The Shitty Job Theory, 1980
Waves, Winos, Women, Weed and Willem
“I can suck your dick. You won’t know if it is a woman or not.” I know this will be **extremely shocking** for some of you to read this. It sure raised my eyebrows when I heard it. My eyes had just closed. I was ready to sleep in a very dark tent during the first night camping on the beach at Biarritz in the south of France, my seven foot surfboard in the tent between us. It was the first indication that I had that my friend was gay.
The summer before, we had traveled together in Mexico, sleeping in the same hotel rooms for a few weeks as we rode buses from the Yucatan westward to the Pacific. I had come to Amsterdam that summer because he got me a couple of jobs there so that I could save money for a month and then we could travel to France. It was the first ever test of my recently developed “you can get a shitty job anywhere” travel philosophy. Suddenly my eyes flew open and I was now staring at the pitch black tent wall. I politely declined, ‘no thanks Willem. I appreciate it though.”
I am sure that by this time he had thought that I was also a lover of men. I had not chased women in Mexico at all while we were together. In Amsterdam, I went on no dates although surrounded by beautiful women, most especially the vivacious, devilish grinned, flaming red haired Marion at Olpha Match company, where I packed match boxes in the little warehouse room while she constantly flirted and giggled at me in Dutch. It will be hard to explain the obsession that riding surf becomes. Above all, it is most what you desire. A single obsession. Girls mean going out which means spending money. I was wanting to save all of the money I could for France. Willem took me to Amsterdam’s famous Red Light district where we went window shopping, the prostitutes behind glass walls in a variety of sexy poses amid fantasy backdrops, like porno movie sets. The walls all darkened with sensuous velvet and with the barest hints of the red glow of a light in the corner. As a birthday present, he had offered to buy me time with any of the girls that I liked. They looked me straight in the eyes and scared the shit out of me. It seemed bizarre to me that you could just order a girl like that, have instant sex, pay and leave. It was shocking, way too weird. I had politely declined that offer too.
Willem was a wealthy businessman in Holland, spoke 4 languages fluently and on his holidays he indulged in being an expert cheapskate traveler in third world countries. Willem loved traveling in slow chicken buses, sometimes with pigs and farm equipment tied to the roofs, and sleeping on dirt floors or the cheapest hotel room. Surrounded by poshness in Amsterdam, while on vacation, he loved to be with what he called “real people.” I had met him the year before when I boarded my first bus ever outside of the States. Cluelessly attempting to pay with dollars instead of Mexican pesos, fate had placed Willem in the front seat opposite the driver. He saw me struggling and made change for me in pesos while also paying my fare to Merida. I thanked him and went stumbling on past chickens and packages to the back of the bus where I was offered shots of tequila by drunk, hollowed eye old guys next to me. I was impressed that it was ok to spit on the floor of the bus. When we finally stopped after midnight in Merida, I was going to stay in the back and just sleep on the bus. The driver waved, yelled and seemed to be cussing, so I left. Willem was waiting at the door and asked if I wanted to share a room. I blindly followed along while he did everything, having zero clue about anything on this trip. He had never met a surfer and was intrigued by my plan to go to Puerto Escondido, so he came along to witness the waves there. After our time was up together in Mexico, we parted ways but made sure to stay in touch.
In Amsterdam, Willem had all kinds of connections. He wrote me a postcard during my junior year at Rollins College in Winter Park, Florida. I had told him about the surf in southern France and he offered to do a trip together through Belgium and France. That is when I proposed the shitty job theory to him first about working in Holland to save money. By the time that I landed that June, I was already hired for two jobs. Painting a house and working at the match factory.
Friendly, smiling guards had greeted me when I arrived at the airport with my board completely wrapped in a used mattress cardboard box, the fiberglass rails and fin protected inside with rolls of newspaper and duct tape. A small crowd gathered as they opened the box on a table, all laughing and Dutch speaking. When I had told them it was a surfboard, they looked at each other and looked back at me. “My friend, there is not surf in Holland!” Ha, ha, ha! “I am going to France.” Even more laughing now. “My friend, there is not surfing in France! People come to Europe for the culture.” I gave up, not wanting to tell them I had two jobs lined up under the table or that they were wrong about France or that culture to me was the logo of a Pabst can. They cleared my board, wrapping it back up for me and wishing me a good trip “surfing!!” Ha, ha, ha! I looked behind just before exiting the door and it resembled a bar scene of a bunch of drunks in the corner. They were all having themselves a good time most certainly about what a typical American bonehead that I was before going back to their jobs examining luggage and asking simple questions.
I worked for about six weeks in Holland’s famous summer shitty weather, sleeping on the couch at Willem’s luxury apartment across from the hip Vondelpark, Amsterdam’s version of Central Park. I walked past lines of tourists outside the Frank family’s hiding place, rode a bicycle with the hundreds of others next to Oude Waal and saw colors for the first time at the Van Gogh Museum. The guy who’s house I painted would routinely ride his Harley up the front entrance steps and you could hear the engine going through a variety of pitches as he somehow went up the two flights of narrow stairs, emerging at the upper room’s balcony to the applause of anyone else with me down below. He seemed to not care in the least about how much I was working, leaving me with no direction or supervision and came out often with a Grolsch beer for me in the distinctive flip top green bottle. He spoke zero English, but was always attempting to try. I never saw him without a joint and he paid me cash after every day. I felt like Willem had told him that I wanted to surf Biarritz and he was basically helping to fund that dream. That appeared to be the type of person he was.
