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A ladykiller - regulation tattoo
A three-chord symphony crashes into space - Dire Straits, On Every Street
- Rolling Stones, You Can't Always Get What You Want
- Conan the Barbarian
So it was that I found myself, alive and walking, on the streets of Amsterdam -- the world capital of freaks, travelers, legal prostitution, legal drugs, and general decadence. And as things were, the day of my arrival just happened to be my 33rd birthday. A unique juxtaposition of young and old, Amsterdam had purple haired freaks smoking legal dope and riding bicycles amongst some of the most picturesque canal buildings this side of Venice, proudly displaying the seventeenth century character from which they were forged. It was a typical fall day for the city, full of cloudy skies, but still comfortable enough to wear shorts. Reminded me of my last home, dear San Francisco.
As the sun set on this city of contradictions, I mulled over what to do. This would be my first night out, the first of many on my long-planned two month passage through India. I had planned Amsterdam as a sort of "break-in" waypoint, a chance to get into my "traveler" mindset before diving head on into the chaotic maelstrom of India. As I sat on the bridge between the train station and downtown, reflecting on the day's events, I thought: "this waypoint was a good idea. Good to ease into it." Amsterdam was proving challenging enough for me, even as I was now starting to feel fully "in the flow" of the city and its vibe. I had spent the day walking and bicycling around town, pretty much just taking care of last minute things, getting my green feet wet with foreign languages and exchange rates, getting comfortable with exactly what was in which pocket, making copies of my passport and plane tickets, learning how (and when) to ask complete strangers if I could snap a portrait, learning how to put them at ease and to get that stupid grin off their face, learning how to send a postcard when the postal worker doesn't speak English, how to unlock and relock a foreign double bikelock in less than half and hour, etc. So, as I sat contemplating what to do with my newly copious spare time, I thought "It's always good to have a destination. And I think better when I'm moving." So I figured I'd test my gut navigation skills and see if I could find that new-age "smart-shop" I had stumbled onto earlier that day. It was in a neat neighborhood, should be some interesting folk there. Especially now that nighttime was upon us.
Strolling along, my ears perked up. To my right, an old man was playing Spanish guitar, casually propped up against a closed storefront. His relaxed melody was the perfect complement to the dusk, and I tossed a few Euro coins into his waiting guitar case. More important than the currency, when he raised his eyes to thank me, I gave him a big "thumbs up" sign and a smile. His face lit up, and an enthusiastic "Thank You" came out, with him pronouncing each syllable separately enough to make me feel special. Tickled, I coughed out, "Thank +you+", grinned wider, and moved on, a new rhythm in my stride. It was nice how happiness amplified itself across interaction, I thought. By and by, I came to the street which I thought would get me to the smart shop, and hung a sharp left. Sure enough, before long, I was walking behind the multistoried brick supermarket I remembered from earlier that morn. It was right then that I saw him: in the lobby of an amazingly mod-looking hotel, that darn artist was still there, a good five hours later, painting an incredibly intricate mural of stark, twisting and dreamy black and white figures. Walking in and studying it for the second time that day, I couldn't help but draw strong parallels between his masterpiece and the exquisite cave art of Tassili N'Ajjer in Northern Africa. In momentary reverie, I spoke without thinking: "I hope that whatever you're painting with, lasts."
I was met with a classic Amsterdam mistranslation: "No, no." I said, waving my hands to clarify. "I mean, this stuff is like cave art. I hope that it, and the building we're in, lasts a long, long time."
"Oh, right!" He stopped painting and broke out in a smile. "Yes. Yes, it will outlast the building, for sure." As it was, the artist seemed elated to have someone take so much interest in his work, and, putting his brush down, walked away and motioned me to follow him. Banging into a locked door, he uttered some Dutch (I couldn't speak it, but I knew it when I heard it) to the concierge, and a frosted glass door buzzed opened up onto a long hall smartly lit with dangling halogen bulbs. "My show starts tomorrow, I just hung all this," he said proudly, gesturing for me to enter. "Here, I will give you a sneak peek."
"Yeah, don't you love it? His chest plate deceives, but his head consumes... Daarth Vayder consumes all. hehehehe." His twisted Dutch accent somehow made it all the more sinister. "What?!?" I said, in shock. "His head. You do see, right? He is not a headless horseman..." And then I did notice. What I had desperately interpreted as a head, was in fact torso armor... and the head was indeed Darth Vader's unmistakable helmet, mouth open, eating babies. I had had enough. "Thanks, that was really special. I think I'm gonna boogie along now. That's really visceral stuff." "Thanks, I'll walk you out" he said with a smile. I still couldn't reconcile this seemingly happy artist, the exquisite mural in the foyer, and the twisted hell I had just been exposed to. No matter, I was outta there. On to better things. Or so I thought. It was my first foreshadowing of what was to become a long dark night.
Her name was Louise. I don't know if I saw her from the street, but I certainly saw her the moment I walked into the living-room sized bar. Jaded and non-plussed by the polished sexuality of countless prostitutes I had wandered by throughout the day, I was unprepared for the genuine beauty she exuded; dirty blonde locks, falling carelessly over her shoulders, a muscular body in a tight cotton tanktop, a silk skirt hugging her hips. As I walked in, she turned away. Shy? Or demure? Undeterred, I walked right up to the bar, sat down, and waited. Not too many minutes passed, and she finally found the time to divert her attention to me. "What can I help you with?" "How about a water." She replied with a quizzical look. "Water?" "Yeah, water... please?" "O.K., we got water. But this is a bar, you know? You want bubbly?" Chuckling to myself, I thought I was bubbly enough already. And then before I could self-censor, the words came right out "I'm bubbly enough already, thanks -- just plain water will do fine." "Allright," she said, eyeing me suspiciously. "Water, no bubbles. here ya go. One-fifty." She handed me a small glass bottle with a straw. I drew on the straw without looking for the change. I was damn thirsty. She waited patiently for the cash. "Oh, you want it now?" I asked, teasing. "That would be nice. Never know who you can trust." "Alright, alright, hold on a second." I fumbled in my pocket as my eyes maintained their lock on Louise. I knew that was her name, because it said so on a tattoo on her shoulder -- and clearly, I thought, Louise was not a lesbian. The fact that it might have been her mother or daughter never crossed my mind. Amazingly, the first coin to emerge out of my pocket (one of seven on my super-travel pants) was a Two Euro piece. Sweet. I handed it to her, pausing just long enough to let our palms touch. Electricity. Louise went back to her business, walked over to the compact stereo, and changed the tune. Good beat change, I thought, letting my eyes follow the movement of her body more than my ears caught the acoustic change. Temporarily broken from my dream state, however, I took some time to survey my new surroundings. It was a small bar. Smaller, perhaps, than any I'd ever been in in my life. A cozy slot carved into the ancient street wall of downtown Amsterdam, it was neatly divided into three sections: the front lounge, the middle bar, and -- what was that? No! in the rear, a claustrophobic gambling den, a closet-sized chamber containing what appeared to be 2 gambling machines, and twice as many gamblers. As far as I could tell, this was a real bar, not one of the ubiquitous "coffee shops" which sold marijuana (any way you liked it) under the sanction of the state - gambling machines aside, at least that was a relief. A normal bar. I knew how to behave there. They had those back Stateside. Louise came back with my change, dropped the coins carelessly into my waiting palm. Over the next hour, I consumed no less than four "no-bubbles" waters, flirted shamelessly with Louise, and generally enjoyed life. A good-natured Aussie appeared to be a permanent installation next to me at the bar, chugging down Fosters (would I order Budweiser in Berlin?!?) and occasionally chatting with me. In general, I found him irritating. At best, I found him cute. At worst, he constantly interrupted my conversations with Louise, and at rock bottom, he interrupted so successfully that she shifted her full attention to him for long periods of time. Eventually, I came to see him as less my bar buddy, and more, as my competitor. When that realization struck me, the mythic landscape came into full, sharp focus. There were, intermittently, four men at the bar. Louise was the only serviceperson for the entire establishment. In fact, Louise was the only woman not spoken for. And that, in a nutshell, was the game. One girl, four suitors. By closing time, who would win? The game, now consciously realized, was afoot. There was one curious twist. With such a small room to service, any absence was conspicuously obvious. Nonetheless, Louise consistently left the building, Elvis-style, again and again, for awkward durations. After the second exit, I decided to pay more attention. On the third, I became a bit disturbed. The man who I had previously identified as "Suitor Number Three" simply barked something in Dutch, grabbed Louise firmly by the arm, and briskly marched her out the front door into the street. Three minutes later, she walked back in, alone, threw her hair back a bit too casually, and asked if anyone needed help. Ten minutes later, Suitor Number Three was back in the barstool. Louise's fourth exit was again at the firmly gripping arm of Suitor Number Three. This time, I decided to discretely follow, waiting until they had exited the bar to leave my stool. But when I got to the street, a mere fifteen feet away, Louise and Number Three were nowhere to be seen. It was only then that I noticed the scarred metal door behind me, just inside the bar entrance. My curiosity piqued, and my gamesmanship challenged, I pulled the handle -- a real cabinet handle, no lock proper. Strangely, it was locked -- from the inside. But wait! There was a bizarre peephole there, right at eye level, with a convenient metal slipcover. No wide angle viewing lens, just a simple bore hole, with a cover. I gingerly slid the cover up, and peered in... …to absolute and complete darkness. Hmmmm.... I was confused. What to do? Instinctivey, I backed away from the peephole, and knocked. "Hello?!?!" Silence. "Anybody in there?!" I knocked and queried several times. No response. I jiggled the door handle, but clearly, it was lockable from one side only, and that was not the side I was on. Finally, I gave up, and returned to my barstool. The Aussie was there waiting for me. "Where you been, friend?" "Looking for Louise, of course!" "Yeah, where's she go?" "That's what I'm trying to figure out, man!" At that very moment, Louise appeared at the back of the bar, abruptly changed the music, as was her wont, and demanded casually "Everybody O.K.?" It was more a confirmation than a question. The music came clearly over the sound system. It was a tune I had learned from my first girlfriend in college. "Roxanne," by The Police.
