AMSTERDAM or: SHORTY by James Francis Flynn


Amsterdam. I’m at a hostel called “The Shelter”. It’s situated in the Red Light District, with windows overlooking hookers and drug-pushers whispering “cocaine, ecstasy, marijuana”. The hostel is run by deeply devote Christians -- neon blue and purple signs declare JESUS LOVES YOU from nearly every wall. The owners hold Bible study sessions in the morning before kicking patrons out to clean. Curfew and lock-out is at 22:30 and lights out is soon after.

I don’t know why I’m here. I should be at The Flying Pig. Some other backpackers at the train station told me they have a big-screen TV there and an all-night lounge where you can smoke weed 24/7. Instead, I’m stuck in an 18-person room, unable to sleep before midnight. I’m laying in bed, imagining traveling with my girlfriend, wondering what it would be like to have sex in a dirty hostel bed, trying to be quiet enough not to wake up the other people in the room.

I get up and walk the long walk to the lobby. There’s a desk there with a night manager, plus a couple of chairs, a couch and a vending machine. Most vending machines here have beer. Not this one. Water and Fanta. A beer would help me sleep.

The manager looks startled as I enter. He says, “Oh!” and fumbles with his computer a bit, clicking on his mouse several times and shuffling papers on his desk. He looks up at me sheepishly.

“Can I sit here?” I ask. His left arm is still resting on the mouse nervously.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he says in British-accented English. He glances about, left to right, left to right, scanning my face.

“I know, I just...”

“So?...”

“Look, I’ve got jet lag, bad.”

He rolls his eyes at me.

“I can’t sleep,” I say. “Can’t I just sit here and read?”

“Ugh,” he says. He’s annoyed. “Sit out in the hallway, mate. Where the phone is.”

“Thanks,” I say. He doesn’t reply. He watches me go, and as I peek back to look, I see him glance from me down to his computer, the blue glow of screen reflecting off his fat face.

* * *

I go out to the hallway. There’s a little nook there, set off from everything else. It isn’t carpeted like the rest of the hallway, and is instead bare floor. The nook has two phones -- an old one you can operate only by coin, and a newer one you can operate only by rechargeable cards bought from tobacco stores or certain coffee shops.

I sit under both phones (they’re right next to each other) and get dust on my butt. I open my book: stories by Chekov. I’m right in the middle of “The Lady with the Little Dog”.

After a few minutes, a guy walks down the steps, along the long hallway, and comes towards me. I recognize him. He’s got short, cropped blonde hair, a goatee, glasses. He’s slim but well-built -- he might be a Marine.

He says “hi” because we live in the same room, but I only nod back. I don’t like him. The other night I was napping and dreaming about my girlfriend. Flashes, impressions: red head-hair in a sweaty tangle, rapid thigh muscle movements, loose lips over my own. He woke me up, loudly complaining:

“Chores? The fuck? We have to do chores? I’m not in sixth grade anymore, dude!”

Its true -- staying at this hostel requires one to do chores. You do dishes, sweep the floors, take care of some laundry. Its not a big deal, it takes only about an hour, and if they didn’t do it that way, the cost for a bed for the night would be more like 25 euro rather than 16.

And when I went across the street early last evening to watch the Greece vs. France Euro Cup game, he was there. He saw me, said: “Hey man, how’s it going?” Fellow travelers are friendly like this.

“Fine,” I said, and ordered a Heineken at the bar.

“Want some smoke?” he asked. He hit his joint, passed it pinch-fingered to me.

“No, its cool,” I declined, waving him off.

“What’s your name again?” he asked.

“Seth,” I say.

“That’s right...and where you from again?”

Fuck. Small talk is bad enough any time, but even more so from a stoner in Amsterdam -- these dudes don’t remember shit and you’re doomed to repeat the process soon. So I drank my beer looking at the TV until he quit questioning me and went away.

* * *

“Yeah, you’re Seth, right?” he asked. I look up from my book.

