trams taken and trams missed
I have some stories to tell you but perhaps first I should tell you a little about myself. I live alone close the centre of Amsterdam. You could say I am a frustrated artist. My sadness fills me. I am bad company with moments of sporadic humour, but only to mask my empty feeling. I tell myself I have to let inertia take hold of me so that I stop searching for things outside of myself, and allow life to settle.
Sometimes at night I like to ride the trams. I buy a ticket for 1 zone and then ride almost to the end of the line, then catch another in a different direction. So I can travel around like that for hours.
On one winters evening in January, I was riding down Rosengracht on the #14, listening to music on my Walkman. A middle-aged woman in a pale blue coat sat down next to me and almost immediately took out a magazine and resumed work on a crossword puzzle. With a black fine liner she inked in a 7-letter word. The crossword was almost complete. She puzzled over the remaining two clues for some time and I lost myself in gazing at the view from the window, surrounded by the atmosphere of the music. I think I was listening to “Air.” Presently my music came to an abrupt stop in my right ear as I felt the earphone being plucked free and I heard a voice whisper in Dutch, “Tell me, do you know of a river in Spain that has four letters and the middle two are R’s” I was startled and jumped. It was the voice of the woman with the crossword. She laughed and I laughed too. I managed to gather my wits and focus on her question. I puzzled for a moment, but before I could come up with anything a voice came from behind us: “ Erro”
It was a small elderly gentleman. He was smiling, his mouth just above his grey scarf. “I think the answer is Erro,” he said. And he was right. The lady filled it in with a smile.
That was a very nice moment.
A few months after that, I was standing in a cue waiting for a tram at Leidseplein. A light snow was falling. When a tram arrived the cue slowly filed on until the tram was completely full. I was standing in the aisle, in between a Moslem gentleman, a blonde haired woman of about 34, and four noisy young guys who had a strange language I thought must be from one of the Balkan countries. One of them had a bottle of 7Up containing a green liquid.
As we moved along the Number 10 line, the young woman’s mobile phone began to ring. She took it out of her bag and looked at the screen, but instead of answering it, she pushed the red phone button, stopping the call. But before long it rang again. This time she answered it. She was standing so close to me that, though she murmured, I could here every word. She tells the caller she is on her way home and will be there in ten minutes.
The 4 young guys have hardly noticed her conversation, but the Moslem gentleman is a little embarrassed, he strokes his bald-head and puts a blank expression on his face.
The woman is still talking softy. Listening and then answering with short sentences. They seem to be discussing a weekend holiday. She asks if someone will be joining them and mentions a name that I recognise. Putting that detail together with some other things that I had overheard, I realise to my surprise that she must be talking to an old friend of mine who I haven’t seen for more than a year.
Presently she begins to laugh, her cheeks colour a little. She says she has to go and ends the call. After two more stops she gets off the tram and I watch her disappear around the corner of the bank at Rijnstraat.
Recently I was returning from a business trip in Cologne. On this occasion, I had been quite successful. The correct balance of compassion and inane conversation had brought about a favourably profitable result and its concomitant nausea.
As I made my way out of the crowded Central Station in a sort of a daydream, I narrowly missed catching the Number 20 tram, which would have brought me within a block of my apartment. So feeling like I could do with the exercise, I decided to walk.
Pulling my small suitcase and picking my route in an absent-minded fashion, I was surprised to look up and find myself in a small isolated part of the red-light district. A beautiful black woman gestured to me from a window and made a bird-like movement with her fingers, indicating she wished to talk to me. I pressed on home giving her a smile.
With a small start I realised that my bag contained a large amount of cash, from which the payment for such a service would barely be noticed. Nevertheless I continued home.
On arrival I showered and unpacked my bag and then, with growing excitement, resolved to return to the red light area. There I would hopefully still find the beautiful black women and, in her company, obliterate the insipid features of those previous few days.
The white lace of her underwear revealed a perfectly rounded young body. She led me to the darkened interior and there, amidst the din of West African music, we discussed the rate. Once that was agreed and I had paid, she asked my name and where I was from. As she removed her underwear and jewellery, she told me her name was Sarah and she was from Sierra Leone. I asked for the music to be turned down.