Roxanne… But before I had the chance to reflect on the meaning of the lyrics, a firm hand was at my shoulder. "I think its time for you to leave." "Excuse me?" What was this new twist to the evening? I turned abruptly to see the stone cold face of Suitor Number Three. Oh Shit. It all made sense now. Crystal Clear "I said, it's time you leave now." I'm a lover, not a fighter. I stood up. Suitor Number Three was my height, maybe an inch higher. But he clearly did not share my sense of humor. "What's the problem?," I asked innocently. "You're the problem," he replied sternly, as he twisted my shoulder towards the door and pushed. I had the good sense to grab my half-full bottle of water remaining on the bar, and, not wanting any trouble whatsoever in a strange foreign county, promptly exited stage left. Easy enough. Game Over. And then… Maybe… maybe not so easy. Bottle in hand, standing on the dirty street, I was bent. Number Three stood and paused not one meter behind me, primed and ready for my next move. But for now, Reason cleanly overtook Reptilian Instinct. I decided to take a walk, and to think about it. What the fuck had just happened? Who was this guy? What was he up to? Did he work there? Was he Louise's... and then, all of a sudden, it all neatly clicked into place. The Game. The Forced Exit. The Locked Door. Roxanne. The Ejection. That mother fucker was abusing Louise! How could I have missed it? DAMN! Well, fuck that, I thought. There is no way I'm gonna lose this game to a wife beater! As soon as the thought hit, my feet executed a 180, and I headed right back to the bar. Deja Vu. You betcha. I walked in, set my water down, and -- incredibly -- it was as if nothing had ever happened. Aussie welcomed me back. Louise smiled and asked if I needed anything. I ordered another water. All was well. How was it, then, that not 5 minutes later, I felt a familiar pinch on my shoulder? Fuck! Suitor Number Three, now labeled in my mind as "Fucker Number One", was at my back once again. "Didn't I ask you to leave?" Louise turned conveniently away to change the music once again. "Oh, yeah, I forgot. Just forgot to get my stuff." "Well, pick it all up this time, and lets go." "Alright, alright." I pretended to muck around for my lost things while waiting for a response from Louise. None came. She would not look up. Something at ground level behind the bar that had never held her attention previously was now demanding her full conscious focus. I walked out, Fucker Number One glued tightly to my ass. Safe outside, I turned around. "Don't even try to come back, asshole." I rapidly assessed the situation. Was this as surreal as it sounded? I was sober. I had ordered nothing but four waters. Sure, I had casually flirted with the buxom bartender, but I certainly had kept my hands (and everything else, for that matter) to myself. What the hell was going on? Well, fuck it, I decided. The night was still young. There were plenty of bars in Amsterdam. And the last thing I needed, on the first night of my Big Trip, was a serious confrontation. So I turned my back, and walked away. Game Over... or, almost. I reserved the thought that I would come back an hour or more later, to finish the Game... maybe Asshole would have Left the Building by then. I walked down the street.
I didn't get ten paces until I found a familiar landmark from earlier that afternoon -- Baba's Coffeeshop, home of the intricately carved 18 foot wooden Ganesh, not to mention finest quality hash and space cakes. As it happened, I was due to arrive in Bombay, India at the precise climax, both temporally and geographically, of the massive Ganesh festival -- a frantic ten day celebration of the Indian elephant God of the same name. For months leading up to the event, communities spent countless hours constructing massive effigies of the Elephant-headed god, primarily out of bronze (for the small ones) and plaster-of-Paris (for the large ones) -- the biggest reaching over sixty feet in the air. As what could only be described to a Westerner as a Macy's Day Parade with a Titanic climax, every year the revelers made a garrulous procession from their respective neighborhoods to the waiting ocean, whereupon arriving, they promptly dumped their cherished idols in a cataclysmic ceremony that had come to be known simply as "The Immersion." So that was the sum of my psychological baggage regarding the Hindu deity of Ganesh. In short, not much. And, a scant 24 hours prior to my planned witnessing of said spectacle, here I was, at the entrance to BaBa's, admiring the largest Ganesh idol I was likely to see prior to my descent upon Mother India, 24 hours hence. Quite confident of my destiny, I waltzed in. As opposed to the general patronage, I wasn't high. Nonetheless, I felt at home here. I just needed a place to think about the past hour's affairs, and to plot a course of action. I spied a massive couch-booth, right at the foot of the hulking Ganesh, with only a single couple occupying the space. "Mind if I sit here?" "Not at all", the boy replied, gesturing to the wide open couch space. I took roost in the far corner, glanced around, and relaxed. Baba's was exactly as I had left it, 6 hours ago, minus the attractive barmaid, plus ten toking patrons. Unlike Casa Louise, BaBa's was clearly a 'Coffee House,' tried and true. As I chilled, I soaked in the couch ambiance of the boy and the dark woman he was courting. They seemed such an innocent couple, so in love. I imagined, briefly, that Suzanne was by my side. It was a good moment. Then, suddenly, my attention snapped to as the boy abruptly got up, leaving his woman stranded and alone.
Maria sat, eight feet away from me, in the opposite corner of the super-couch, transfixed in her own thoughtspace, silent and demure. As it turned out, she didn't speak a lick of English. And thus our casual introduction transformed into an intricate (but not exactly difficult) ritual of linguistic negotiation, in order to determine what our common language, optimally, was. I opened with the simple, "Hi." Steady stare. Long Pause. Silence. Nonplussed, I upped the ante, offering: "What language do you speak?" Eye contact still there, just, still, no verbal response. I stretched: "Sprechen sie Deutsch?" Blank stare, continued. I'm starting to worry. Zero for Two. I elect to take a serious risk, dusting off 20 years of untouched vocabulary, bracing for the unintelligible response: "Parlez vous Francais?" Yet another painful pause. Then, first sign of contact, a subtle nod. Maria then makes a nervous glance around, followed by a more obvious nod. She quickly scans the room again. Finally, eye contact, and a soft sound escapes her lips... "Oui."
Not untouched by the strange reaction, still, I'm not wasting a moment... "Ah... Je m'appelle---" The boy is back. A punk kid with intentionally ripped jeans, he plops down firmly next to Maria, senses the imminent dialogue, looks harshly upon Maria, and responds directly to me: "Ne comprens. Repetez?" Oh boy. Here we go again. No, not again. Now, Pause. Let me think -- why am I really here? How did I get here? My mind quickly recaps the last hour, and I remember. Play nice, Greg. You're here to process. "Hi. You guys look like a really beautiful couple." "Merci," says Punk Boy. I gesture picking myself up and moving closer, "Do you mind if I come over and chat?" "Ci." He waves me over. So far, so good. I waste no time getting to the point. "Look, I have a problem. Maybe you guys can help me solve it." I keep switching attention between the two of them. Maria seems to be tracking O.K., despite the language barrier. I continue, in English. "There's this girl down the street, she bartends... and I think -- no, I know -- there's a guy there who is physically abusing her." I lose both of them on this last point. Their eyes narrow, and both take on quizzical expressions. I struggle for the words in French - "il frappez elle, um, le guerre, uh, bam bam bam" - as I gesture, smacking my fist into my open palm. Punk Boy starts to smirk, then breaks into a chuckle. I can't tell whether he understands and is making light of it, or whether he thinks my pantomime merits laughter. But I think he gets it. The girls reaction is more subtle. She gets it too, I sense, but she simply diverts her eyes, almost as to avoid tears. This is a really strange vibe... Punk Boy: "So, he hits her?" Wait a second. He speaks fucking perfect English! I'll be damn! "Yes, that's--" "So what? So what if he hits her? Maybe she likes it. Maybe he pays her for it. Not much of your business, anyways, is it?" Maria looks a little displeased with this response, and starts to conjure her own reaction: "You know, I--" She speaks English too? But no, not for long. She's cut off cold with a sharp disapproving look and a simultaneous primal grunt from Punk Boy. All of the sudden, it becomes crystal clear to me. I come in to ask a question about a wife-beater, and who do I end up asking advice from, but another fucking wife-beater! What could the odds be? Well, I'm here for a reason -- Everything For A Reason, I think. Let's see how this plays out. Once I extract Mario's name from the multilingual RiddleSpeak, and juice a little more background out of them, I don't waste a whole lot more time. My intuition is screaming at me to pass judgment, to fix the situation with forceful action. My psyche will not allow it. First, I am a pacifist, and second, I keep reminding myself, I have no hard evidence. Really. None. Despite this, instinct prods me onward, and I get in quite a direct mode: "Mario, do you hit her?" "Ne comprens". That's funny. One minute the guy speaks perfect English, the next, I'm unintelligible to him. Asshole. I switch to Maria. "Maria, does he hit you?" Maria nods her head yes, for as long as she can -- until, that is, Mario spins around and glares. By then, she's frozen. It's enough proof for me. Evidence filed. Next move. A little mischief gets into me, and I feel like rubbing his nose in it a little while my inner demons work out exactly how to handle the situation. "Mario, voudrais vous Patton, ou Gandhi?" I smirk at my own sophomoric riddle. So does Maria. "Gandhi!" she cries. "Gandhi..." she has a good smile on her face, recalling her own image of the prototypical modern pacifist-warrior. Mario twists his ratty face up: "Ne comprens. Repetez." This is by now his standard response. At least he's not in denial. But by this time I'm fed up with it. I make a decision. "Maria. Here's the bit. This guy's a jerk. He hits you. That's not right, for any reason. I'm leaving tomorrow for India." I put out my hand, right across Mario, oblivious to his surprised look. "Why don't you take my hand and walk outta here with me, right now. Leave this jerk. Then you can go wherever you want." Not to my complete surprise, she puts her hand in mine, but makes no motion to move. I get up, but she only looks at Mario. This is fucked. Mario thinks so, too. He tells me as much: "Fuck off."
