Good Times In Dystopia
‘Er . . . yes, well . . . ’ It's bad etiquette to bring people back to a squat you're guesting in. Especially one that was on the eviction list and facing the riot cops arriving in just over a day.
‘Well, I live in a squat.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Yes! A squat! Yes, please!’
I am reluctant. She runs back ten metres to her friend. The friend iss a slender brunette with the child features of a seraphim. She is in a doorway, surrounded by a group of amicable, large African men who also seem keen to help these two children find a place to stay.
The two girls speak in furious Polish, one eyeing me with suspicion, confusion, the other seemingly convinced I was a better option. The decision comes when I see one of the males take the brunette to oneside, his arm protectively, controllingly around her shoulders, separating her from us. I had lived with pimps before. I know how body language and voice can convince people to do pretty much anything.
‘OK. We’ll figure it out. Come with me.’ The blonde is thrilled, and grabs her friend, pulling her away. I don't really know what I am doing, but now I have two beautiful young nymphs following me down the streets of the red light district, one in hotpants so tight they looked painted on. The guys in the doorway look on with bemused disappointment.
I keep trying to explain to them that the squat was going to be evicted, that the next morning they had to leave. I try to figure out where they are going, whether they even knew how dangerous what they were doing was, but generally they just smile and chat to each other in a language I don't understand. One of them — Maja — speaks the best English, and her friend insists on translating everything through her, rather than trying to talk to me directly.
I warn them it is a good hour walk back to the squat, but they are happy. I am incredulous, but think fuck it, this is better than paying for a seedy fuck in some curtained booth off the maindrag in Amsterdam.
We arrived back at de Strijd and I go in to make my case to Bea.
When I find her in the front-room, she is lifting up a mattress to screw it against one window.
‘Bea — here’s the thing. I met these two girls on the street in the red light district and I think they were in real danger. Can they stay here for the night? They can share my room’ — pissstinking as it was — ‘and they’ll be my responsibility.’
Even I can hear how sleazy this whole situation sounds.
‘No this is not the time, you cannot do this. We have to pack everything and barricade and we can’t have people here like this.’
‘I understand but they can have my room and I will take responsibility for them. They have nowhere to go. I’ve been in that situation. I’ve slept on Dam Square and it is totally — ’ ‘No, absolutely not.’
Then a voice: ‘They can stay at mine.’
Looking round, I see it is Ruud, a kraaker I had met only briefly, bearded and pupils pinpricked by amphetamine. I turned back to Bea.
‘Then it’s solved. No problem. Sorry.’
Ruud takes the two girls off to his place, and I for some reason hang around de Strijd for a bit longer. Although not pointed directly at me, it soon becomes apparent by the flow of angered syllables that I have transgressed once too often. Grabbing some beer, I flee to find where Ruud had taken them.
‘Well, I live in a squat.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Yes! A squat! Yes, please!’
I am reluctant. She runs back ten metres to her friend. The friend iss a slender brunette with the child features of a seraphim. She is in a doorway, surrounded by a group of amicable, large African men who also seem keen to help these two children find a place to stay.
The two girls speak in furious Polish, one eyeing me with suspicion, confusion, the other seemingly convinced I was a better option. The decision comes when I see one of the males take the brunette to oneside, his arm protectively, controllingly around her shoulders, separating her from us. I had lived with pimps before. I know how body language and voice can convince people to do pretty much anything.
‘OK. We’ll figure it out. Come with me.’ The blonde is thrilled, and grabs her friend, pulling her away. I don't really know what I am doing, but now I have two beautiful young nymphs following me down the streets of the red light district, one in hotpants so tight they looked painted on. The guys in the doorway look on with bemused disappointment.
I keep trying to explain to them that the squat was going to be evicted, that the next morning they had to leave. I try to figure out where they are going, whether they even knew how dangerous what they were doing was, but generally they just smile and chat to each other in a language I don't understand. One of them — Maja — speaks the best English, and her friend insists on translating everything through her, rather than trying to talk to me directly.
I warn them it is a good hour walk back to the squat, but they are happy. I am incredulous, but think fuck it, this is better than paying for a seedy fuck in some curtained booth off the maindrag in Amsterdam.
We arrived back at de Strijd and I go in to make my case to Bea.
When I find her in the front-room, she is lifting up a mattress to screw it against one window.
‘Bea — here’s the thing. I met these two girls on the street in the red light district and I think they were in real danger. Can they stay here for the night? They can share my room’ — pissstinking as it was — ‘and they’ll be my responsibility.’
Even I can hear how sleazy this whole situation sounds.
‘No this is not the time, you cannot do this. We have to pack everything and barricade and we can’t have people here like this.’
‘I understand but they can have my room and I will take responsibility for them. They have nowhere to go. I’ve been in that situation. I’ve slept on Dam Square and it is totally — ’ ‘No, absolutely not.’
Then a voice: ‘They can stay at mine.’
Looking round, I see it is Ruud, a kraaker I had met only briefly, bearded and pupils pinpricked by amphetamine. I turned back to Bea.
‘Then it’s solved. No problem. Sorry.’
Ruud takes the two girls off to his place, and I for some reason hang around de Strijd for a bit longer. Although not pointed directly at me, it soon becomes apparent by the flow of angered syllables that I have transgressed once too often. Grabbing some beer, I flee to find where Ruud had taken them.