Somewhat tired from my day’s journey, it was at first pleasant to lie in her arms, touching her round cheekbones and kissing her firm young breasts. She told me she was 24. I noticed that her hands were hard and leathery and she said that before coming to Amsterdam she had been working on a tomato farm in Africa.
When eventually I moved inside her, she responded naturally, without excessive pleasure or professional words and this excited me. As my frenzy increased, she slapped me gently and said with a gasp that I was making her tired and please not to hurt her.
Presently however, I was completely worn out. Realising that I would not find the climax I was hoping for, I gave up and removed the condom and began to masturbate beside her. We agreed that I would come on my stomach. She lay next to me, caressing my legs and laughing now and then and, after what must have been 20 minutes, I finally came. With a whoop of joy, she leapt from the bed and turned on the light. My face was covered with perspiration.
Her laughter died and her face became dark as we both realised I had shot some small drops of sperm onto her bedspread. I did my best to clean it up, but the casual intimacy was suddenly gone. She began to prepare herself for the window once more. As I dressed she sat on the toilet and washed her sex with a mug of water.
I felt humiliated by the grotesqueness of my exertion and the small mess I had made on her bed. She bade me goodbye impatiently and I went out into the street, dazed and suddenly quite depressed.
On another day I remember I was travelling in the direction of Slotermeer. I remember I was busy reading a novel set in the French Revolution. One by one all the great heroines and heroes were dying. Robespierre would be one of the last to go.
As the tram moved down Jan van Galenstraat, a small, plump Chinese women sat down next to me. A younger Chinese girl of about 15 or 16, who must have been her daughter, sat down half on her lap, hugging her arms around the woman’s shoulders. The mother looked very tired and breathed heavily. And though it was cold outside her face was damp as if with a fever. Her daughter stroked her head and whispered soothing words in her ear. I continued to read my book but could not help being moved by this scene next to me. The mother scarcely saying a word, and the daughter kissing her cheek softly and stroking her hair and her shoulders. It was a curious reversal of roles from what I was familiar with, with my own daughter.
When they got off the tram and I watched them moving away slowly down – straat. For some reason there presence had calmed me greatly
I have some stories to tell you but perhaps first I should tell you a little about myself. I live alone close the centre of Amsterdam. You could say I am a frustrated artist. My sadness fills me. I am bad company with moments of sporadic humour, but only to mask my empty feeling. I tell myself I have to let inertia take hold of me so that I stop searching for things outside of myself, and allow life to settle.
Sometimes at night I like to ride the trams. I buy a ticket for 1 zone and then ride almost to the end of the line, then catch another in a different direction. So I can travel around like that for hours.
On one winters evening in January, I was riding down Rosengracht on the #14, listening to music on my Walkman. A middle-aged woman in a pale blue coat sat down next to me and almost immediately took out a magazine and resumed work on a crossword puzzle. With a black fine liner she inked in a 7-letter word. The crossword was almost complete. She puzzled over the remaining two clues for some time and I lost myself in gazing at the view from the window, surrounded by the atmosphere of the music. I think I was listening to “Air.” Presently my music came to an abrupt stop in my right ear as I felt the earphone being plucked free and I heard a voice whisper in Dutch, “Tell me, do you know of a river in Spain that has four letters and the middle two are R’s” I was startled and jumped. It was the voice of the woman with the crossword. She laughed and I laughed too. I managed to gather my wits and focus on her question. I puzzled for a moment, but before I could come up with anything a voice came from behind us: “ Erro”
It was a small elderly gentleman. He was smiling, his mouth just above his grey scarf. “I think the answer is Erro,” he said. And he was right. The lady filled it in with a smile.
That was a very nice moment.
A few months after that, I was standing in a cue waiting for a tram at Leidseplein. A light snow was falling. When a tram arrived the cue slowly filed on until the tram was completely full. I was standing in the aisle, in between a Moslem gentleman, a blonde haired woman of about 34, and four noisy young guys who had a strange language I thought must be from one of the Balkan countries. One of them had a bottle of 7Up containing a green liquid.
As we moved along the Number 10 line, the young woman’s mobile phone began to ring. She took it out of her bag and looked at the screen, but instead of answering it, she pushed the red phone button, stopping the call. But before long it rang again. This time she answered it. She was standing so close to me that, though she murmured, I could here every word. She tells the caller she is on her way home and will be there in ten minutes.