No response. At lease he's now abandoned the "ne comprens" tactic. Maybe we're getting somewhere. I decide to up the ante. "OK. Mario, would it make you feel better if you hit me? OK, fine. Your pick: with or without glasses." I remove and replace my glasses. I wince, bracing for impact. I wait. Nothing comes. Another couple who had quietly joined us in the supercouch starts to get uncomfortable. They get up to leave, glancing over at us with visual disapproval. I can't tell if its me or Mario they disapprove of. In fact, I don't care much. I'm back in the Game. My bravado is building. "Look, why don't both of you come outside with me? We don't need to bother the people here. We can settle this right outside. Real easy." Maria seems to like the idea. She starts to get up, but Mario presses her thigh firmly back into the cushions. I can't take it any more. "Look, I'm gonna wait right outside. Maria, you can come with me anytime. Mario... I'll be right outside, you come see me whenever you're ready. With or without glasses, O.K, Patton?" Empty stare. "Yeah, I know, I know... no comprens. See you outside." I leave. I really need to cool off. Really.
I wander for a few minutes. Out of the blue, my foot starts to itch. Through my boot. I wonder, almost audibly: "Why would my foot start to itch?" The answer comes back loudly and clearly: "Because it's time to Kick Some Ass. Nice boots! Now look, take your pick, contestant one, or contestant two? Louise or Maria. Help somebody, for chrissakes!" I engage the internal dialogue. "What??!?! Kick some ass? Are you kidding? I'm a pacifist, for chrissakes! That means: No Fighting. It certainly means, without a doubt: no +starting+ a fight. I can't just waltz in, guns a blazin'. That is no part of me. None." "Then you'd better figure a way to draw the first punch. Either way, somebody needs a lesson." "I agree with you there. O.K. Lemme try some things." I appear to have bought some time from my inner demons. Good. At that moment I remember that I left my water bottle sitting next to Mario and Maria. Desperately in need of a Mission, it seems a good time to retrieve it. Or a good excuse to re-engage. Whatever. I walk back into the bar. I never make it to the table. Surprise! There's a new asshole in town. "Where do you think you're going?" a puggish man, about my size, demands. "I'm going to get my water. I left it by Ganesh." "I don't see any water here. Why don't you just leave." It's more of an order than a request. Oh boy. Two bars in two hours. You've gotta be kidding me. This hasn't happened since High School. "No. I'm going to get my water." I step forward. Puggy jumps square in front of me, simultaneously blocking my path and harshly violating my notion of personal space. Its time to switch tactics. "Look here, man." I put up my open palm, so he has a clear view of my wedding band. "I'm married. I've got kids. You got kids?" "Yeah." He starts to warm up a little. I back off from the door, and now engaged, he follows a step. "Well, listen -- I'll put it real simple -- There's this couple in there. The guy's beating the woman, see? Now, that could be my daughter in there. Could be your kid. Who knows? Thing is, something should be done about it--" "Not by you." Ugh. Obviously, not by him either. I continue my eloquent persuasion. Dale Carnegie would've been proud. "If not me, who? You're a father. What would you do?" "I'd mind my own business." Well, that warm and cuddly fellow-father family-man feeling sure did wear off fast. "O.K., thanks for the tip. I think I'll just get my water now." I start to walk back in. He grabs my arm. "You're +not+ going back in there!" "You're going to stop me?" "Yea, I'm stopping you." "I don't think so." I walk towards the doors again.
Puggy pushes me back down the steps. "Fuck Off!" "You want me to call the police?" he threatens. "Yes, in fact, I would. Why don't you do that right now?" I call his bluff, but he's not taking the bait. A realization dawns on me:
"What's your name, anyway?"
"Right. No-name. No-name, do you own this place?"
"No-name, you don't even work here, do you?" "You don't own the place, you don't work here, you don't know me, you won't call the cops. O.K., I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna sit right here on the steps of this place, and wait for my pal Mario. You can tell him I'm waiting. And you can bring me my water bottle whenever you like." Puggy seems momentarily satisfied with this solution. He walks back into the bar. I hear the door lock slide closed behind him. I wait. I take another walk. This is getting tiring, and I'm torn. Some strange part of me really just wants to get into a rumble tonight -- and I've never felt that before in my life. The other part just wants to dump my own private Mr. Hyde hard, head back to the boat, and get some much needed shuteye. Like a good passivist. I mean pacifist. Right.
Over the course of the next hour, I visit Louise one more time, and attempt to visit Mario and Maria twice more. A bit more yelling, more bravado and barking and menacing. But in the end, I can't seem to fix anything, I can't get anyone to step foot outside the safety of the bar, and I can't seem to draw a punch, either, try as I might. I'm antsy as hell, pissed with myself for not being able to solve the riddle. At the same time, I'm just tired. It's been a long day. I've certainly seen the good, the bad, and the ugly of Amsterdam, in short order (in fact, in +that+ order). Finally, I decide I need to take a really +long+ walk. I have to sort things out. Needing a fresh destination, I decided to get back to my bicycle, near Central Station. That was about 15 to 20 minutes away, by my reckoning. Enough time to sort things out. The air got appreciably cooler as I left the Red Light District and made my way through dark alleys. I walked faster, generating some internal heat of my own.
This was good. Clarity of thought came home. My dependable logic circuits rapidly constructed the following decision matrix: I imagined what it would be like to get to the boat, and sleep soundly. But then all I could imagine was my first report back home to Suzanne and the kids: "Hey Honey. Great first day in Amsterdam. Got some good pictures during the day, ran a few errands. Went to a few bars at night, saw a couple abused women, and did nothing to stop it. Wonderful life. Call you tomorrow." It was the "nothing to stop it" part that ate at my soul. Was that me? Was I that person? Could I witness what deemed to be crystal clear evidence of abuse, and just look the other way? And wander home, dejected, and get a good night's sleep? That seemed utterly pathetic. In fact, it depressed me so much, that I resolved if I were to follow that path, that I would simply take the next plane home to America. If I chose the path of the Loser, then I had reached my goal of the Big Trip: I had indeed "found myself," and I was a loser. Go home, get a job, think about it. This wasn't the first time I had confronted such demons. In fact, in my junior year of High School, I had been at the exact same decision point. Exiting the Omni Hotel in Atlanta late at night, I was about to cross a skywalk to the adjoining World Congress Center, when I saw a scuffle take place not 30 feet away. Two guys in black leather had bumped into a gawky pedestrian, and were now apparently asking him for change. But when he shook his head no and turned to walk away, the big men were having none of it. In a split second, the loner was down on the ground, one guy kicking the shit out of him while the other fished for his wallet. After the wallet was obtained, they gave him some more kicks and punches for good measure. Finally, they ran off. The victim laid still. The entire time, I stood transfixed. I also stood silent, impotent, and still. After the shock wore off, I crossed cautiously to my intended destination, not even asking the guy if he needed help, picked up the phone, and called security. Already, the guilt was consuming me. Why hadn't I acted? Why hadn't I helped? Somehow, it seemed like I was watching a movie… and not one bone in my body had cared to change the plot. My inaction haunted me for years. I don't know what happened to either the victim or the perpetrators of that crime. After I was interviewed by security, I tried to forget about it. Now here I was, 20 years later. And I felt that somehow I was being presented, karmically, with the chance to reconsider my decision. It seemed, this time though, that I had a little more time to noodle it around. So I thought hard. I didn't want to go back to the boat. I was convinced I was witnessing a pattern, and with Monica there alone… it was sure to be more of the same. At the same time, I really didn't want to go back to the Red Light Bars... back from where I came. I didn't want to sleep on the streets... too many nasties... too many unknowns... would I be able to get my luggage back in the morning? Would I wake up in time for my flight? Would I be robbed? Raped? No, the options were simple: sleep on the boat, in my room, safe behind my padlock, or... Go Back. But going back was the last thing I wanted to do. I sensed imminent physical conflict there. Perhaps even jail time, should the cops intervene. I told myself it wasn't the Fight I was afraid of… it was the ethics issues. I hid behind my shield of Pacifism… but the wall was shaking. Trouble, anyway you cut it. On the other hand, strapped with this serious moral dilemma, I sure as hell couldn't sleep. And then, I started to go deep: My conscious was getting quite vocal. In no uncertain terms, it laid it out for me: "This is the infinite night. Time matters not. Before you lies the cradle, the life, and the grave, of your spirit. You choose. You decide. No choice is wrong. No choice is right. There is only, 'What Is.' Whatever is, is what, is WHO, you are. This is YOUR FREE CHOICE. You define your self. You, alone, define YOUR WORLD. Now Choose." I decided, at that moment, that my world would be better off with a good night's sleep. And, thus decided, I meandered my way back home.
