrapped presents, and inebriated friends who were unable able to walk. Anything that could fit or be made to fit could be transported by bike in those basket-boxes.
Not every bike with a basket was the same, though. The boxes varied in size and shape, including depth, width, and length. Some baskets were true baskets, the wicker types seen in the United States on the fronts of handlebars; most, though, were big rectangular jobs that separated the front tire from the handlebars. I had seen one shaped like a miniature coffin complete with a lid. I wondered if it was used for funeral processions of dead children or pets. I could easily imagine a procession of well-dressed weeping cyclists in black suits and dresses, even some wearing dark veils, all cycling slowly behind the somber bicycle hearse with its front-end casket, pedestrians on the sidewalks whispering to friends, “Oh, look how tiny the casket is. I hope the little doggy didn’t suffer.”
As for myself, if I was to have a funeral procession in Amsterdam, I would prefer to have my dead body propped up on the front of a tandem bike, my feet and legs tied to the pedals and handlebars, a stiff board under a suit coat keeping my torso straight while embalmed in such a way that I had a creepy, exaggerated smile with my tongue dangling and my eyes bugged out. Maybe a clown afro, too. I would make a will to pay an elderly woman to pedal naked on the back end of the tandem bike. Probably hire pedestrians along the funeral procession route to throw small paint balloons at me, too. I may as well be target practice and a source of morbid fun for the living. I mean, I would be dead. It wouldn’t be me, you know, just a body that had been set up to look weird while being ridden around Amsterdam and turned into a dead-man’s performance art in collaboration with paint-balloon tossers. Why not?
As I passed by the Mommy Bike through the intersection of Flevoroute onto Westeinde I was nearly overcome by a strong urge to tell the woman I was not going to fuck her. Instead, I simply laughed hysterically as I sped past; that might have disturbed her even more. Poor woman, but Piper was the one who planted the thought in my mind. What the fucks was that? Shit, I had been in a daze. It wasn’t just her, though. It dated back to Sterre’s kvetching about me popping a wheelie on Nes. I had spent most of the past two weeks either with women or with the thoughts they had planted in my mind like viruses. Maybe not entirely—I had that one night of extraordinary shrooming.
I hadn’t developed virtue through the process, though; no, I had been cowed, subtly manipulated, consciously or not, by women’s ideas of ethics and decorum. What the fuck was I doing? Why would I give women so much power? This was definitely my fault. I had allowed myself to be formed in the images women had created for me and I didn’t like it one bit. Who was this little boy who wouldn’t cross the street unless the sign said “walk”? Fuck that. Nothing good had ever developed by living according to someone else’s rules or values. At heart, I was irreverent and it was about time I woke up from the stupor. Being soft and gentle wasn’t a bad thing, but too much of it could stifle the spirit. I was being thoughtful for the wrong reasons.
I cycled faster down the bike path and as I passed a young woman dressed in short sleeves I declared my sovereignty by yelling: “Stop raping my mind with your bullshit!” I didn’t look back so I had no idea what her reaction had been. I passed several others as I sped along, but without a need to declare anything more. The one outburst had done the trick. I came to a stop at Stadhouderskade with a gaggle of cyclists. I turned around and saw one young man with shades smirking at me. He had stopped next to the blonde woman who undoubtedly had been ready to harm me through her verbiage or a nasty look. She scowled at me, proving to me that I had been right about her. My demand had gone unheeded and I admitted to myself that women in Amsterdam were waging a campaign of subterfuge against my overall wellbeing. I could not let this insolence stand.
As the light turned and we all pulled forward onto Van Woustraat I rode slowly to allow the hostile one to pull up alongside me. As she did, she said in a thick Dutch accent, “You are rude to yell at me.” I stood my ground, “Do you want me to feel bad about that?” She looked exasperated as we continued cycling side by side. “I don’t care your feeling. You should give respect.” Should, a moral imperative. What gave her the moral authority to demand such a thing? For all I knew she had been manipulating others her entire life. Hell, she could be a child molester. How would I know? I couldn’t take such strict moral advice from a complete stranger, one who may very well have assaulted me with disgust for no reason whatsoever other than sensing that I was an easy target for scorn or ridicule.