“Yeah,” I say. “What’s up, man?” I don’t address him by name because I forget his name. Andy, maybe. Or Randy. I don’t know.

“Fuck, man,” he says. “I wish I would have known someone else was up.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, lowering his voice and leaning in, “I just smoked a fucking whole joint in the bathroom by myself.”

“Jesus,” I say. What else is there to say?

“Yeah, man! I fucking love this town!”

“That’s kinda risky, don’t you think?” I ask.

“What?”

“Smoking a joint around all these Christians...”

“Oh. Ah, whatever,” he says. “Fuck these guys, you know? I don’t give a fuck if they kick me out. I should be at The Flying Pig anyway. This place sucks anyway. Fucking chores and shit, can you believe it?”

Oh God, here he goes again. I brace myself for the rant. It doesn’t come. Instead, he just licks his lips because of cotton-mouth and looks for me to agree: he’s standing there, letting his last word hang.

“Yeah,” I say, and he smiles.

* * *

“Were you gonna?...” he asks, and points over my head to the phones.

“Oh. No,” I say, and scoot out from the under them, dragging my book along the ground with me.

He steps up, puts a coin in the phone on the left that still takes coins.

“I can’t deal with this phone-card shit,” he says to me, looking down.

“Yeah.”

“Gotta go to a fucking tobacco store for it.”

“Yeah.”

“What sense does that make?”

“Dunno.”

“I don’t even smoke!” he says.

“Me neither.”

“Why can’t they just keep it like before? Its change -- its simple.”

“I hear ya.”

He dials. He waits, changes the earpiece from the right ear to the left ear. He taps his fingers in anticipation.

“Hey Dad...yeah...how’s it going...oh, I’m in Amsterdam...”

I try not to listen to him talk, but I can’t help it. I try to imagine what his father says on the other end of the line, but all I can hear is R/Andy go on and on:

“...Oh yeah, its great here...yeah...yeah...yeah, I’m at this Christian hostel here...yeah, its cool...no, no problems...well, they make you do chores, but its no big deal...”

Liar.

“Well, yeah, I got in two days ago...no...no, its been real laid back...yeah...no, I went to the Van Gogh museum yesterday, and the -- to the Anne Frank house today...yeah, mostly...huh?...no, yeah, mostly museums...”

Lying again. He’s been at coffeeshops and bars the whole time. I know because I’ve seen him; somehow we go to the same ones.

“...Yeah, well Dad...Dad, yeah...Dad, I gotta go...no, I gotta go, its almost 1AM here, so...yeah, and I’m gonna go to sleep now...well, its a long day tomorrow -- I’m going on a bike tour, and to another museum and...what?...oh, the one with all the Dutch masters stuff...yeah, I forgot what its called...anyway, yeah...yeah, its busy. The days are packed...yeah, I will...Yeah, well, I just wanted to say Happy Father’s Day, Dad...”

I think of my own father. I imagine him back in the States, alone at home. He’s probably down in the den, sitting in his favorite plaid brown chair, watching whatever news is on, drinking Diet Coke. I should call him.

* * *

He hangs up by placing two fingers down on the receiver lever, the phone still in his hand. He’s making another call. He puts more coins in the slot, fumbling a bit. He waits again, tapping his foot this time.

“Hey, Shorty,” he says. Who’s Shorty?

“...yeah, how you doing?...oh good...good. I was just calling -- I was calling just to say hi. Thought I’d say hi...see if you been having fun...oh you did, huh? How was that?...yeah, well, I know how much your mom likes shopping, Shorty...yeah...what else have you been doing?...Uh huh...uh huh...yeah...yeah, well that sounds like fun, Shorty.”

Is this girl his girlfriend? Why the fuck does he call her Shorty? I try to get back to my book, but I’m enthralled.