It was a long walk. Somewhere along the line, I got the uncanny sensation that there was a gun pointed at my head, from some unknown assailant, lurking silently, in the depth of shadow. I discounted it as paranoia, but it would not let me be. I quickened my pace, but the laser target etched on the back of my psyche only intensified and tightened. Finally, almost in a state of panic, I scrabbled out of the dark riverside alley I was on, leapt over the cast iron railing, and emerged casually, to not a few shocked stares, onto the well-lit main street of Prins Hendrik Kade. And though I hadn't completely escaped the assassin's scopes, it gave me enough mental room to breathe, to reflect, and finally, to plan. Simultaneously, I felt another cold reality approaching with vicious speed: I became certain that my inaction that night would leave a woman dead. With every step, I became more intuitively positive about it. I could almost see destiny unfolding before my very eyes: The wife beater, finally losing his temper, hits just a little too hard, lands one punch too many, a gun with the safety off, another life callously and violently extinguished in a silent scream. And I had done nothing about it. And I had known about it. And I was in a position to stop it. And I was afraid. Who did that make me? Who was I? I could see it as clear as day now. A Coward. This had nothing to do with a fear of getting hit. This had nothing to do with pacifism. This had to do with a man, a Me, knowing exactly what was right, knowing what the right thing to do was, and deciding instead that I needed a good nights sleep. That the Right Thing To Do was somebody else's problem. Probably wouldn't even make the morning paper, would be clear off my radar screen, so why should I give a damn? But that WASN'T me. I KNEW what was right. And I DAMN sure was strong enough to make it happen. I COULD fix this thing. I could right this wrong. Most importantly, I KNEW that time was unfolding, and I had a chance to change the course of affairs. This was not an unknown woman about to die; this was my daughter. This was YOUR daughter. This was an angel of God, a son of man, about to be sacrificed on the altar of abuse. And we could fix it. WE COULD FIX IT RIGHT NOW. Fuck the riddle of pacifism. It had gotten me nowhere all this endless night. It was time for action. It was time to take a Stand. As I thought about the imminent threat for a final microsecond, the inevitable conclusion screamed at me: "No matter +which+ way you look, there's a gun pointed at your head." I was in Sun Tzu's mythic Death Ground, all right. Soul death or fighting death. It wasn't much of a choice, really. I crossed the street. While crossing the street, I had time to invent one final stall tactic - the plan was simple enough: Don't move closer to Home -- don't move closer to Trouble. Find a place of neutrality, get my proverbial shit together, seal the bid, and execute. As fortune would have it, as my foot hit the far sidewalk, right in front of me was a quaint little locals bar -- perfect for my final meditation, my final water, and my final stand. As I entered, signs indicated it would be all that. Amid the wild glow of a spinning disco ball, in a room no bigger than my living room back stateside, a cacophony of activity was taking place. To my left, a plump and buxom stripper in sequined cowboy outfit and matching hat worked up and down a brass pole. The semicircular bar lay straight ahead; at it were 6 large men. And then I saw her again, and it all made sense. The blond woman, looking sad and worn, crammed into the far corner of the bar, well guarded by her dominator. It didn't take her a second to start making eyes at me. I continued to stare. It didn't take a second for her man to catch on. He wasn't happy about it. At all. Within moments, I could not believe the nightmare I was living. My life in Amsterdam was like a record that just kept skipping, playing the same bar scene over and over and over again, but getting dirtier, scratchier, and louder with each replay. As the disco music blared in my ears, as the stripper robotically worked the pole, as the lights pulsed over the floor, the song played once again. This time it was too loud to ignore. The man stood up. He was large. And tall. Balding with a handlebar moustache. He jerked the girl to her feet. Hard. She wasn't any trophy. Beaten too long, her face was one long story of neglect and despair. One final look at me before the whole kicking cancer was corralled like a bitch right through the plywood-thin toilet door, not six short feet to my starboard.
FUCK! This was just too much. And I knew at least one possible ending, for sure. I didn't need any more time to think. I walked up to the bathroom, and put my shoulder into the door. Hard. It slammed open fast, six inches, until it hit something. Someone, rather. I saw his back, couldn't see the girl. "Fuck Off!" A strong push back. The door slammed shut. I was not so easily stopped. "Fuck you! I'm coming in!" No response. Hit the door again. Locked, damn. I've now successfully become the center of everyone's attention. For the third time that night, the barstool collective stares at me. I stare right back, utterly undeterred. They know why I'm here, as well as I do at this point. The game must end. Fortune picked here and now to show me the way, and whaddaya know, here I am. It's not like I hadn't had practice sessions. Suddenly, a new character entered the scene: the Weathered Madame. Going on sixty, trying pathetically to look twenty, dressed in copper chiffon, she wasted no time getting to the point. In fact, she did it without words. She simply and purposefully put her cigarette out on my arm. "Ow!"
"Oh, oh... I'm sorry, monsieur... did I braize you with my cigarette?" "Yeah, um, no problem." "Why don't you relax a little, have a drink?" She knew what I was up to. I couldn't figure her out. "Do you see what's going on here?" She stood silently, assessing me in private. I tried again. "Do you have a daughter?" An ever so subtle nod of assent. No words. I went back into my routine. It was getting old now, even for me. "Look, I have a wife and kids. I'm a peaceful guy. But I come into this town, see this (gesturing to the locked bathroom) going on, and I say 'what's wrong with the world?... how can you sit by complacent?" A long look. Then finally, response: "I have a daughter. I love her. You should have a drink." "You're kidding, right? You +do+ see what's going on here?" That effectively ended the conversation. She walked over to the bar, ordered herself another drink. I walked back to my table, in disbelief. The moment is approaching. I feel it like a freight train, barreling down on my skull. An appropriate image, I just don't know it yet. But I will soon. Really soon now. I didn't even make it back to my table. I heard the bathroom door open behind me. I knew the moment had arrived. I didn't want it to be there, but there it was. If I had ever had a feeling of destiny in my life, it was present now, at this moment. My last fleeting logical analysis went something like this: All night, I've been trying to avoid this. To avoid physical confrontation. At every step, my attempts at avoidance have brought me closer to the offensive act. And at each turn, the plot has gotten darker. The first bar was a lone guy, about my size, easily takable. The second bar ended up being two guys, again, both about my size. Now I was in a darkened hall, surrounded by drunken louts. Each one to the count was a solid 3 inches taller and 60 pounds heavier than me. I knew it in my heart; if I didn't take the stand now, the next incident would involve guns and weapons. It was just headed that way. Spinning my heels, wincing in anticipation, I walked right up to the Perp. After all that had transpired, he still seemed surprised to see me in his face. It didn't last long. "What the hell are you doing to this woman?" Even though I knew physical confrontation was now inevitable, my mouth wouldn't stop running. No matter. I was on complete autopilot now. "Yeah, right." He turned his back to me, ignoring me completely. I raised my voice. "Excuse me, sir. I'm talking to you. What gives you the right to treat this woman like this?" Again, no response. Right then, another cigarette burnt me from behind, but at this point, I was fully in the moment, and in no mood for distraction of any sort. This would be settled here and now. But how, my psyche screamed? My words were being utterly ignored. It was completely against every grain of my being to physically strike a stranger, ever more so, from the back. But here it was. The guy was abusing his wife, and I was here to fix it. I was out of options. I walked around his barstool until I was squarely between Perp and Prey, and forced him to meet my insistent eye contact. As soon as he did, I didn't hesitate. "Fuck You" I spat in disgust. At that exact moment, my hand hovered 4 inches from his left cheek, poised. And as the final syllable escaped my lips, my slap made sharp contact with his bristly cheek.
