Friendly Neighborhood Dealers

Some of the illegal drug dealers are jerks, some aren't, but one thing is for sure: They're THERE.

Usually they are on the bridges and are the only people standing still. They sell all the illegal crap, sometimes fake stuff. They call out what they have to the people passing by, but all the names are code names. (It took my poor friend Charlie about two days to realize that when the dealers shouted "charlie," they weren't calling him.)

Two of the coke dealers that work the bridge closest to us are a pair of young guys - probably Antillean, but they look Jamaican. (They speak Papiamento, which is like, the world's most fucked up language. It sounds like you're reading the dictionary backwards while jumping on a trampoline.) They are really dark skinned and wear those Rasta knit hats covering their dreadlocks. As much as I hate to admit it, they're kind of, well, nice.

We'd been aware of them, just like they were of us when D met them more formally. He was out walking our dog when they startled him. They were walking behind him silently, and when D stopped short with the dog, they almost crashed into him.

I don't know what possessed him, but he said, smiling, "Jesus, guys you scared the hell out of me! Next time you sneak up behind me, smile so I can fucking see you."

To this day, I can't believe he a) said that, and b) didn't end up in the canal.

Instead they laughed their asses off and congratulated him on his ballsiness to say that to them. To THEM.

Usually we just nod in passing, but last year when D proudly told them I was pregnant again, they pumped our hands enthusiastically, and wished us lots of luck and blessings, with back pats all around.

So they're nice guys. Coke dealers, but nice guys. OK. Nice guys, for coke dealers.

Last summer, our gay friend (I'll call him a nice Dutch name...ummm...Joris) Joris told us a wild story - even for Amsterdam. Joris is a little shit - much shorter than I am, and slight. He is red-headed and freckled, and a little goofy looking.

One night he was, uh, entertaining an Italian tourist when things went horribly wrong. I guess Joris realized things weren't going well, and asked the guy to leave. I don't know if the dude was on something, or what, but he freaked out. He started smashing up Joris' apartment and throwing punches at him.

Somehow, Joris got him down the stairs and outside to the street, where he continued getting beaten up on.

Our friendly neighborhood dealers, recognizing Joris, got his back, and kicked the Italian's ass all over the bridge, driving him towards Dam Square.

Oh yeah. The Italian guy wasn't wearing any pants.

So, the moral of our story today is: Don't come to our neighborhood to beat up our little gay guys or you might end up showing Amsterdam your wiener.