People walking with determination. A purpose. Somewhere to
be.
I’ve reached my destination. My only purpose to be where I
am.
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his uniform for the past 50 years, has been replaced by a startlingly pink one.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
