Part XVII: Real Sees Real

Background

In a series of fortuitous events back in October, after an accommodation hunt which gifted me with my first strand of gray hairs, I found a lovely room in Noord in an apartment building right above Albert Heijn. Over the past 8 months that Albert Heijn has seen me in all of my guises. If you look back through the security camera footage, you can observe me at the start of my life there: bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on some early mornings, buying bananas as if I cared about my health. And you can watch it devolve from there - flying in 5 minutes before closing time, grabbing a crate of Apple Bandit cider and a bottle of barbecue sauce in outfits which could charitably be compared to pajamas yet realistically could only be termed as ‘scoundrel attire’.

 

But this isn’t about my questionable grocery store fashion, which, btw, would land me in every 2000s tabloid if I were famous during the indisputable golden age of celebrity. And despite my self-centered tendencies which are clearly displayed in the previous sentence, this isn’t really about me at all. This is about the man behind the cigarette counter.

 

Context

Let’s set the scene: the cigarette counter in the Albert Heijn is worked by four Muslim women and one Dutch man. Each time I smoke all the cheap cigarettes I smuggle in from Moscow, I am forced to go downstairs and admit that - yes, my addiction is indeed strong enough to make me spend €11.50 every other day on a pack of Marlboro Reds XXL. I’m not as proud of it as i would’ve been at 18, but youthful extremism is how we get here and physical and psychological dependency is how we stay.  

 

Exposition

The first time I went down to buy a shamefully overpriced pack of delicious death, sometime in early November, a Dutch dude (blond, broad, 26-ish) was working the counter. I smiled politely, tucked my hair behind my ear and said, “Marlboro Red - the big one, please.”

 

My voice was a bit shaky, I hadn’t asked for cigarettes in a while, and to be honest, despite remaining loyal to the brand since ’14, I have never fully gotten the hang of the word ‘Marlboro’.

 

Thankfully, my worries proved themselves to be unfounded; it came out fine, a little heavy on the ‘L’, but fine.

 

He turned around to get them off the shelf, first trailing off to the Marlboro Golds and then down to the Reds - really taking his time. Finally, after vocally guiding his hand like a claw machine, he turned around and set that fat, red, juicy pack of carcinogenic bliss on the counter in front of me.

 

The packaging had a picture of a morbidly obese man (sans shirt) taken from the most unflattering back angle I could possibly imagine. I’m sure that if I just happened to walk in on this in a hospital room or a sauna, I would’ve been a little grossed out and maybe even a little disturbed. But standing there, staring at a pack that would soon become mine - he ceased to be repugnant. I could almost feel the cigarettes in my hand, I could almost smell the faint tar aroma, and, at that point, I’d be willing to give that poor diabetic bloke a massage just to take that pack home with me.

 

DutchDude looked over at me, breaking me out of my nicotine deprived daydream: ‘Do you have your ID?’

“Yeah, of course”

 

I pulled out my American passport, flipped to the picture page, and angling the holographic stars towards his pupils, proudly presented it to him.

 

He looked at me, then looked at the picture.

 

Looked at me again.

 

Looked at the picture.

 

Then, seemingly satisfied with my age, he scanned the cigarettes and allowed me to complete the transaction, faintly wishing me to ‘have a good day’ as I rushed out to get my fix.

 

Rising Action - 2 Days Later

My cigarettes ended at around 8:45PM and I ran downstairs like a maniac, forgetting that I still had an hour before I was doomed to a night of nicotine withdrawal.And there he was again, standing at the counter, looking exactly the same as the first time I had the pleasure of making his acquaintance.

 

This time, I walked up confidently; he wouldn’t bite and I knew it. But despite what I thought was a convincingly entitled demeanor, he once again asked for my ID.

 

I was surprised, I’m not gonna lie. I quickly tried to make peace with the idea that perhaps I’m not as memorable as I think I am, flashed him my ‘land of the free’ citizenship and took my pack.  

 

It depicted a confused blond boy looking cautiously at a cigarette as if it might spontaneously combust.

 

Climax - 2 More Days Later

10 am, two cigarettes left in the sheltered preteen picture pack. I decided to play it safe and top up before going to my lecture so I could smoke like as decadently as Tom Waits -  never denying myself the luxury of a cigarette.

 

To give a little context, and I don’t want to brag, but this was back when I more or less cared about my appearance; the eyeliner was razor sharp, the cheekbones were chiseled, and the lashes were at their optimal batting volume.

 

I strolled up to the counter, feeling unequivocally like ‘that bitch’, and placed my usual order.

 

He reached straight for the Marlboro Reds, picking out a pack with the most ridiculously decrepit-looking woman in a wheelchair, and trust me, I’ve seen a few paraplegics in my day. ‘He knows what I want’, I thought, finally feeling like a ‘regular’.

 

So when he decided to shatter my small-town livin’ fantasy and proceeded to ask me for my ID a THIRD time, I could not contain myself.

 

“But…but…you know me,” I said, trying to sound as cool and collected as possible while delivering one of the most ego-crushing lines known to mankind.

 

“Oh yeah I remember you, but it’s the rule, I have to ask you every time.”

 

“Every time? Forever?”

 

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid so.”

 

Epilogue

Since November, I have gone down countless times to buy cigarettes. When I finally started catching them on their shifts, he four Muslim women who work the counter, have asked me for my ID a total of one time each. After that, they started giving me the pack of cigarettes, taking my crumpled notes which I always have at the ready, giving me back my change (when applicable), and telling me to have a good day/night - an interaction which takes about 10 seconds in total and leaves me feeling like I just went to my favorite neighborhood Bodega.

 

DutchDude has asked for my passport every single time. The time I spend rummaging in my bag, he spends apologizing for having to ask and expressing how “fucking stupid” these rules are. I have practically emptied my bag on the cigarette counter on multiple occasions. He knows where I go to university and my program of study, a topic that came up when I slammed my student ID on the counter only to realize that it didn’t show my date of birth. The last time that I was there, through some harmless teasing on my part, I found out that he actually remembers my birth date. And yet, each time he’s at the counter, he looks at me and mumbles “you know what I’m gonna ask you”, and, boy oh boy, I really do know.

 

I haven’t had the heart to tell him that none of the other girls have asked me for my ID since fall - partly because I don’t want to make him feel lame and partly because I’m scared that his fetish for rules would lead him to snitching on them, which is something that I would never want to be mixed up in.

 

Moral

I really can’t say that I respect DutchDude. But his unyielding adherence to the same rules which he claims to despise really shows that a man can be committed to something: his own fear of consequences.