At The Last Moment

 

At the last moment

I was a neophyte visitor to Amsterdam, unknowing of the wiles of city life, much less that of a foreign port. I came with a group of forty men on a flying road tour but stayed aloof from the others, not wanting people to think me a tourist; so I spurned their invites to roam about the red-light district. I was better than that, I thought. Yet, like it or not, I was a tourist nonetheless.

I found out how much a tourist I was after leave-taking from my acquaintances. Wandering through the streets solo, I also wanted to try out a marijuana café, stopping into a tobacconist for a pipe and rolling papers.

Not far down the road I spied such an establishment and ventured inside. It was poorly lit, with serving counter to one side with a couple of stools, all occupied.

The men on the stools, and the counterman, all looked like the cast of a B-grade film about dirty, violent bikers.

At the bar’s end was a sign – in English – “More seating upstairs”. I was hesitant, realizing right then my hotel key, passport, money and all my identification was in a bright blue pouch hanging around my neck, yet I was about to make a step toward going upstairs.

At the last moment I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned.

Before me stood a tall, impeccably attired, muscular African man, hand outstretched, saying “You dropped your cell phone on the ground” and sure enough I had.

Just as quickly, in an soft spoken yet urgent tone, he said “What are you doing here? Get out. Get out of here NOW!’ and motioned me to follow him. Without any hesitation, I did and we both rushed down the street to civilization and safety.