Post Number 2: Two short stories from today.
Story #1: A Case of Mistaken Identity.
So today after work, I take the Number 1 tram to the Spui (sounds kinda like spy) stop to drop off some rolls of slide film at the photoshop. It's nice out, so I decide to walk the rest of the way (about a 35 minute walk). About ten minutes into my walk, I'm stopped at an intersection, waiting for the "OK to cross" signal. I take my glasses off to clean a smudge on the left lens, lower interior. A tenacious smudge it was. I sense someone walking from my left quickly.
"Is it you?" he asks in English. Sounds German(?).
"Excuse me?" I take out my headphones.
"It is you! Can I haff your ow-to-graph?"
"Ummm..."
"You are not Rhett Miller?"
"Uh, No-oo."
"Are you sure?"
"Uh, Ye-ahhhh."
"Gotdammit. I swore it was you. Or, Rhett."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"It is ok. I haff to admit, I am a little on drugs right now."
"Sweet. Take care, buddy."
[Rhett Miller is an American singer/songwriter that used to sing for Old 97s, but now is a solo artist. By the way, I look NOTHING like him. He can be quite pretty, I would say. Maybe it's the hair? I dunno. My hair is starting to get longer, but it's not quite Mr. Miller's Mane.]
[I tried searching for pictures where we look remotely alike, and, alas, I have failed you all.]
-------------------------
Story #2: "Playing poker" with a beggar.
Continuing on my walk home, I walk through the Leidseplein, past Holland Casino Amsterdam, and onto the Vondelstraat. I've been walking the Vondelstraat more and more as opposed to the Vondelpark or the Overtoom. (Vondelpark is the big park near my place, Vondelstraat is the narrow-ish street just north of the park, and the Overtoom is the main road just north of the Vondelstraat.) I cross the only major intersection on the way, where trams, cars, bikes, motorbikes, and people are all heading in different directions. I see a man with a large backpack and a curiously small map across the street. As I continue on my way, approaching where he is standing, studying the map, he stops me.
"Do you speak English?" he asks. He's a Brit, about 5'9", hasn't shaved in I'd say a week, wiry blonde hair. His clothes are a little dirty, and he has a recent scratch on his nose. He doesn't look like your average beggar or drug addict. Just kinda dirty, like he's been out for at least a few days straight.
My gut tells me nothing's wrong here, so I reply (with a fake Dutch accent thrown over, just in case he's trying to target tourists for something):
"Hi. What can I do for you?"
"Oh Jesus, thank you. You know, you're the first one who's actually answered me both civilly and in English." He's speaking quite clearly, still clutching the little map. "Anyway, I don't want to take up too much of your time; I'm sure you're busy."
I'm expecting him to ask me for directions. Wouldn't be the first time someone's asked for directions - happens prolly twice or thrice a week-ish.
"So this is where I'd like to go," he points into the tiny map as I recognize in my head that, ok, that's in the red light district... "Now, I already know where it is and how to get there-"
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhso. Money.
"-so if you could just hear me out." Yep, he wants money. He gulps and clears his throat. He's nervous but trying to not appear so. I still feel ok about the whole thing, so I don't cut him off right there. We're in broad daylight and there are lots of people walking by. "You see, I've been here 11 days-"
Hoods his eyes. (Meaning, the eye lids close and hang down for a bit longer than they should) He's getting ready to lie. Bluff, if you will.
"-right now, I admit, I do look like a bum." He said that confidently. There's no lie there. "But I'm heading home in just over a day, and I really need a safe place to sleep-" Ahh, he hoods again and runs his hand over his cheek and covers his mouth for a brief moment. He's lying and displaying self-pacivating behavior, calming himself.
"-and this hostel is 20 euro a night," he points into the little map again and raises himself up a bit on his toes, making himself look a bit taller and more upright. His blinking rate starts to increase dramatically. "-and so far i've only been able to get 4-" his neck starts turning slightly more pinkish, and his Adam's apple moves up and down as he swallows again. He's getting ready for the big punchline, and he's nervous a bit - will he be able to make the score?
"-Can you help me out at all? I really don't want to go home looking like this." He hoods a third time and I can see his pulse in his neck as he awaits my decision - am I going to let him take down the pot (that's a clever pun, btw), or call his bluff?
"I'm sorry, but I can't give you any money," I say in my fake accent, after letting him finish his spiel. He's disappointed, as he looks downward and his body relaxes - that's a good sign, since it means that he's much less likely to try anything stupid if he's immediately calmed down.
"Oh well, thanks anyway." he says as he turns to walk the other way down the Vondelstraat toward the Stadhouderskade and the Leidseplein.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, as I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a small bag of pistachios. I toss them over to him. "Maybe these will keep you going until you find what you're looking for."
"Oh. Cheers." He smiles a bit and walks off with a little spring to his step.
No way in hell was I going to give him money to use for something that prolly didn't include a safe place to sleep.
He asked if I could help, and I could, just not how he wanted. It still counts, in my book.
Who won the hand? I'm not sure. But if there's one thing I've learned from a lifetime of playing games, it's this: if you find out what someone wants you to do, and you do the opposite, you're usually much better off than they are. Here, I'm not so sure that applies. He didn't get what he wanted, and I was out some tasty pistachios. He got said pistachio nuts, and I had fun with a little mind game. Zero-sum for the hand, I guess. Chop-chop.
But I'm not the one who's short stacked.