The look on his face defied any sane description. Saying it was a 'shocked expression' would be the ultimate understatement. Utter disbelief would be closer. But that didn't last for long. It was but a freeze frame in the infinite landscape of time, and time was moving on. Faster now. Much faster. Instinctively, I backed towards the door, as fast as my adrenalin-infused legs would allow. The blows kept coming, but I could take them -- I blocked a few, took a few -- and I could sense it -- I was almost there. The scene, however, went from bad to worse in a matter of microseconds. One minute, the Perp was swinging and kicking at me with wild abandon; all the while, I was blocking and rapidly backing up towards the door. But the blows came harder, and I stumbled. Now I knew, that without some token defense, I was in fact NOT going to make it out the door. So, completely on instinct, I counterattacked. With an accuracy and force uncharacteristic of my best fantasies, I lobbed a firm uppercut right into his gaping maw. The contact was solid, my attacker momentarily paused, stunned, and I felt I was a free bird, still backing away... …but as fate would have it, just at that decisive moment, I felt a hard impact to my ribs, but not from Perp... no, this was a new force, a new impact. And, well against my wishes, this rough tackle sent me sailing hard leftwards -- a serious deviation from my doorwards amble, in fact right over the corner table, and right into the corner booth. Before I had a chance to recover balance, Perp Two was laying into me. I hadn't seen him coming. I also hadn't seen Perp One pick up my glass Perrier bottle from the table I had occupied. I was being pummeled, was in no shape, or attitude, to really Fight, and now - real fear setting in as Perp One rejoined the Fray -- I simply started screaming for mercy at the top of my lungs, desperately grasping my anniversary locket in a form of spontaneous prayer. "Wife and Kids!" Louder now. "I need to see my Wife and Kids!!!" "I NEED TO SEE MY WI---" No sooner had I started screaming, amidst the non-stop blows, than a truly new horror overtook me. A third assailant had put one elbow in my neck, and far far worse, a greasy palm came swooping down, neatly sealing my nose and mouth. All my cries of mercy were immediately silenced as my air supply was abruptly severed. My ears echoed the sudden silence with great alarm. More alarming, however, was the deafening emptiness my lungs were now registering, completely devoid of their required oxygen. Hyperventilation, suffocation and panic became immediate synonyms. No matter. That panic was quite short lived. Within one second of suffocation, out of utter left field, came the deepest pain I had ever felt in my entire life. Sharply, suddenly, relentlessly, something broad and solid came into fast, full and unyielding contact with my right eye socket. I had finally gotten my Perrier bottle back. The world went black.
I know, in retrospect, that I should have blacked out, lost consciousness, right there and then. Because miracles are real, I didn't. Instead, materializing out of a halo of stars floating amidst a sea of blinding blackness, I witnessed a clear, singular vision: the face of my three year old son. In that instant, I was galvanized. Every fiber of my being was now focused on a singular meme: "I need to see my wife and kids alive." Again and again. Like a mantra. No, not +like+ a mantra. It +was+ a mantra. It was my singular reason for being. For living. For surviving. For getting the fuck out of that bar, and back... back... back... where? back... HOME. I moved, with conscious resolve, from the land of the dead, into the world of light. I do not know what I saw with my eyes. I do not know how I breathed. I do not know what I did with my hands. I knew I was fighting for my life. Literally. I vaguely recall, as from a dream, ripping a very large man from behind me, flipping him clear over my head, and ramming a large body straight through the nearby plate glass window. I don't know if it that really happened. Still today, I suffer total amnesia for those few critical moments of my life. My memory is in fact completely blank from the time I saw Max's face until…
The next thing I remember, I was running, fast. Voices chasing me, yelling at me from a distance, but a distance that was increasing with time. My legs did not stop pumping, feet barely touching the sidewalk. Fight had transformed into Flight, fully. Finally, the voices fading into the distance, and I, sensing that they were far enough away, dove headlong into a dirty stoop, slamming against the gutter doors, amidst the smell of stale urine and feces. And there I waited. I waited... for a long, long time. It took me every iota of that time, breathing heavily there in the gutter, to realize that I was not only blind, but also bleeding. Trying to see, all I saw was a crazily blurred vision of reddish lights, while extreme daggers of pain shot through my skull every time my eyes even considered moving. The reality of my situation only beginning to dawn on me, I began to cry uncontrollably. The acid tears only increased the stinging, blinding pain.
After what might have been minutes or hours, finally, I found it within myself to get up. Stumbling out of the gutter stoop, I vaguely sensed the brighter lights of the sidewalks. I crawled for a distance; working my one good eye into form, learning how to see without tracking, I eventually gained the confidence to rise to my feet. It was around this time that I gained the sensory confidence to both identify shapes as humanoid, and to query such shapes for help. Had I known in advance the futility of such efforts, I would not have wasted the first calorie. One by one, I asked but one simple question: "Excuse me, could you tell me where there is a hospital?". Utterly ignored in my first few attempts, I radically improved my manners: "Dear Sir, could you kindly point me in the direction of the nearest hospital... please? I am in desperate need of help, and only need directions..." If anything, the improved etiquette seemed to hurt, not help matters. But finally, I thought I had found my empathy messiah, for sure -- an old man, at least 60 years old, was out walking his dog towards me. Keeping a polite distance, not wanting to overly disturb with the sight of my battered and bloodied face, I queried: "Dear Sir, could you please tell me where might I find a hospital?"
The response hit me in the gut before it ever hit my ears. At that point, I realized, I was both emotionally, and physically, Broken. Oddly enough, I was not completely ignored by all parties. As I stumbled down the sidewalk, trying to stem the bloodflow from my eye socket with one hand as it relentlessly dripped down my shirt, several people took note of my condition. Most made wide arcs to avoid any sort of interaction or even eye contact. But, of the hundreds of people whose path I crossed that dark night, there were two kind souls who attempted to help me. They were both women. Each took pity on my situation. Each approached me, came up, and unflinchingly held my hand, asking what happened. Each offered to give me a ride to the hospital. And each one was hastily jerked away and scolded by their paranoid male escorts. I realized, as each one was torn away, that I was simply watching the same drama I had seen all night, now as clear as day. The caring woman. The fearful, angry, dominating male. Even after the "resolution" at the bar, the song played on, and the record kept skipping. It was going to be a long night, for sure. But at least this gave me hope. Someone did care. I pressed onward, more resolute than ever to get Home.
It was not a short journey, emotionally or physically. The only grounding I had was the locket Suzanne had given me for my birthday. The same one I had clung to in the bar. It was a picture locket. The night before I left Atlanta, I had carefully printed, trimmed and placed my favorite photo of Suzanne on one side, and an adorable shot of Max and Alyson on the other. The outside was engraved "GSMA" - Greg, Suzanne, Max, Alyson. The reverse was engraved as well, "09-18-2002". My birthday. Coincidentally, it was the very day of this adventure. Coincidence? Right. As I clawed my way down the street, blind and bleeding, I clung to my backpack with one arm, cradling it like a baby to my chest, and held the locket open in the other, smashing it between my fingers with a white-knuckled death grip. I just kept verbalizing, over and over, without rest: "I want to see my wife and kids alive. I want to see my wife and kids alive. I want to see my wife and kids alive." That kept me going. That kept my mind off the pain, sometimes. Out of the thousands of times I repeated that phrase aloud, once, and only once, I got greedy. I prayed that not only I would live to see my wife and kids again, but that I would see them with both eyes. I immediately realized, however, that I was in no position to be making demands. I was, in fact, for the first time in my life, completely and utterly at the mercy of strangers. And the strangers weren't giving me much mercy. With that thought, I immediately cut back to my original request of being with my family again. At that point, I decided, I really didn't give a shit whether I was permanently blind or not. I focused on what was important, scaled it down, simplified it, and there it was: no bells, no whistles. "I want to see my wife and kids alive." Over and over. Out loud. I prayed it into existence. But even with my prayer of hope to keep me going, my emotional health hit some rocky depths. Several times, overcome with both pain and grief, completely unsure as to whether I WOULD in fact make it back to see my family alive, I simply broke down, rolled up into fetal position, and lay on the pavement, whimpering, the blood and tears mixing into a sick salty soup. At my ultimate low point, as I clung to the base of a cold metal signpost, my eyes squeezed shut hard, I tapped my heels together over and over and over again, praying that I was in fact wearing Dorothy's Ruby Red Slippers... At length, opening my eyes and seeing the same signpost I had collapsed onto so many years before, I realized this approach was not bearing fruit.
Thus, as I crouched, wracked with emotional trauma, the thoughts started to leak into my consciousness: They're Coming. Do You Hear Them? That Laughter? That's Them. They're Coming Closer. Stay Still. They Don't See You Yet. Stay VERY STILL. VERY VERY STILL. BE-COME IN-VIS-I-BLE. DO NOT MOVE. DO NOT SPEAK. DO NOT BREATH. They are Walking By Now. STAY STILL. Stay Still. stay still. stay still. oh god, please let me stay still. Let me live. LET ME SEE MY WIFE AND KIDS ALIVE. It worked. I slowly, ever so slowly, pried my good eye open again, rose to my feet, and continued homeward.
