Tuesday, April 18, 2023

View from a sidewalk café. Amsterdam. (Part 3)

People walking with determination. A purpose. Somewhere to be.

I’ve reached my destination. My only purpose to be where I am.

Amsterdam Cafe - Scott Frothingham

The banker is on vacation. The starched white shirt, part of his uniform for the past 50 years, has been replaced by a startlingly pink one. His companion, toting a large treasure-filled shopping bag from Lacoste is wearing fluorescent green. No doubt she selected her partner’s shirt.

They wear their fanny packs across their chests like bandoleros. Two urban commandos ready to deal with any cold Heinekens that offer resistance.

With each step, the bulldog’s tongue flops to the other side of its broad mouth like a slobber-coated pink metronome. Almost as if it’s attached to its front feet.

Her hair color doesn’t exist in the natural world. Her shirt matches it exactly. Exactly. Which came first? Did she buy a few dozen shirts so she could pull off the look every day?

The notes of a lone saxophone drift through the bustle of Dam Square. The haunting tune more suited to a dark alley in a 1940s film noir.

Twins. Petite blonds with perfectly matching faces. Upturned noses and an odd arch to their right eyebrows. In this flowing river of unique faces, it seems impossible that two humans could be such exact replicas of each other.

Going totally limp. The last resort for getting attention when whining and screaming fail. In a practiced move mom lets go of the hand and scoops up the boneless child. Moving the shrieks from knee level to ear level but not hindering forward progress.

It’s a witch’s broom with long grey sticks lashed to a wooden pole. It doesn’t look like something from this century or the last. Yet it’s standard issue for the workers in orange jump suits sweeping litter into the demanding brushes of the following street cleaning machine.

Crop top. Chiseled 6-pack. Enormous stroopwaffle disappearing in aggressive bites. Cheat day.

With white hair and grizzled jowls, this pair is far too old for the matching black caps embroidered with the lips/tongue logo. The Stones are for cool, rebellious youth like me. I’m probably the same age as these two ancients… not as old as Mick Jagger, though. My self-image is not aligned with the reality of my time spent on this planet.

He walks with a purposeful stride that makes the leather combat boots seem lighter than I assume they are. His kilt swings and his sporran bounces in coordination with his steps. “What does a Scot wear under his kilt?” Given the rough khaki fabric, I would suggest something soft and thick. Maybe cotton. To limit chafing and sporran bounce fatigue.

Next to me, a game of solitaire with well-worn playing cards keeps the smoking man’s attention away from the parade of life that has captured mine.


_________________________


View from a sidewalk cafe. Amsterdam
Part 2



No comments:

Post a Comment

You should be fired.

The first time I got fired, I took it hard... it took me some time to open my eyes and see that my family still loved me and I still had all...