So today after work, I take the Number 1 tram to the Spui (sounds kinda like spy) stop to drop off some rolls of slide film at the photoshop. It's nice out, so I decide to walk the rest of the way (about a 35 minute walk). About ten minutes into my walk, I'm stopped at an intersection, waiting for the "OK to cross" signal. I take my glasses off to clean a smudge on the left lens, lower interior. A tenacious smudge it was. I sense someone walking from my left quickly.
"Is it you?" he asks in English. Sounds German(?).
"Excuse me?" I take out my headphones.
"It is you! Can I haff your ow-to-graph?"
"Ummm..."
"You are not Rhett Miller?"
"Uh, No-oo."
"Are you sure?"
"Uh, Ye-ahhhh."
"Gotdammit. I swore it was you. Or, Rhett."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"It is ok. I haff to admit, I am a little on drugs right now."
"Sweet. Take care, buddy."
[Rhett Miller is an American singer/songwriter that used to sing for Old 97s, but now is a solo artist. By the way, I look NOTHING like him. He can be quite pretty, I would say. Maybe it's the hair? I dunno. My hair is starting to get longer, but it's not quite Mr. Miller's Mane.]
[I tried searching for pictures where we look remotely alike, and, alas, I have failed you all.]
-------------------------
Story #2: "Playing poker" with a beggar.
Continuing on my walk home, I walk through the Leidseplein, past Holland Casino Amsterdam, and onto the Vondelstraat. I've been walking the Vondelstraat more and more as opposed to the Vondelpark or the Overtoom. (Vondelpark is the big park near my place, Vondelstraat is the narrow-ish street just north of the park, and the Overtoom is the main road just north of the Vondelstraat.) I cross the only major intersection on the way, where trams, cars, bikes, motorbikes, and people are all heading in different directions. I see a man with a large backpack and a curiously small map across the street. As I continue on my way, approaching where he is standing, studying the map, he stops me.
"Do you speak English?" he asks. He's a Brit, about 5'9", hasn't shaved in I'd say a week, wiry blonde hair. His clothes are a little dirty, and he has a recent scratch on his nose. He doesn't look like your average beggar or drug addict. Just kinda dirty, like he's been out for at least a few days straight.
My gut tells me nothing's wrong here, so I reply (with a fake Dutch accent thrown over, just in case he's trying to target tourists for something):
"Hi. What can I do for you?"
"Oh Jesus, thank you. You know, you're the first one who's actually answered me both civilly and in English." He's speaking quite clearly, still clutching the little map. "Anyway, I don't want to take up too much of your time; I'm sure you're busy."
I'm expecting him to ask me for directions. Wouldn't be the first time someone's asked for directions - happens prolly twice or thrice a week-ish.
"So this is where I'd like to go," he points into the tiny map as I recognize in my head that, ok, that's in the red light district... "Now, I already know where it is and how to get there-"
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhso. Money.
"-so if you could just hear me out." Yep, he wants money. He gulps and clears his throat. He's nervous but trying to not appear so. I still feel ok about the whole thing, so I don't cut him off right there. We're in broad daylight and there are lots of people walking by. "You see, I've been here 11 days-"
Hoods his eyes. (Meaning, the eye lids close and hang down for a bit longer than they should) He's getting ready to lie. Bluff, if you will.
"-right now, I admit, I do look like a bum." He said that confidently. There's no lie there. "But I'm heading home in just over a day, and I really need a safe place to sleep-" Ahh, he hoods again and runs his hand over his cheek and covers his mouth for a brief moment. He's lying and displaying self-pacivating behavior, calming himself.
"-and this hostel is 20 euro a night," he points into the little map again and raises himself up a bit on his toes, making himself look a bit taller and more upright. His blinking rate starts to increase dramatically. "-and so far i've only been able to get 4-" his neck starts turning slightly more pinkish, and his Adam's apple moves up and down as he swallows again. He's getting ready for the big punchline, and he's nervous a bit - will he be able to make the score?
"-Can you help me out at all? I really don't want to go home looking like this." He hoods a third time and I can see his pulse in his neck as he awaits my decision - am I going to let him take down the pot (that's a clever pun, btw), or call his bluff?
"I'm sorry, but I can't give you any money," I say in my fake accent, after letting him finish his spiel. He's disappointed, as he looks downward and his body relaxes - that's a good sign, since it means that he's much less likely to try anything stupid if he's immediately calmed down.
"Oh well, thanks anyway." he says as he turns to walk the other way down the Vondelstraat toward the Stadhouderskade and the Leidseplein.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, as I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a small bag of pistachios. I toss them over to him. "Maybe these will keep you going until you find what you're looking for."
"Oh. Cheers." He smiles a bit and walks off with a little spring to his step.
No way in hell was I going to give him money to use for something that prolly didn't include a safe place to sleep.
He asked if I could help, and I could, just not how he wanted. It still counts, in my book.
Who won the hand? I'm not sure. But if there's one thing I've learned from a lifetime of playing games, it's this: if you find out what someone wants you to do, and you do the opposite, you're usually much better off than they are. Here, I'm not so sure that applies. He didn't get what he wanted, and I was out some tasty pistachios. He got said pistachio nuts, and I had fun with a little mind game. Zero-sum for the hand, I guess. Chop-chop.
But I'm not the one who's short stacked.
posted by mpc at 3:05 PM
2 Comments:
chip 'n a chair. all ya need is a chip 'n a chair...
amazing stories dude.
also, if you think beardier is gross as an adjective, imagine it as an archaic name for a profession, such as a cooper, or a milliner. Although it does beg the question of what exactly the Olde Tyme Beardier would do.
yo dogg, where u at? i miss the regular updates, but not like i'm one to talk.
holla.
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