He’s still talking: “...well, I just hope you’re having fun, Shorty...me? Oh, I’m having tons of fun, Shorty -- you know me...yeah, well, its crazy here...yeah, just earlier today some guys from the hostel and I went out to the Red Light District. We passed by one of these sex shops, and one of the guys wanted to go in, so we went. It was a banana show...What?...Oh, you don’t know? Its when the girl like uses her pussy to open up a banana, then puts the banana in her pussy. Nobody else wanted to eat it, but I ate some...Shorty, come on...Shorty, its no big deal...”

Its no big deal, telling your girlfriend you ate a banana out of some other woman. What the fuck is this guy thinking? I would never tell my girlfriend that I did that.

“...No, Shorty, I’ve been good...No, I’ve been good...No, I haven’t...I haven’t gotten laid in two weeks, Shorty, you know that...well, there was a girl in the hostel that I went out with the other night. We made out, but nothing happened with it...No...well, she wanted to do a threesome with me and some other guy, so I said no...Well, Shorty, I told you before...No, I told you before. I’m not trying to find anyone here, but if I meet someone and we hit it off for a bit, I’m not saying I’m not going to sleep with them...No, I told you that, Shorty...Shorty, you can do whatever you want, I’m not your Dad...”

This guy is incredible.

“...Did I what?...No. No, come on, Shorty: I haven’t had sex with a prostitute...No...well, yeah, I would lose respect for me too...No, its 50 euro besides...well, yeah, and I don’t want to come back with a disease...no, its not the same thing...no, it isn’t...Shorty, I told you before, when I’m gone things are different for a reason...because I can’t go on like that for two months...no, I can’t...yeah, that’s how its going to be. I expect the same from you...no, no, you can do whatever you want, I won’t get in your way...You did, huh?...Who?...well, like I said before, I just hope you’re having fun, Shorty...yeah, I just hope you’re having fun...no, but things will be different when I get back...”

I listen to him talk, and I tune it out after a time. I’m looking up from the floor, still watching him: his mouth moving, his hand resting on the top of the phone box, his eyes rolling at something stupid she said. I watch him do this, but the sound is drowned out, because I’m thinking of something else. What it all amounts to at this moment is that I imagine my girlfriend with someone else.

Not now. I haven’t talked to her since I’ve been away, but its only been a few days and I don’t think she’d start in this early. No, she’s not doing anything at home. But the night after I get back from my backpacking trip, she’s going away to Italy for art school for a semester. I’ve been to Italy, and so I imagine her being accosted by Italian guys non-stop in clubs, cafes, bars, on the street.

I envision her sitting with some friends at a fountain in the city center, and some Italian guys show up. Here is their appearance, head to toe: slick-backed black hair, a little long but kept well by excessive gel; sunglasses; dark complexion, thick eyebrows, requisite three-day growth of beard; designer t-shirt with sassy saying sprayed askew on the front, cut off at the sleeves; tight dark blue jeans with rips or pre-made wear and tear; leather striped sneakers.

They speak little English, but they know cute expressions. They are handsome, they are macho-macho, they don’t take no for an answer. And this is exciting for some girls, and often American girls, unused to the fowardness of a man who knows what he wants, don’t know how to say no. They wouldn’t want to. They are in Italy! So why not go home with him to get snubbed later and lie?

I think of all this, sinking into my insecurities, imagining the worst occurring in a matter of weeks. I look back up to R/Andy, still talking.

“...Yeah, Shorty...no, don’t worry about it, just have fun...well, I am...OK, Shorty...OK...Well, like I said, I just thought I’d call...OK...have fun...I love you, too, Shorty...bye-bye.”

He hangs up the phone. “Fucking women,” he says in that way that’s half him to himself, and half him looking for my approval or agreement or anything fraternal. Since I’ve decided that I hate him, I look away momentarily.

He looks down at me. He stops for a second, sighs. He walks the long hallway to the stairs and starts taking off his t-shirt as he ascends. I get up to call my girlfriend.

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