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About Amsterdam

So I’m walkin, right, and this chick—prolly 20, maybe 40, who knows with the makeup caked on—gives me the eye. I’m like, “Honey, I ain’t buyin what you’re sellin less I know the deal.” She smirks, all sassy, and I’m thinkin, *damn, this is some real-life cinema*. Godard’s voice in my head: “The image is a prison.” Ain’t that the truth? She’s trapped, I’m trapped, we’re all stuck starin at each other like idiots. I ask her name—Crystal, she says. Yeah, sure, “Crystal”—prolly Susan from Ohio, but whatever, I roll with it.

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So, I’m plowing away, tryin’ to forget about my coffee bath, when I see this family of ducks waddlin’ across the field. I swear, they were strutting like they owned the place. I’m laughin’ so hard, I almost forget I’m supposed to be workin’. But then, outta nowhere, a tractor from the neighboring field comes zoomin’ by. Dude’s got no chill! He’s kickin’ up dust everywhere. I’m like, “Hey, buddy! Ever heard of personal space?”

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