Terminal Compromise by Winn Schwartau (my reading book .txt) 📖

experience. He had

heard that pot was legal in Amsterdam. In fact it was more than

legal. Every morning the marijuana prices were broadcast on the

local radio stations and Scott had every intention of sampling

the wares. After 20 years of casual pot use, he preferred it

immensely to the effects of drinking, and he was not going to

miss out on the opportunity.

In New York no one harassed pot smokers, but technically, it

still wasn’t legal, while Amsterdam represented the ultimate

counterculture. This was the first time since Maggie had left

for the Coast three years ago that Scott felt an independence, a

freedom reminiscent of his rebellious teen years.

He gave the taxi driver the address of the Eureka! hotel, on the

Amstel. During the half hour fifty guilder ride into downtown,

the driver continuously chattered. “Amsterdam has more canals

than Venice. Many more. Holland is mostly land reclaimed from

the sea. We have the biggest system of dikes in Europe. Don’t

forget to see our diamond centers.” He spoke endlessly with deep

pride about his native land.

The Eureka! is a small four story townhouse with only 16 rooms

that overlooked the Amstel, the largest canal in Amsterdam,

similar to the Grand Canal in Venice. The Times had booked it

because it was cheap, but Scott felt instantly at home. After

settling in, Scott called the local number that Kirk had given

him.

“Hallo?” A thick Dutch accent answered the phone.

“Hello? I’m looking for Jon Gruptmann? This is Scott Mason.”

“Ya, this is Jon.”

“A mutual friend, Kirk, said I should call you.”

“Ah, ya, ya. Repo Man, is it not?” The voice got friendly.

“That’s what Kirk calls me.”

“Ya, ya. He said you want to attend our meetings. Ya? Is that

so?” Jon sounded enthusiastic.

“That’s why I swam the Atlantic, all three thousand miles. I

would love to!” Jon didn’t sound like Scott expected a computer

hacker to sound, whatever that was.

“Huh?” Jon asked. “Ah, ya, a joke. Goot. Let me tell you where

we meet. The place is small, so it may be very crowded. I hope

you do not mind.” Jon sounded concerned about Scott’s comfort.

“Oh, no. I’m used to inconvenience. I’m sure it will be fine.”

“Ya, ya. I expect so. The meetings don’t really begin until

tomorrow at 9AM. Is that goot for you?”

“Yes, just fine, what’s the address?” Scott asked as he readied

paper and pen.

“Ya. Go to the warehouse on the corner of Oude Zidjs Voorburg

Wal and Lange Niezel. It’s around from the Oude Kerksplein.

Number 44.”

“Hold it, I’m writing.” Scott scribbled the address phonetically.

A necessary trick reporters use when someone is speaking unintel-

ligibly. “And then what?”

“Just say you’re Repo Man. There’s a list. And please remember,

we don’t use our given names.”

“No problem. Fine. Thank you.”

“Ya. What do you plan for tonight?” Jon asked happily.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Scott lied.

“Ya, ya. Well, I think you should see our city. Enjoy the unique

pleasures Amsterdam has to offer.”

“I might take a walk . . . or something.”

“Ya, ya, or something. I understand. I will see you tomorrow.

Ya?” Jon said laughing.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Do one favor?” Jon asked. “Watch your wallet. We have many

pickpockets.”

“Thanks for the warning. See you tomorrow.” Click. I grew up in

New York, Scott thought. Pickpockets, big deal.

*

Scott took a shower to remove the vestiges of the eleven hour

trip; an hour ride to Kennedy, an hour and a half at the airport,

a half hour on the tarmac, seven hours on the plane, and an hour

getting into town.

He dressed casually in the American’s travel uniform: jeans, jean

jacket and warm sweater. He laced his new Reeboks knowing that

Amsterdam is a walking city. Driving would be pure insanity

unless the goal is sitting in two hour traffic jams. The single

lane streets straddle the miles of canals throughout the inner

city which is arranged in a large semi-circular pattern. Down-

town, or old Amsterdam, is a dense collection of charming clean,

almost pristine 4 story buildings built over a period of several

hundred years. That’s the word for Amsterdam; charming. From

late medieval religious structures to townhouses that are tightly

packed on almost every street, to the various Pleins where the

young crowds congregate in the evenings, Amsterdam has something

for everyone. Anne Frank’s house to the Rembrandt Museum to a

glass roofed boat trip down the canals through the diamond dis-

trict and out into the Zeider Zee. Not to mention those attrac-

tions for the more prurient.