Infamously, Holland and especially Amsterdam are fairly open minded about people enjoying themselves in often extreme ways. Some things that were surreal to me included
people openly smoking weed and hash in outdoor coffee shops.
the Red Light District prostitute window shopping experience.
people being encouraged by the government to live in abandoned buildings for free.
people shooting heroin in the park under trees while people strolled by in the middle of the day.
socially funded art welfare projects.
Back in Florida, I didn’t know anyone who had not at least tried weed, but having even a small roach could land you in prison. To see people relaxing while smoking in the coffee bars along the streets and canals who were without worry of arrest was shocking. Punks roamed the streets while taking up residence in some fine deserted apartments just down the road from us. Free. Willem knew someone who was a recipient of public funds to produce an art piece once a month. He was required to submit proof to the office for his paycheck via a photo. This guy had a box of matches that he would organize in the infinite mathematical positions that 100 matches can be ordered into. That was his art piece and the only job he held. He would change one match or several, take a photo, submit his proof of production at the required government office and leave shortly afterwards with his spending money to think about his next month’s matchbox art. Most likely in one of the weed coffee shops.
I was involved in my own way with matchboxes. The other job Willem had found for me was working in a garage sized warehouse during the weekends. It was extremely boring, except for the absolutely gorgeous secretaries working there and the incredible coolness of the boss. Now that I think about it, I am sure he must have been a gay friend of Willems, passing along the information that I was being constantly flirted with while steadfastly loading boxes of matches. He seemed to send his army of hot babes out on a regular basis to double check that I was gay. “Flirt with that American, let me know if he responds.” I spent the time packing cartons with different, multicolored matchboxes, ignoring their cute Dutch giggles and feeling like a loser for not asking Marion out.
Life became the routine of work, saving money, ignoring hot chicks, work, saving money until, finally, Willem had his time off. We headed south into Belgium and towards Paris in his beat up Volvo. He lived walking distance to his work and kept the car in storage just for his travels throughout Europe to purchase fine wines. It was bomber enough to drive into any areas of the big cities and also fit in without drawing attention in the countryside towns. In keeping with my level of frugality and Willem’s love of cheap travel, we slept in the car with the seats down outside of French bakeries, waking before the sun to the smell of fresh bread, hungover from drinking wine the night before in parks with homeless winos. My friend had an absolute love of the “real” and this ability to share the cheapest of wine from the opaque, plastic, liter bottles of our new acquaintances. Willem would translate the hopeless and often hilarious stories of these people. Arriving in Paris, we visited the Notre Dame, saw the Mona Lisa in the Louvre and drove around looking at tourist highlights. We both quickly grew bored and went into the Turkish ghetto, bought more wine for a few francs, took off our shoes and sat on the hood of Willem’s car, talking with those who would gather around, wondering what the surfboard was.
On the way to the surf at Biarritz, we had a stop at a winery in an old castle outside of Bordeaux, where Willem was treated to first class service as we were led into the dark chambers below the building. Here in the coolness, the wine barrels were stored. It smelled a combination of an earthy musk and mold, a hint of the wood. The dirt floor was impeccably swept and the owner took his time walking us through the rooms, the French being spoken adding another sensual aspect to the experience. After the short tour, we were out again into the light, where silent servant country girls with dark, long hair and brown eyes, wearing baby blue aprons, seated us at a wooden table with several new bottles of different wines for us to taste. I was embarrassed at not knowing exactly how to act, but tried to follow Willem’s cues. He pretended like I was just as knowledgeable as he was, so I nodded or frowned seriously with whatever he was saying about the specific taste. I would mutter “ummmhhmmm, yes, uuummmmmhhhhmmmm.” I had actually thought the wino wine in plastic bottles was pretty damn good, especially for around fifty cents a liter. Willem bought a few expensive cases of a variety of reds and whites, the bottles packed nicely in the gorgeous fragrant wood boxes.
A few hours later, I was surfing the uncrowded and pumping beach breaks that I had seen in magazines. Perfect, glassy waves were up and down the coast, breaking just a short paddle from shore. A shore where lounged a few other surfers and their topless girlfriends, sprawling next to them in the sand. We set up our tent next to the car and hung out talking with the other surfers who were curious about me being from Florida and my Dutch friend.
The morning after the “tent incident”, I honestly did not care that Willem was homosexual or that he had prepositioned me. He was my friend. My very good hearted, generous, hilarious, adventurous and extremely intelligent friend. We continued our trip afterwards, heading along the Mediterranean and into Italy for a day, before winding back towards Holland. My family are not really discussers of problems, but just silently move-onners. Sweep under-the-ruggers. Pretenders to ignore and forget. Quaker DNA. I am not sure if this left Willem wondering what I was thinking, but after the night in the tent, I could sense that he was not the same. I hope he wasn’t ashamed, but I think he must have felt something horrible. I tried to act like it never happened.
I left soon after we returned to Amsterdam for my final year at college. I never saw or heard from Willem again although I tried to contact him several times. To this day, I wonder about my good friend. I have searched the internet to no avail, there are surprisingly many others with his exact name from Holland. I find myself wondering if he might have died. We parted ways a year before the first news of HIV/AIDS was reported in the gay newspaper the New York Native on May 18, 1981. We never discussed age, neither of us caring. I wish that I could tell him now what I did not then. That I loved him as the best possible of friends that a person can have. No matter what.
Your writing is so engaging because of your easy voice and the ongoing visual, specific details. I always wonder, "What's going to happen next?" A lovely tribute to your friend at the end. I'm sorry you never were able to reconnect with him.
Janet, you really are so wonderful. Thank you!