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Charlie
Skinner
short
story writer
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AmsterDAMAGED
by
Charlie Skinner
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short
story
AmsterDAMAGED
synopsis
- culture shockED
SI
walked into the A.V.C. on the outskirts of
the red light district in the port of
Amsterdam twenty five years of age, lean,
strong, wearing tight black jeans,
tortoiseshell shades and thirsty. There
was a wee guy with long black hair and
beard running at the wall, jumping up and
head-butting it like he was trying to
stick an imaginary cross into the back of
the net. He must have kept missing
[the net, not the wall] because he
had far more than just the single attempt.
This was seven o’clock in the morning
so although there were probably a few
other bars open I couldn’t be
bothered to walk back out in the pissing
rain to find out where, so I decided to
take my chances and went up to the bar and
ordered a beer. Besides I’d been in
rougher places or at least that was what I
was telling myself.
The barman was English, sober, about
forty, totally unfazed by the invisible
football training session but also tired
and bored looking; you could just tell he
wanted to be somewhere else entirely. And
who could blame him, what a dive,
I’ll skip the detailed description,
suffice to say it felt like I was in some
kind of dank indoor swamp. I had a small
bag of bud-heads in my pocket that the guy
in the coffee shop assured me was
sensimelia, keen to test this boast I
asked the barman if it was okay to smoke
dope and thus captivated his full
attention. ‘Sure man, sure, as long
as you offer the bartender a blast,’
he said with a wide grin, an expression I
immediately reciprocated and proceeded to
skin one up. You can always tell good weed
before you start smoking it and this stuff
looked and smelled like ‘the
business.’ So not disappointed I
shared a joint with my new found friend
who’s name was Roy and who turned out
to be a really nice guy. The only other
people in the bar were Wall-Head, who was
taking a time out sitting with another guy
who resembled an all-American college kid
grown old and a middle aged hippy type of
lassie who actually looked amiable enough,
she noticed me noticing, smiled and gave a
wee friendly wave.
The dope was giving me the hunger so I
asked Roy if there was anywhere I could
get some grub. He pointed to the back of
the premises and I saw for the first time
there was a kitchen/snack bar but it was
so badly lit it kind of blended into the
rest of the décor, as if
camouflaged. If this wasn’t
intentional it should have been because
one look at the obese cook would have put
a famine victim off – unshaven,
unbelievably filthy set of
‘whites’ and slugging from the
neck of a bottle of red wine that was no
doubt intended for cooking purposes. I
walked back to the bar shook my head and
puffed out a long draught of air through
pursed lips. Roy burst out laughing,
‘don’t blame you mate,
there’s a bakers shop next street
up.’.
The sausage rolls and pasties were a bit
on the small side but they had just been
made and smelled delicious so I purchased
a dozen of each. Not that I intended
eating them all myself but I was sure Roy
would appreciate one or two and I took
less than a wild guess that Wall-Head and
his compadres had been up all night
without a bite to eat between them. So I
appeared back at the A.V.C. handing out
freshly baked goodies like some kind of
benevolent charity worker. Wall-Head
couldn’t believe it. ‘Sausage
rolls, pasties,’ he exclaimed,
‘ah just knew ye wernie a
Catholic.’ He started rambling on
some more but it was impossible to hear a
word of it because he’d crammed so
much grub into his mouth bits of pastry
and meat were flying through the air like
a foodstuff blizzard. I moved back up to
the bar out of the firing line. ‘I
should’ve known he was
Scottish,’ I said to Roy, ‘no
one else could miss the goal that
often.’
‘Eh?’
That guy,’ I said nodding towards
Wall-Head.
‘Oh Donny, crazy as a loon but
he’s alright is Donny, yeah he’s
from Glasgow I think, he’s been here
that long no one can remember, ha ha least
of all him!’
‘I could believe it.’
The cook soon sussed out we were all
munching away on wares not purchased from
his kitchen and appeared from his den
looking furious. Quick as a flash Donny
jumped up with an expression on his face
resembling a demented Charlie Manson,
‘FUCK OFF BACK TAE GORMENGHAST
SWELTER YE FILTHY CUNT OR AH’LL
FUCKIN NUT YE!’
I nearly fell off the bar stool with
laughter, we were all in stitches except
Donny who glowered at his adversary until
he got the message and retreated back to
his lair no doubt deciding that another
slug of wine was a much better idea than
getting into a fight with a certifiable
lunatic.
Time was not on my side though, all this
excitement, enjoyable as it was, could not
stave off the incredible fatigue that I
felt in my bones, time to return to the
Boatel Alida where I’d booked into.
The Boatel Alida was just that, a boat
converted into rooms, a bar the lot, the
doctor didn’t order it but I would
have shook his hand if he had. The rooms
were, well, just like sailor’s
cabins; really small with a porthole
included. I gratefully hit the sack and
crashed.
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