After what seemed like days, I finally caught sight of my elusive goal: the Boat. My Mothership. The Vita Nova, it was christened. New Life, indeed. Not sure whether to scream or to cry, I timidly placed my foot on the boarding plank. I half expected another attacker to pounce from the shadows right then. When that didn't happen, I bounded across the platform, and at last was Safe, on my floating haven. I had made it. Breath. O.K. I shuffled across the brightly lit wooden floors, glancing briefly down the dining hall. Monica was there, but the repeated rejections and derogations I had received asking for help had scarred me deeply, and I would ask no more. What's more, was I seeing that correctly? Yes, there was a man there, making Monica laugh... his back was to me. His male presence made me damn sure, if I had had any leaning otherwise, that I wasn't going to ask for help. I had not had much luck to date in Amsterdam interacting with Males, much less Males courting Females. And I had no inclination to press my luck further on the issue this night. I silently turned and moved to go down the stairs to my cabin. Safety was finally within my reach. "Jesus! Are you O.K.!?" I stopped, shutting my eyes, not wanting to let it out. Again, closer now: "Are you O.K.? You're bleeding! Harry, get over here!" I couldn't hold it back anymore. I started bawling uncontrollably. And that's when Monica saved my life. She grasped my hand firmly, put her arm around my shoulder, and ushered me into a seat. All the while, she comforted me with her deep Slavic accent: "You're going to be O.K. Everything's going to be all right. Do you want to tell us what happened?"
But for the first time that night, I heard a response, calm and clear. It was Monica: "You're going to see your wife and kids alive." And for the first time that night, I knew the words were true. I kept crying, not sure if it was joy or sadness. Or both.
That night, my 33rd birthday, was one of the longest nights of my life, even after Monica saved me from my own inner hell. There were visitors. After a reflexive call from Monica, the ambulance came, and the Emergency Medical Technicians gave me a good once-over. Roughly handling my eye, one shining a MagLite point blank straight into it as another held my skull firmly still, I thought I would puke from the resulting pain and disorientation. The sensation increased, and I said as much, begging them to pause and let me catch my breath, if only for a second. "No puking on this boat, jack!" was the only response I got. Immediately after the EMTs were done their work (result: two butterfly bandages, and a diagnosis that I needed a good nights sleep more than a trip to the hospital), the police officers came in for a statement. This scared me. I was alone, in a foreign country. I did not know the laws. I assumed the men I had scrapped with were locals. My goal did not waver: I wanted to see my wife and kids as soon as humanly possible. Cooperating with local law enforcement at that moment seemed in direct contravention of my goal. I didn't want any more trouble. I certainly didn't want to be brought back to the scene of the crime. I had no idea what had become of my assailants. I had no idea how I had gotten out of there. I imagined their story vs. my story, friendly locals vs. the Cowboy American, and I imagined 6 weeks in an Amsterdam jail, without adequate medical care, without a way to contact my family. That was simply not going to happen. So without thinking, I blurted out what seemed to make sense at the time: "I didn't kill anybody!" That was stupid. Really stupid. Especially because, as the words escaped my lips, I was reminded of my brief period of amnesia, and knew that I could not prove that statement one way or the other. Oh Shit. But for more than once that night, Providence smiled on me. For whatever reason, the cops did not take the anti-confession as seriously as I did. They spent all of another 3 minutes casually questioning me, the classic "who? what? where? when?". But I had made one slip, and wasn't keen on making another. I reliably plead the Fifth to every other question asked: "I can't remember anything. Officer, I swear, I don't remember a thing." "Were you in a fight?" "I just don't know." "Who did this to you?" "I have no idea. I don't even know if it was a person." And so forth. I prayed that neither Monica or Harry would fess up, as I had clearly (or as clearly as I could given the circumstances and my unbalanced mental and emotional state) articulated the full details of the evening to both of them in the course of their care. As far as I could tell, they were standing in solidarity with my vastly expanded amnesia. "Can we please see your passport?" Shit. Maybe I'm not off the hook yet. What the hell, I've got to show some form of ID. Reluctantly, I unzipped my secret pocket, and removed my prized possession. Gripping the slick plastic cover with my best death grip, I opened it to my Picture and held it out for inspection. "Happy Birthday!" the cops said in unison. "Yeah. It's quite the surprise party." I said, trying to muster a sense of humor. "Here, give it to me." I heard Harry say as I felt a tug on my passport. I resisted. "Greg, they need to see your passport. They don't want to touch you. Let me give it to them." I reluctantly let go. Minutes passed. People exited. The room was quiet. "O.K. the police are gone" I heard Harry say. "Can I please have my passport back?" "No, no no. Greg, you're in no shape to handle this. You might lose it. I'll keep it for you for safekeeping." I was not amused -- but I was blind and tired. "Harry, give it back to me." "Greg, trust me, I'm going to make sure its safe. When you want it in the morning, just come and get it from me." "Harry, I have a pocket right here, with a zipper... can you please--" "Trust me, Greg, I'm taking care of you." He had me there. Though initially I had only thanked the kindness of Monica, she reminded me more than once that Harry was there to help to. And though he was my clear second choice, we had made a pact that should I need to go to the hospital, Harry would not leave my side at all. I had initially begged for Monica to fulfill this role, but she explained that it was her duty to guard and watch over the boat, and that she simply could not leave. I had finally concurred. So it was that I came to view Harry as my joint helper, at Monica's side. And at that moment, anyone with a title of Helper was quite high on my trust list. So when Harry reiterated that I trust him, to ensure the safekeeping my passport, I reasoned that I already owed each of them my life, and finally acquiesced.
Luckily, Suzanne didn't have the double whammy of being woken up in the middle of the night with this news, as America was a convenient six hours behind. My dark midnight of misadventure would catch her just in time to be a pleasant dinnertime conversation. It wasn't that long of a call. I only wanted to communicate three clear concepts to her, and I had them well planned. They came out like rapid-fire.
"I love you and the kids more than anything else in the world." The next ten minutes of conversation was basically her asking questions, and me re-assuring her, re-iterating my three core messages. Eventually Harry walked me down to my room, totally blind, dumped me into my bed, and slid the rickety door closed behind me. I felt relieved, utterly exhausted, and -- very alone. But at least I felt halfway home. I was off the street, not in a strange hospital, not in strange jail, and in my own space, never mind a rented one. I saw Monica as an added buffer of safety between me and the demons of the street. Just needed to take care of a few simple housekeeping chores, and I was sure I would go directly to a deep, deep, much needed sleep. Just one problem. I couldn't see. Well, time certainly was on my side. First task: get all of the shit off of my bed. While painful to move, it didn't take long. Done. Next task: turn off the searing fluorescent light. This one proved a little more difficult. It relied heavily on my ability to find an appropriate light switch. I must have spent fifteen solid minutes, groping every single vertical surface of that room -- and the cabin itself was no bigger than a small closet -- for a goddamn lightswitch, button, knob, or protrusion of any sort. I finally gave up in vain. Just had to be sure I stayed away from my porthole so none of the demons outside could I.D. me and decide to pay me a surprise visit. I lay down to sleep on the top bunk, the fluorescent fixture blaring not 24 inches from my throbbing head. I curled into the far corner, and pulled the gauzy quilt over my fully clothed body, boots and all.
Try as I might - exhausted as I was after fifty-plus hours of no sleep - I simply could not enter into the peaceful bliss of dreamland. For the first forty hours, I had been kept awake by the sheer adrenalin excitement of being on my Big Trip. Now, my adrenalin all but exhausted, it was the pain that kept me awake. So I lay there, eyes shut, reviewing over and over and over again what had happened, trying to decipher the manifold meanings of the events of that evening -- and what messages and lessons they could possibly engender to me as a living human being. I certainly did not find the events lacking in symbolism. As I self-analyzed, I patiently waited to feel the warm light of sun interfere with the icy fluorescents. It was a long, long wait. At some point in the wee hours, I got the presence of mind to open up my med kit. Something kept bugging me about how everybody but Monica had been queasy about touching me. Something about contagious blood. Not mine. The hands and objects that had penetrated me. O.K., right! Antibiotics! I fumbled and found the familiar shape of a child-lock prescription bottle. Unfortunately, there were about six of these in my bag, packed with goodies from the travel medicine clinic I had visited stateside. How could I tell it was the right bottle? Clearly lacking in Braille skills (and Braille labels, for that matter), I knew there was only one way. Grimacing with pain, I forcibly pried my good eye open with my fingers in order to see. The light and pain hit me at once like twin daggers. I yelped, dropped the pill bottle, and slammed my good eye shut. The problem was, I couldn't use my good eye, because whenever I opened it, I would move it, and my bad eye helplessly tried to track with it. Unfortunately, this caused whatever sharp objects were lodged in there to scrape mercilessly against my eyeball, causing excruciating surges of pain to shoot right into the deepest corners of my skull. So it was, that although one eye was technically functional, I had not mastered the reptilian skill of keeping one eye fixed while the other wandered, and thus, the pain, and the fear of more pain, kept both eyes firmly shut and still. Nonetheless, I felt I needed the antibiotic. Badly. So over the next twenty minutes, I kept forcing microsecond, unfocused glimpses of that damn prescription bottle. Finally, one a lucky try, I had the bottle orientation and focus all in alignment. I saw the letters "Cip-", and knew I was home free. I gobbled down two of them. The bottle exercise had been good practice. It was how I would operate for the next several days, brief glimpses and long dark stretches from memory. Like walking through a room, all the while seeing nothing at all except periodic blurred snapshots. Luckily, the Extra Strength Tylenol was in a bottle I could identify by shape alone. Even after downing four, I still couldn't sleep, but it got me through to sunrise. Monica, my angel, came in around ten a.m. The morning light was pouring in through the porthole. "Hi. Sleep some more. I'll wash the blood out of your shirt for you. Everything's going to be O.K." I believed her. I smiled. Words could not express my gratitude to this woman. I loved her. I almost fell asleep.