He ran down the two flights to the hotel lobby and found the

concierge behind the Heineken bar which doubled as a registration

desk. He wanted to know where to buy some pot.

“Not to find us selling that here,” the Pakistani concierge said

in broken English.

“I know. But where . . .” It was an odd feeling to ask which

store sold drugs.

“You want Coffee Shop,” he helpfully said.

“Coffee Shop?” Scott asked, skeptical of the translation.

“Across bridge, make right, make left.” The concierge liberally

used his hands to describe the route. “Coffee shop. Very good.”

Scott thanked him profusely and made a quick exit thinking that

in parts of the U.S., Texas came to mind, such a conversation

could be construed as conspiracy. He headed out into the cool

damp late morning weather. The air was crisp, clean, a pleasure

to breathe deeply. The Amstel canal, not a ripple present,

echoed the tranquility that one feels when walking throughout the

city. There are only a half dozen or so ‘main’ streets or boule-

vards in Amsterdam and they provide the familiar intense interna-

tional commercialism found in any major European city. It is

when one begins to explore the back streets, the countless alleys

and small passageways; the darkened corridors that provide a

short cut to the bridge to the next islet; it is then that one

feels the essence of Amsterdam.

Scott crossed over the bridge that spans the wide Amstel con-

scious of the small high speed car and scooters that dart about

the tiny streets. He turned right as instructed and looked at the

street names on the left. While Scott spoke reasonable French,

Dutch escaped him. Bakkerstraat. Was that the name? It was just

an alley, but there a few feet down on the right was the JPL

Coffee Shop. JPL was the only retail establishment on Bakker-

straat, and it was unassuming, some might call it derelict, in

appearance. From a distance greater than 10 meters, it appeared

deserted.

Through the large dirty plate glass window Scott saw a handful of

patrons lazing on white wrought iron cafe chairs at small round

tables. The Coffee Shop was no larger than a small bedroom.

Here goes nothing, Scott thought as he opened the door to enter.

No one paid scant attention to him as he crossed over and leaned

on the edge of the bar which was reminiscent of a soda fountain.

A man in his young twenties came over and amiably introduced him-

self as Chris, the proprietor of the establishment. How could he

be of service?

“Ah . . . I heard I can buy marijuana here,” Scott said.

“Ya, of course. What do you want?” Chris asked.

“Well, just enough for a couple of days, I can’t take it back

with me you know,” Scott laughed nervously.

“Ya. We also have cocaine, and if you need it, I can get you he-

roin.” Chris gave the sales pitches verbally – there was no

printed menu in this Coffee Shop.

“No!” Scott shot back immediately, until he realized that all

drugs were legal here, not just pot. He didn’t want to offend.

“Thanks anyway. Just some grass will do.”

“How many grams do you want?”

Grams? How many grams? Scott mused that the metric Europeans

thought in grams and Americans still in ounces and pounds. O.K.,

28 grams to an ounce . . .

“Two grams,” Scott said. “By the way, how late are you open?”

Scott pushed his rounded spectacles back up his nose.

“Ah, sometimes 8, sometimes 10, sometimes late,” Chris said while

bringing a tissue box sized lock box to the top of the bar. He

opened it and inside were several bags of pot and a block of

aluminum foil the size of a candy bar. “You want hashish?” Chris

offered.

Scott shook his head, ‘no,’ so Chris opened one of the bags in-

stead of the candy bar.

“You American?” A voice came from one of the tables. Scott

looked around. “Here,” the voice said. “Me too.” The man got

up and approached Scott. “Listen, they got two types of ganja

here. Debilitating and Coma. I’ve made the mistake.”

“Ya, we have two kinds,” Chris agreed laughing. “This will only

get you a little high,” he said holding up a bag. “This one,” he

held up another, “will get you stoned.”

“Bullshit,” the American