“I should be respectful? What about you? You gave me a wicked look at the stop light. I wouldn’t call that respectful.” Had I not been consciously focused on my autonomy I may have internalized the look she gave me as an inherent defect in the quality of my being. “The only responsible thing for me to do was to dismiss your scorn out of hand.” To my surprise, she listened attentively. We cycled silently for a few seconds before she said, “I not know I give you mean look. Sorry.”
Holy shit. This was a critical moment. Everything important in terms of my wellbeing and hers hinged on the coming thoughts, words, and actions between us. The ball was in my court and of that I was glad as I trusted myself to handle the situation with ingenuity and empathy. I didn’t want to crush her spirit or allow her to believe that apologizing was necessary; however, I needed to preserve my dignity without sacrificing my integrity. If ever I needed to think as fast as possible philosophically, this was the time.
“The danger in proceeding from here lies in the assignation of blame. We’re in danger of delving into justifications when what I want--and I believe you may, too--is to retain our dignity, to preserve our self-respect, and to proceed with sympathy toward one another. Thus, I cannot accept your apology because I do not recognize a valid reason for you to apologize. I believe it is only through an exploration of motivations that we can determine the sequence of events that resulted in your apology. I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to believe that you have done wrong when that may not have been the case. However, I cannot merely dismiss all that has occurred between us as if it never happened or was of no consequence. I believe it is imperative that we discuss these issues to benefit one another in our respective quests to live the best lives possible. Therefore, I propose that we stop at Village Bagels at the corner up ahead.”
The woman, again, had been listening attentively. Taken alone, this was an indicator that progress could be made between us and within each of us. When I finished speaking she slowly smiled at me and said, “I understand little, but we stop at corner.” The bike rack outside next to the tree was packed, but the side street off of Van Woustraat was lazy so we locked our bikes together near the rack. There were tables outdoors; it had been quite some time since it was warm enough for outside seating. There were only four and each of them had seats for two. Two tables were filled by let-life-pass-us-by-all-day middle-aged fellows and one had a single occupant.
After we locked the bikes, the woman grabbed her bag from her basket. I told her my name was Michael and she introduced herself as Saskia. I told her if she sat at the empty table and waited outside I would order for her. She declined, saying she had a bottle of water and food packed for lunch in her bag so she sat down as I went inside the shop to order a specialty bagel sandwich and a cappuccino. I walked back outside with my food and drink to join Saskia. The building shaded us from the sun and there was a soft breeze. The weather was ideal for an outdoor lunch. I took a bite of the bagel and as I chewed I looked at Saskia, thinking about how to continue the conversation, particularly how to communicate what she hadn’t understood when I was talking while riding. She was sitting quietly with a look of ease, enjoyment, and perhaps amusement over the situation. I was somewhat amused as well, but I wanted to stay focused. It wasn’t often that I’d had an opportunity to pursue a potentially life-altering philosophical discussion with a complete stranger over a series of quasi-hostile events. In fact, this was my first opportunity, at least with a woman.
That was important because part of the issue for me was women. The question of woman had begun as a brief insight and a reactionary explosion, but through those events a real opportunity had arisen. I did not believe Saskia ever would have agreed to stop if she knew my intentions, however noble I perceived them to be. It dawned on me that it was early afternoon and that she might need to be somewhere, work or school, so I asked, “Do you have much time to sit and talk?” She shrugged her shoulders and I said, “Okay,” not knowing what the hell that meant other than maybe, “Depends on what you have to say.”
“I’m going to go over this again. You can apologize if you choose, but if you do you are doing so because you believe your actions were disrespectful and not up to your standards of conduct. That has nothing to do with me. As for me, I don’t know if I regret yelling ‘Stop raping my mind with your bullshit.’ Not yet, anyway. Why? Because I don’t know if it was harmful to either of us for me to yell that.” I took a sip of cappuccino and continued, “I could say more, but you said you didn’t catch much of what I said on the bike so … what are your thoughts?”