"Did you hear me? Get your shit out of here!" I was in no position to argue, but newly humbled, begging came naturally. "Can I just have one more hour... please… I have a bit of a problem" I said, gesturing clearly to my face, and in particular, my blood locked eye. "No! You've got five minutes to get yourself, and all your stuff, out of here! Five minutes, or I come back and help you with it myself!" Tipping aside, it did not strike me as an offer of assistance that I wanted to take him up on. As a final desperate measure, I offered hard cash: "Hey, I have a lot of Euros! Let me pay you something for just a bit more time... I can't even see my --" He was already down the hall, barking the cold ultimatum over his shoulder: "Five Minutes. Move it!" Well, I had wanted down, dirty, and cheap accommodations. It wasn't the Ritz Carlton, but what it lacked in comfort, it certainly made up for in character. For the next four minutes and fifty-nine seconds, I was the fastest moving blind man in Amsterdam. I groped and felt and grabbed and sacked and zipped up every last possession scattered about that place faster than even I thought possible. I'm really not sure if it took five minutes or ten, but I was causing such a ruckus, banging about in that closet, that even if Herr Brutus had come down to deliver his promised "help," he would have seen that he could not possibly have sped up the process. So it was that I limped into the boat's main dining room, ugly, bedraggled, and weighted down with four unbalanced bags, with only one task left before my homeward journey commenced. Sure enough, Harry was right where I had found him twelve hours prior, hunched over the far table, chatting with Monica. As I hobbled down the aisle, I was greeted with overt stares of shock and fear by my fellow boat dwellers, none of whom I had met before. I got within earshot of Harry, and cut straight to the point: "Good morning, Harry. can I please have my passport back?" I pried my good eye open just enough to judge his reaction -- it didn't inspire me to hope. Harry refused to look at me. Worse off, so did Monica. Harry mumbled "Good morning, Greg. You gave it to the police, remember?" The hairs raised on the back of my neck. What I wanted to say was: "You have GOT to be fucking kidding me. Gimme my passport NOW, and no more bullshit, motherfucker!" What came out was: "Really? No, no, Harry, I gave it to you, remember? You said you'd keep it for me." Harry was still studying the wood grain of the tabletop. "No, Greg. You were in bad shape. Maybe the Police took it. You should call them and ask." Oh, boy. I have +really+ had about enough of every Joe in the fucking town. And the last thing I can imagine doing is spending the next three days camped out in front of the American Consulate, waiting for a new passport to be issued. FUCK! "Um, O.K. Look, Harry, would it be too much trouble for you to check your pockets?" The Bouncer, who had offered to assist me in packing my bags ten minutes ago, chimed in "You probably put it in your backpack." "Yes, Greg, did you check your rucksack? You might have stuffed it in there." A tit for a tat, I guess. I hadn't opened the damn backpack since I left the copy shop 16 hours ago. But if that's what it took to get Asshole to look through his pockets… Much to the chagrin of Bouncer, I unceremoniously dumped the entire contents of my pack onto the table. Very intentionally, one by one, I held each item up close to my good eye, confirmed it wasn't a passport, and placed it back in the pack. I did this as much for the dining room audience as for myself. I knew for damn sure where my passport was. I was praying that my odd combination of kindness and civility, not to mention my still bleeding wound, would give Harry the chance to "accidentally" find my dear possession and save face. As I confirmed again that it was not in my pack, Harry said he would go downstairs to check in his room. I half wanted to follow him down there and threaten him until it emerged. But I decided to roll with the punches at this point, and see what else this experience wanted to take out of me first. I left ten minutes later, a passport poorer. Bouncer had at least given me directions to the nearest police station. He did that when another unsuspecting guest, a Brit, suggested that I call the Police from the boat. Bouncer had made it very clear that that was simply not going to happen, that it was time for Trouble (i.e. bloody guy, a.k.a Me) to be leaving town. I left with the simple words "OK, I get it. Don't worry, I'm outta your hair." No way in hell was I making a visit to the Amsterdam Police station. I briefly considered finding and hiking to the American Consulate. But in order to do anything, I had to pass by… the Crime Scene. Even in broad daylight, I felt terrified of that area. Even being off the boat, on the street, was too close for comfort. I just knew that if any one of my assailants caught a glimpse of me, I was a dead man. And my goal had not shifted: I wanted to see my wife and kids alive. I wandered back and forth over the same 30 meters of sidewalk in front of the boat, stopping a few times to consolidate and repack my bags. I could sense Bouncer watching, waiting for me to clear the area. I could also sense my attackers waiting, not a kilometer away… and right smack between me and the train station that would get me Home. I finally elected to hail a cab. That didn't go too well. But in the midst of my whistling and arm waving, my saviour arrived. A public bus with the words "Central Station" clearly alight on its front panel. As the doors opened with a hydraulic hiss, I hopped aboard, jerking and dragging my 60 pounds of duffle bags and backpacks behind me. I finally dug the One Euro out of my pocket, and we were home free. I was still so scared, I hid like a child... I sank low, low, lower in the seat, fearing I would be spotted from the window. I waited, cold but seasoned, entirely prepared for primal, speedy flight at a moment's notice. Arriving safely at Amsterdam Central Station, I began to feel, for the first time, secure. And hopeful. It wasn't due to the looks on the faces of passer-bys, which I found mildly amusing. I had once heard someone with a disfiguring facial injury group colleagues into two groups: those who asked what happened, and those who pretended like you looked completely normal. Sitting in the middle of a busy train station, I significantly revised the theory, breaking my fellow humans into three neat categories. There was category one: they looked at me carelessly, and then their face turned to panic once they saw my face. They then immediately changed course ninety degrees, and would not look at the horror again. Category Two had an iota more courage, if less tact: They had the same look of shock and disgust at first glance, but then they simply continued to stare, keeping a safe distance. Category Three was my hope for humanity - though the clear minority, a handful of people walked right up to me and asked if I could use any help. The net effect of all this was that I had a nice crowd clearing effect, and could freely navigate the train station with a nice clearing in front of me at all times. Quasimodo would have been proud. I wondered what I really looked like. No matter. I had to get out of this town. After a call to my brother, a surgeon, confirming that I could most probably survive at 30,000 feet for 8 hours without my tortured eye exploding or imploding, I became hell-bent on getting on the next plane to America. To hell with the consulate, the police, a local hospital, or anything else. Let airport security tell me I couldn't go home. I was getting home, like a lightning bolt with a mission. I bought a ticket and hopped the next express train to Schipol Airport. Lucky for me, the last guy to board was a Category Three human, plus a little. He actually engaged in conversation with me, while others were scurrying for the door to get into the adjoining car. Out of the conversation I garnered one salient piece of advice, which I saw as Guidance from Above on my quest for Home. "Where you headed?" "Back home. America.." "Not like that, you aren't." "What do you mean?" I cracked a crooked smile. "I'm a Frequent Flier, you know." "Frequent Flier or no, you walk up to the ticket counter looking like that, and they'll send you straight to the hospital. Do you have any idea what you look like?" "Quite frankly, no. I cleaned up in the hotel room a bit this morning…" "Well, you look like a bad horror film. Listen. Holland has great socialized medicine. There's a Doctor and a clinic right there at the airport. Go there right when you get off the train. No matter what you do, don't go to the ticket counter looking like that. You'll never leave the country." I took his advice to heart, and thanked him for his frank honesty and genuine assistance. The advice I picked, however, was not the hospital. It was the ticket counter. So, as soon as I got off the train, I made right for the restrooms, and did what I had to do: I broke out my emergency medical kit on the sink. Scalpels and forceps scattered across the porcelain as I washed the blood off my face and neck and down the drain. Category One people apparently weren't unique to train stations - they frequented airport restrooms as well. A number of people walked in, saw me at the sink, and did an immediate 180. I can't say I blamed them. I chuckled as I imagined the scene. As it was, just as I was applying the last piece of tape, securing the massive sterile-gauze pad to my face, I caught a glimpse of two men in the mirror, standing stationary behind me. I turned to see two uniformed police men. Apparently my self-help medical clinic had led someone to nark on me. "Hi. We're gonna take you to the hospital, OK?" Aw shit. And just when I was starting to look like my old self again. Not really. I had to think fast. "Um, OK." That wasn't too fast… Keep thinking. "Lets go." One of them gently took my arm as I gathered my bags. "Um, listen… Thank you sooo much for wanting to escort me to the hospital, but look, um… I +really+ need to make this phone call to my wife and kids, could you just give me directions, and I'll go right after I call them?" Thankfully, it worked. They gave me the directions, and as we parted ways, I paused briefly at the phone, long enough for them to find another interest. And then, without even picking up the receiver, I bolted for the ticket counter. Nothing could stop me now. Except maybe a deli counter. The Northwest / KLM ticket counter was a popular place this pleasant Thursday morning. At least I didn't need to wait standing. I took a number from the automatic dispenser, and took a seat. Even with my nice new bandage, I guess I still looked pathetic. A woman who I had sat down next to decided it was time to explore the view from the other side of the lobby. Or maybe I just smelled. I closed my eyes and sat back, occasionally squinting my good eye to see the "now serving" red numbers flash one digit higher. It looked like I had about 30 minutes ahead of me, by my count. I closed my eyes again.
