Chapter vii

I wake up to a splitting headache to a black ceiling illuminated only by a sliver of red-yellow light drawn across the ceiling and down the wall as if to say "look down".  The idea perhaps birthed earlier in the trip when arriving at this post-modern aristocracy where large arrow lead here, larger arrows lead there, and everything leads to the bed. It was like sleeping in a brown marshmallow crosswalk.

Still, I did as instructed and followed the line to see the clumps of... people? animals? items of clothing we will perhaps steal for ourselves?  Most likely the latter.  HOPEFULLY the latter.

What disturbs me most about my current situation is my lack of memory about how many people are in the room, what drugs they might be recovering from, where my best friend is located, and what day is it. We are suppose leave on Saturday.  Right? Maybe. I need internet.

I reach over the warm body next to me and grab the last cigarette in the mangled box and instinctively pulled a lighter out of my pocket at the same time.  And obviously I slept in my clothes.  Good to know.  I lit the cigarette and briefly revealed the disgruntled remains of an orgiastic tempest from the streets of... from the alleys of... from over the skyline of...

... Amsterdam, I think. ... from across the canals of Amsterdam and into room 217 of this muted road sign quagmire of a trendy hotel set off Rembrandt Square. I'm pretty sure my best friend is laying face down in the next bed with a person... scratch that, with people - muscular people draped across him like horses who have passed out from exhaustion after crossing the desert, even after consuming the contents of the mini bar for nourishment.  The bill of that will not be disclosed. 

Efforts to rouse Jeb went unrewarded. "Go the fuck back to sleep, it's still dark" was the recording I reached.  We were on a deadline and I could not be so easily dismissed.  This is not going according to plan.  But then again, being in Amsterdam seemed to be a slight bit off plan itself.  As a hungover plus American ecstatic about passing out in Amsterdam and not waking up in metal cuffs bound to the wall or lethargic in a bathtub filled with ice, I was trading such exhalation for anxiousness to get to our destination... the exact time and location of which eludes me at the moment.  As does my pants.

"Jeb, if we don't leave now, we're going to miss our flight and be stuck here for another 24 hours."

Pause.  Head lift. "And the problem with that is...?"

"The problem is that we don't have the time for this.  You made an agreement and I have to get you to your place on time instead of hopping flights to have orgies in... Amsterdam, I think."  I'm still not sure. But never let uncertainty stand in the way of a good oratic moment.

"You think 'Amsterdam' or you think 'orgies'?"

"Both. Neither. Okay, I'm not sure.  I'm pretty sure about the orgies. I'm only so/so about the Amsterdam part."

"And what made you think we might be in Amsterdam?"

I reluctantly ashed my cigarette and pointed to the man in my bed.  "I'm pretty sure that's my dealer from the last time I was here."

"Oh my.  He is cute.  Can I blow him while he's sleeping?"

"Clothes. NOW."

Jeb tossed a pillow hard to the unknown naked guy in the bed from which I was raised, not yet sure if I should be proud or ashamed of the person that still could not easily be seen.  "Hey!" Jeb proclaimed unusually loud for a small hotel or an American football game. "What city are we in?"

The curly blonde cutie (I am proud) turned over and laughed out "U bent in Amsterdam! Kleine stad, geweldig hart en een zee van pik en patter!"

I shook my head, "I don't even know what that means. I just got 'Amsterdam'."

"Well, I certainly understood the 'dick' part..." He giggled.  He then started to look about, as if there was something to be observed in the near black cube we were in.  "Where is the cocaine?" he asked very nonchalantly.

I couldn't help myself. "The cocaine in this country is both a shame and an embarrassment. I can't even believe this is acceptable to you."

Jeb was less indignant.  "Okay. Well, I for one could use a little coke."

"No!  Come on." Pause. "CLOTHES!"

Briskly walking through Schiphol Airport didn't seem to help matters.  I was lost and confused, and I had Jeb lagging behind doing his Jim Morrison impression, "Lighten up, Man... you just need to do a little acid."

"No. We tried that. We ended up closing down Central Station for 3 hours, a pimp has a bounty on your head, and a bunch of old Romanians think I'm Pablo Montero. No, we are not doing any more acid."

I put out my cigarette as I heard the Dutch men in tight grey slacks run up behind us screaming how there is no smoking in the airport. "Watch your step" came drifting from above the large yellow fingers displaying gate numbers, none of which were ours.  This was becoming a pain.

It took several more discussions with "Jim" and a stern talking to by security before we were allowed to board a plane to nowhere going everywhere and running an hour late.

"Jamesy, there is no real reason to stress.  You are way to serious.  Learn to relax."

"I will relax once we are on the ground to where we are on the ground in _________ and once all the tests come back negative."

"Negative..." Jeb trailed off outside the window to a place of white clouds and sun. "Those were the days."  His inflection smelled of a lukewarm off brand vodka.  I didn't have any response. I keep busy so I am not burdened with the efforts of a genuine response, just a sarcastic quip which will distract everyone enough to allow me to internally collect myself to continue the conversation.  This was a pattern of mine, and it worked with everyone in the world except one person.

"I like that shirt.  I don't remember you having that."

"Oh this?"  I giggled to myself.  "I found it on the floor.  It fit so well, you know?"

"I put what was left of the coke in your back pocket."

"What?!  God dammit!"