Saskia shook her head and laughed uncomfortably. “You talk fast and my English is not so good. I apologize, but you say you no like apology. What I do? You yell for no reason, but I see you mean nothing bad about me so is okay.” Shit, so much for philosophical exploration with a stranger. I didn't want to get lost in the nonacceptance of the apology because I couldn't think of a way to explain in simple English. We could talk for a half hour about that and get nowhere. Instead, I said, “I will speak slower. I didn’t know I talked too fast.” Saskia seemed a little less tense after hearing that. “Yes, better.” I took another bite of my bagel sandwich and contemplated. I had intended to explore the unresolved but powerfully present issue related to women that had bubbled to the surface, but now I was faced with a woman I didn’t know who agreed to stop to have a conversation with me, a man she didn’t know.
This was fucking me up. Had what had occurred been perceived as me exhibiting sexual or romantic interest? I thought it was only men who had bad radar. I hadn’t even noticed her as a sexual being, but now I felt compelled to consider her this way. Why should I feel compelled, though? This isn’t what I wanted. I noticed I found her physically attractive, but I was more interested in exploring my personal dynamics with women, underlying issues, philosophical quandaries. Perhaps I could learn simply by sitting and talking with her. Give her an open-ended question and sit back to listen.
“Why did you agree to stop with me?” I didn’t smile as I said it; the words came out of my mouth as if they were delivered from a detective interrogating a suspect in a serious crime. Saskia, though, took the question in stride. “I want, um, hear what you say, why you no like apology and why you yell at me. Now I understand so is okay.” A smile. “It is beautiful day, perfect for sit outside and do nothing.” Fair. I wasn’t going to get anywhere with my earlier wondering, though. Fuck it. May as well enjoy hanging out in the shade on a warm day with an attractive woman who speaks broken English. There was no fucking rhyme or reason.
I finished my bagel and cappuccino as we sat. I resisted urges to ask Saskia where she had been going to or coming from, where she lived, what she did, and so on. She said nothing, just lazed in her chair while occasionally closing her eyes to relax and enjoy the breeze, perhaps thinking of nothing other than how wonderful it felt to be outside at a temperature more conducive to the body’s comfort. There was no way of knowing. Asking questions had resulted in throw-away answers that went nowhere which, for her, seemed to be the goal--or lack thereof. My bursting moments of rapacious irreverence had been dashed by a lackadaisical woman without a care. Women trumped me at every turn no matter what I did. By not wanting this woman and by treating her as an abstraction I had inadvertently attracted her interest--or at least her presence. I was starting to want her because of this. Damnit.
Perhaps that was it. Women, consciously or not, chose those who didn’t want them to convert them into wanting them so that they could move on to the next object that lacked desire for them and repeat the process, gradually building unwavering self-confidence and empowerment through what might have been accidental conquests. Was this an evolutionary development? Was I doomed to wind up in a powerless state of wanting women no matter what tactic or strategy I adopted to become free and independent of sexual desire? The cards had been stacked against me; I could no more escape my fate as the weaker sex than a swan could escape being a swan. I was Wile E. Coyote and every woman was the Roadrunner. Perhaps Looney Tunes had always had a gendered commentary about the powerlessness of being men in relation to women. And women, possibly designed to be crafty and elusive, had even devised a narrative that convinced the world that they had been the oppressed by creating a branch of philosophy called feminism.
I was in awe even as I trembled in my seat across from Saskia, either pretending not to have a care in the world or actually not having a care in the world because all of her cares could be satisfied without ever having to put forth effort. Fuck, she had gotten inside my head without seeming to do a thing. Genius, although from her perspective it was likely child’s play. I, chimpanzee, trying to figure out how to stack blocks; she, amused by my pointless attempts to stack blocks. Saskia just sat there, sometimes smiling at me and drinking from her water bottle when she wasn’t leaning back in her chair with her eyes closed looking pretty. The nerve! How much longer was I going to allow her to insult me like this!
I stood up and mumbled that I was going to use the WC inside the bagel shop. She nodded without opening her eyes. I walked inside and asked the woman behind the counter if I could have the key to use the WC. “I’m sorry, but men aren’t allowed to use the WC. Only women and cats.” Damnit! Where the hell was I going to piss? I walked back outside frustrated. How could a March day so wonderfully balmy be absolutely maddening? Women, each one of them conspiring against me without conspiring at all. I sat down, my frustration turning my thoughts to pudding. “Why couldn’t I have been homosexual?” Saskia opened her eyes. “It not your fault. You have better luck next life.”
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