I swung around with my elbow high and nearly hit the guy in the face.
He was a youngish guy, maybe thirty or so, with a nice tan. His hair was cut very short and his tee shirt said, “Yankees Suck.”
“You okay?” he said, following me to the locker.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Your American.”
“I’m American,” he said. “True story.”
American military, actually. Stationed somewhere in Italy. Came to Amsterdam for leave, he told me later.
I came to locker 205. I had left the key in there, but I had also closed it, so to anybody with a thievery on the mind would have thought it was just another vacant locker. I opened it. Inside was a small black cell phone. I couldn’t wait to get someplace quiet and go through the phone’s memory. Call logs, message logs, stored phone numbers and addresses.
“Did you get everything back?” he said, eyeballing my phone.
“From that troll? Yeah, he only took my bag.” The phone was setup in English, but I quickly discovered its contents were empty. It was either a brand new phone or one that had been wiped clean. I supposed I was meant to wait for it to ring. I made sure the ring was on and the phone was set to vibrate as well, and I put in my front pocket.
“You might want to double-check your stuff,” the American said. “Sometimes they steal from what they’ve stolen in case people actually give them a run.”
I knelt down and zipped the bag open. “Shit,” I said. “My sneakers. I bought a pair of Nike’s, which I never do because I’m not exactly a marathon man. Shit.”
“If you want I’ll take you to your hotel. Make sure you get there all right.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m fine.” I said. “I’ll just get a cab. It’s not like he took the sneakers off my feet. You don’t need to be wasting your time or anything.”
“I have nothing better to do,” he said. “I mean, right this second I don’t.”
“Well, I could use some directions,” I said. “I’m still acclimating to the sights and sounds of the city.”
Specialist Gryph offered to take me through the famed Red Light District before we caught the bus to my hotel. I said my interest was very low, but he assured me it was on our way. I was surprised how busy and bustling Amsterdam was – considering it was January. Not exactly the high season. But there were certainly plenty of people – both residents and tourists. So I presumed. It was nice to have a guide, but Gryph was a speed walker. I wanted to soak it all in but my mind couldn’t keep up. Every sign stole more attention than they had any right to. Something about the combinations of familiar corporate logos with a smattering of English words and non-familiar logos with completely familiar English phrases made me feel like I had been transported to some alternate reality. Coca Cola verfrist U het best. Sapphr – Dress to Impress. The connection between my eyes and my brain seemed horribly outdated.
At one point Gryph had to grab me by the waist and pull me onto the sidewalk to avoid getting run over by a bus with an interesting advertisement for American Express – I don’t remember the words but the photograph was of a funeral and the coffin was shaped like an owl.
When we crossed into the Red Light District Gryph was busy pointing out some landmarks I should’ve been paying closer attention to, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off the infamous windows with women for rent. Think of the streets in Amsterdam like stacks of letter Hs. The parallel sides of the H are the sidewalks, the empty space between is the canal, and the horizontal bar is the bridge. The further we walked down the sidewalk and the further refined and well kept were the buildings, the windows, and even the women.
I had to take a picture.
I didn’t know this was such a faux pas. Gryph certainly didn’t mention it. And I felt a hint that snapping a photo was a bad idea, and I would’ve done it quickly and covertly had this not been the first time I used my new camera. My new digital camera – the one that emptied my savings account – the only savings account I really ever had. Gryph was pointing out a building that looked like it was a reflection of a building in water (I’ll have to go back later to see for myself, as a matter of fact) when he saw Seamus.
Just as I pressed the shutter button, he yelled, “There’s the bastard!”
And he took off running. Seamus had been talking to some kids and holding the pair of Nike’s, and he bolted when he saw Gryph sprinting towards him.
I took the camera down from my face, but couldn’t see where they went so I looked back in the viewfinder.
“Pardon,” somebody said.
I turned and my viewfinder went dark. A big Dutch man with peroxide blonde spikes and orange skin ripped the camera out of my hands and threw it in the canal.
“Shit,” I said. “I would’ve deleted the stupid picture if you wanted.”
“No photos,” he said, receding back against the building.
“Believe me,” I said, “I have no interest in that.” I pointed to the window. The girl scrunched up her face and whacked on the window. The big man crossed his arms. Nobody seemed to think this was a big deal but me. A few tourists looked their noses down at me from behind their maps and guidebooks, as if to say, “You should really have known better.” As their own cameras dangled from their wrists and necks, of course.
I completely lost Gryph and Seamus. The last I saw them in the view finder they turned onto a bridge and disappeared down a side street, but they all looked the same. At least to me, they did. The side streets and the corners. I heard the sound of a small bell and I turned just in time to spot something moving at me to sidestep out of the way. A tall woman on a pink ten-speed bike smiled at me and rolled her eyes back toward tall, blonde, and orange.
Okay, I thought, so I’m not the only one who thinks that man is ridiculous.
I walked in the direction I thought Gryph ran, but I kept a slow pace in case he came back to look for me. Which was far-fetched. He had no obligation to me. What did he care, really? I tried enjoying the sights and sounds and smells but I hadn’t been on the ground for two hours and my sneakers had been stolen, my camera had been tossed into the canal, and I had already made and lost a friend. I wasn’t in the mood somehow.
I wondered, how many cameras were at the bottom of this one canal?
And just as I was at the bottom of the self-pity barrel, my luck began to change.