The 4 young guys have hardly noticed her conversation, but the Moslem gentleman is a little embarrassed, he strokes his bald-head and puts a blank expression on his face.
The woman is still talking softy. Listening and then answering with short sentences. They seem to be discussing a weekend holiday. She asks if someone will be joining them and mentions a name that I recognise. Putting that detail together with some other things that I had overheard, I realise to my surprise that she must be talking to an old friend of mine who I haven’t seen for more than a year.
Presently she begins to laugh, her cheeks colour a little. She says she has to go and ends the call. After two more stops she gets off the tram and I watch her disappear around the corner of the bank at Rijnstraat.
Recently I was returning from a business trip in Cologne. On this occasion, I had been quite successful. The correct balance of compassion and inane conversation had brought about a favourably profitable result and its concomitant nausea.
As I made my way out of the crowded Central Station in a sort of a daydream, I narrowly missed catching the Number 20 tram, which would have brought me within a block of my apartment. So feeling like I could do with the exercise, I decided to walk.
Pulling my small suitcase and picking my route in an absent-minded fashion, I was surprised to look up and find myself in a small isolated part of the red-light district. A beautiful black woman gestured to me from a window and made a bird-like movement with her fingers, indicating she wished to talk to me. I pressed on home giving her a smile.
With a small start I realised that my bag contained a large amount of cash, from which the payment for such a service would barely be noticed. Nevertheless I continued home.
On arrival I showered and unpacked my bag and then, with growing excitement, resolved to return to the red light area. There I would hopefully still find the beautiful black women and, in her company, obliterate the insipid features of those previous few days.
The white lace of her underwear revealed a perfectly rounded young body. She led me to the darkened interior and there, amidst the din of West African music, we discussed the rate. Once that was agreed and I had paid, she asked my name and where I was from. As she removed her underwear and jewellery, she told me her name was Sarah and she was from Sierra Leone. I asked for the music to be turned down.
Somewhat tired from my day’s journey, it was at first pleasant to lie in her arms, touching her round cheekbones and kissing her firm young breasts. She told me she was 24. I noticed that her hands were hard and leathery and she said that before coming to Amsterdam she had been working on a tomato farm in Africa.
When eventually I moved inside her, she responded naturally, without excessive pleasure or professional words and this excited me. As my frenzy increased, she slapped me gently and said with a gasp that I was making her tired and please not to hurt her.
Presently however, I was completely worn out. Realising that I would not find the climax I was hoping for, I gave up and removed the condom and began to masturbate beside her. We agreed that I would come on my stomach. She lay next to me, caressing my legs and laughing now and then and, after what must have been 20 minutes, I finally came. With a whoop of joy, she leapt from the bed and turned on the light. My face was covered with perspiration.
Her laughter died and her face became dark as we both realised I had shot some small drops of sperm onto her bedspread. I did my best to clean it up, but the casual intimacy was suddenly gone. She began to prepare herself for the window once more. As I dressed she sat on the toilet and washed her sex with a mug of water.
I felt humiliated by the grotesqueness of my exertion and the small mess I had made on her bed. She bade me goodbye impatiently and I went out into the street, dazed and suddenly quite depressed.
On another day I remember I was travelling in the direction of Slotermeer. I remember I was busy reading a novel set in the French Revolution. One by one all the great heroines and heroes were dying. Robespierre would be one of the last to go.
As the tram moved down Jan van Galenstraat, a small, plump Chinese women sat down next to me. A younger Chinese girl of about 15 or 16, who must have been her daughter, sat down half on her lap, hugging her arms around the woman’s shoulders. The mother looked very tired and breathed heavily. And though it was cold outside her face was damp as if with a fever. Her daughter stroked her head and whispered soothing words in her ear. I continued to read my book but could not help being moved by this scene next to me. The mother scarcely saying a word, and the daughter kissing her cheek softly and stroking her hair and her shoulders. It was a curious reversal of roles from what I was familiar with, with my own daughter.
When they got off the tram and I watched them moving away slowly down – straat. For some reason there presence had calmed me greatly
