Dear diary,
So many crazy things have happened lately. I’ve escaped death in a car accident, I’ve been pulled over for a drug search by the cops, Pewter crapped all over the floor during a dinner party… somebody up there just wants to make my life miserable. But it’s a challenge I’m willing to face.
Even after mentioning all these abnormal things, I still haven’t written about the weirdest thing of all. I’m telling you, dear diary, I’ve seen and heard a lot of strange things in my life (especially with Cookie nearby), but what happened last weekend actually blew the piehole. Nadia and I dropped off Pewter at her mother’s for the weekend because we had booked a trip to Amsterdam, the Netherlands. In comparison to the Big Apple (or even Manhattan itself), Amsterdam is a small city. You’d think that things would be normal there. Well, no.
Oh, diary! On the final evening of our visit, Nadia and I visited ‘Felix en Sofie’, a philosophical café. The beer was lousy and there were a couple of speakers with nothing interesting to say. On top of it all, they spoke in Dutch. I don’t understand a single word of Dutch. But then again, Nadia wanted to see the ‘café’ (I guess ‘bar’ doesn’t sound sophisticated enough), so I indulged her desire and accompanied her. While Nadia carefully listened to what the people on stage had to say (dictionary in hand), my attention was directed towards the bar. There, a worn-out young Dutch man with long black hair, face full of pimples, cheap glasses and equally cheap clothes was talking to a fellow American.
I tried to listen in on their conversation, but you know the Dutch. Actually, you don’t. You’re just a stupid old book full of hopeless ramblings collected for my children to laugh at when I’m dead and gone. I fucking hate you.
Anyway. The weird, crater-faced man turned out to be called Howard Frisco. What on earth is that? Some kind of ice coffee? Speaking of which, the American next to the pimple-faced Howard was drinking one. The guy was really fat, not the type to drink ice coffee (or, ‘café fresco’ as they call it here. What for? It’s just goddamn ice coffee). Fat American was drinking a ‘café fresco’ and Howard Frisco was drinking beer. When I saw the two sitting there, sipping their drinks, it came to mind that they were the two most unlikely people to come across in an establishment like this.
The weirdest thing of the entire night, dear diary, happened when I briefly directed my attention to Nadia, who bravely tried to mingle in the discussion on stage (with dictionary in hand). I felt I had to support my wife in a situation like this. Because I couldn’t think of anything decent to say in Dutch (as a matter of fact, I couldn’t think of anything to say in Dutch), I just threw a ‘fuck you’ at the guy on stage and turned back to the bar. I don’t know what happened, but Fat was on the brink of exploding at Howard, who was sitting on his bar stool like a bag of watery potatoes, sipping beer. The climax followed a few seconds later, when Fat threw his ‘café fresco’ at the bartender and ran out of the ‘café’, crying. Howard sat there like nothing had happend and seemed vaguely aware of his surroundings. When he saw me staring at him like an idiot, he just shrugged and tended to his beer.
Dear diary, I’ll probably never know what truly happened that night. Now I’m back in Manhattan, writing this entry in a crappy notebook full of memories from a youth long gone by instead. On a side note, I hear Pewter moaning from the bathroom. He’s probably gotten himself stuck again in the toilet. I’d better go pull him out.
I guess we all have our own Howard Frisco’s around us.
Sincerely yours and until next time,
Eugene.