"Hey you!" "Sir, Hello?" I opened my eyes. One of the attendants was gesturing to me. I checked the board: "Now Serving: 231" I checked my ticket: 258. "I'm 258." "It's OK, come up here now." Pity was good for something, after all. Things were looking up. I was going Home.
Over the next 12 hours, things just accelerated. I explained my lost passport, but he called a supervisor, and that supervisor called their supervisor, and with my story (much simplified, believe me), my bandage, my tickets to India, and my passport Xeroxes, I got a new ticket. The flight left in 20 minutes, and he asked me if I could run. Damn straight I could run, if it would get me home sooner. They checked my bags on the spot, I blew through customs and security like nothing, and damn if I wasn't sitting on a 747, flying westward over the Atlantic Ocean, not half an hour later. I held back the tears. I knew if the crying started, it wouldn't stop. See ya, Amsterdam! It's been nice knowin' ya! I didn't stop running when I hit the ground in Detroit. I ran so fast, in fact, right through US Customs, through security again, that I got on standby for a flight 3 hours earlier than my scheduled connection. There were no phones on the plane, but as people were getting nicer and nicer by the mile, a flight attendant lent me her cellphone to call Suzanne and notify her of my early arrival. I was sobbing in her arms, Atlanta airport, not 3 hours later.
We went straight to the Emergency Room, where I got the dubious distinction of being uniquely able to gross out the emergency room nurse. She insisted that she really had seen it all, and that this was an unusual case. The real point of maximum gross out was when I, at her insistence, ignoring all pain, firmly grasped my cheek in one hand, and my forehead in the other, and literally ripped apart the massive pooled blood clot that had effectively sealed my eye shut for the prior 20 hours. I could only imagine the sight. It was bad enough looking out through it. They thoroughly cleaned the eye, washing all those nasty scrapers out. I got some CT scans done, and the diagnosis was quick: a severely abraded cornea, a fractured cheekbone, muscle snagged on the bone fragments. I didn't give a shit. I was home. They put some professional class bandaging on my eye, gave me some serious painkillers, and scheduled follow-up appointment 3 days later. 60 hours prior I had walked out the front door of our house. Now I walked in, eyes closed, at the arm of my beloved wife. The kids were asleep. Suzanne guided me upstairs and undressed me. As soon as my back hit the mattress, I fell hard asleep. All the exhaustion just hit me at once. I didn't open my eyes or leave that bed for the next three days. I barely woke up the entire time. When I did finally get up, Suzanne walked me outside to a beautifully crisp fall day. Eyes still shut, I could hear the wonderful voices of my two children. Sensing closure, I knelt on the ground, and asked them to hug me. Four little arms embraced their blind daddy, and Mommy came in to complete the circle. I had made it Home to See my Wife and Kids Alive. Nothing else mattered. The world was well again. And I didn't want anything more. Ever.
And so, what of India? Shall I return to the quest? If so, when? I can only answer these questions in vagaries. My dream of a travelers passage through India has now been reset to the mythic fantasy of my youth. It is no longer (was it ever?) the tangible plan of tomorrow... it is now once again the dreamy land of the distant future. I am sure I will get to India one day. When that day is, I cannot say. I am sure that the gentle hand of destiny will guide me there, and hopefully, next time, I'll be wise enough to know that the time is right. Until then, India will exist only in this intrepid traveler's dreams.
So what do I make of all this? Well, 10 days later, and much thinking, have basically come to see this chain of events as the external manifestation of a deep internal psychic conflict that I was struggling with. I ignored it for so long, and was so blind to what it was trying to tell me, that it finally had to manifest itself in a physically violent form in order to 'get the message through', as it were. The three bars were almost just another re-iteration of my three attempts to go to India. The first, thwarted by the threat of all-out nuclear war in Kashmir; the second, stalled out by a severe injury to my wife's back; the third, well, I had made it there on my third attempt, do or die, or so I thought. I was on my way, airborne, just taking care of last minute business in my way-station of choice, Amsterdam. Destination:India appeared to be a fait accompli. But there were signs this might not be the case, even prior to my suicidal brush with death in the streets. For instance, despite my careful planning and extensive cataloging of reference material, I forgot to pack almost every single item: Searching my pack in Amsterdam, I realized I posessed not a single map, no phrasebooks, no trekking guides, no road atlas. No, all these and more sat comfortably on my bookshelf at home in Atlanta, while I, wandering my staging ground of Amsterdam, girded for impact. Impact simply came sooner, faster, and harder than I had ever expected it. But it quite effectively sent me directly to where I needed to be all along - Home Sweet Home. They say Home is where the Heart is, and that is true. But in my battle of two hearts, only one could win. The heart of my young restless man had been On The Road - The heart of my wise man I found anew - it is with my wife and dear children.
To Suzanne: That day in Amsterdam, in the midst of my confusion, when nothing was going terribly right, I walked into a copy shop. The moment I walked up to my assigned machine, this song came over the radio. I didn't know why, but it had a powerful impact. I spontaneously began to weep right there. I didn't listen to the lyrics, I just let the instruments wash over me. Gathering myself, the song still playing, I set about the task at hand: making copies of my passport, plane tickets, and other critical documents prior to my descent into India. Six hours later, my passport was stolen. I got home on the copies alone. Sometimes, things work out. I made it home. This is our song.
Making my way downtown
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There's gotta be a record of you someplace
I had arrived that morning, and spent the day much as I imagined a typical solo tourist would have; wandering aimlessly through downtown, snapping photos, visiting the myriad shops and stores, talking to locals to the extent my patented American xenophobia would allow.
So off I headed, over the bridge and down Damrak, arguably as "main street" as you can get for a city planned on nested semicircles of canals and cobblestone streets generally no wider than twelve feet. Sure enough, the revelers were starting to emerge, even at this early hour. As the light declined, a group of rowdy Irishmen stumbled across the street, roughly propping up their visibly ill friend. Club kids in the latest fashions and hair colors intermingled with old hippies and the ubiquitous "tour group" videocamera-toting gawkers. Overall, I found the atmosphere pleasant, perhaps even mellow.
All down the hall, from floor to ceiling, were massive white canvases roughly filled with... filled with... filled with, well, what I can best describe as scenes from a personal hell. Vaginas with 1,000 eyes spat out beheaded fecies, which in turn were consumed by rabid dogs sporting 8 legs and horns. Blake, Giger and Ernst had nothing on this guy. He knew all the tricks. I tried in vain to suppress my disgust. Clearly this guy needed to get it out of his system, and I was just glad he was doing it with paint on canvas and not bullets on humans. I tolerated enough to be polite, gently complimenting him on the clarity of his vision. And just before I was about to excuse myself, I spied glorious salvation: a simple, clear-as-day happy face, isolated yet pure, right in the midst of the Evil. It was some sort of armored body, head buried in its chest -- yet the head, clearly, was a classical "happyface" icon. I pointed it out to him, hoping to communicate, saying, praying: "That's who I like."
Where was it I was going?
"Mario, you hit her, right? I just wanna make sure I'm getting this right."
I had come here to think... to conduct purely cerebral activities. However, this was clearly not my destiny. Reality was being force fed to me, through a fucking feed-pipe. And it was painfully self-evident that this was no place for mere philosophical meanderings. No. I would not leave with thoughts alone. I would conclude my visit here with an act. And I would leave, with Experience.
In addition to the physical pain and emotional depression, there was a final element to cope with: deep psychological fear. I began to think that it was taking me far too long to get to the safety of my boat. Too long meant... bars would be closing. Patrons would be coming home. And if the certain patrons of a certain bar just happened to have lived in the same general direction as my boat...
You bet I did. In fact, all I had wanted for the past six hours was contact with a fellow human being who gave a damn. But all I could get out for the first five minutes was "I just want to see my wife and kids alive. Kindness of Strangers. Just see my wife and kids alive, please god. Thank you Dear God for the Kindness of Strangers." Over and over. Just like I had been doing the whole way home.
And so I lay, for hours. The blood pooled in my eye socket. I kept crying. Or something. Try as I might, I couldn't tell the difference between the blood and the tears - all I knew was that all night long, warm salty liquid kept dripping down my cheek, chin, ear and hair. Eventually the blood closest to my eye started to coagulate, hermetically sealing my eye shut. Maybe that would let it heal, I thought, venturing a bit of optimism. Nonetheless, the pain would not go away.
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GREG ROBERTS |
WORK + PLAY + BLOG + BIO + CONTACT |
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copyright © 1969-2011 greg roberts. all rights reserved. reproduction for commercial use is strictly prohibited without prior written consent. now stop squinting at your monitor, get outside and play!
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