who do you want to be?
where do you want to be?
<<OH MY GOD! It's alive!>> Professor Henri Kicken was raving in his bunker lab. His eyes were out of bottlebottom glasses for a change although one of them was wedged into an electron microscope. <<Pieter, come. Look! Behold this marvellous vision!>>
<<Jesus Christ>> Pieter said.
And Professor Kicken grabbed a testtube and twirled it like the closest thing to a womb he's come upon since he left one, his grey Einsteinian hair was flying as he spun and sang, <<It's alive, it's alive!>>
<<The miracle of life>> Pieter said.
Upstairs there was an apartment block especially built for African guest workers and their families. In one of the apartments two Ethiopian boys were smoking the new ice derivative. <<Ijs ontbijt>> one of them said as his lungs ignited. <<Welteruuuuusten!>>
<<46 years>> Professor Kicken said, "46 years I've been working for this!>>
<<I'll get the champagne>> Pieter said.
<<Get me a subject first>> the professor said. <<Pretty looking cultures on petri dishes are one thing. Successful field experiments are another.>> He held up the slide of microscopic slime like a Wild West sheriff might hold up a gun. <<This baby's going out to meet the people.>>
IN another part of Amsterdam Willem Boonzajer, a PR officer for the transnational Glam corporation, was on a commuter train fighting with a refugee for the last seat. The refugee was Sudanese with the usual extermination numbers tattooed on his wrist.
<<I first sit," he said, saying it in Dutch of course.
<<I know you were the first to sit, mate>> Willem said, <<but that's not the etiquette here. Do you understand what etiquette means? It might be all right to go on a mad stampede for the nearest seat in sub Sahara or wherever it is you come from but this is Europe yeah, this is the land of respect yeah. I got on the train first, I saw the seat first. Therefore I should have it.>>
The refugee, having understood only the reference to the Sahara, repeated his pidgin, "I first sit.>>
Willem said, <<I know you bloody sat down first but you shouldn't have pushed me aside to get it! It's not feeding time at the Khartoum Displaced Persons Camp.>> The refugee just gripped his seat and said as smugly as he could in such broken Dutch, <<You not intimidate me now.>>
<<Is there a problem here?>> another black man said. He got up from his seat on the other side of the carriage and levelled Willem with a seven foot stare. <<I do believe you're disturbing the other passengers.>>
<<Go on then, take it.>>
WHEN Willem got to work it was at the Glam European headquarters in the Muiderpoort district. His office was a ripoff of a hash coffee shop with dogeaten couches, Pink Floyd videos and an ornamental bong. He had a secretary named Moya and a gift for media promotions.
<<Jesus Christ, what a morning>> he said. <<And they talk about a coffee coloured Europe!"
Speaking of coffee here's three young men sipping decaf on his couch, three white men in suits and a lad whose skin is a distinct shade of green.
<<What are you a>> Willem said, <<Martian or something?>>
Imagine if there were creatures on Mars and they were intelligent and they wanted to settle here. Not War of the Worlds style or anything but say there was a famine back on Mars, their ozone belt went on the blink or something and suddenly they're fleeing home in rickety spaceships, piling into the sky for the lush green fields and commodity markets of Earth. Martian restaurants spring up all over Asia, specialising in lichen soups and dry ice shakes. A new form of music, mixing Martian glottal clicks and techno, becomes popular among Europe's disillusioned youth.
<<They've been waiting for you>> Moya said. "This is Mr Wagenaar. And Mr Brugmans. And Mr Kroon. And Paval Poznyak.>>
<<We're lawyers," Mr Wagenaar said, offering his hand nonetheless. <<From Wagenaar and Associates. Pavel here is our client. He'd been using one of your products every day for three years when he developed this... condition..>>
<<I don't know why you're seeing me about it.>> Willem said. "If this is a liability matter you should be speaking to our legal reps..>>
Mr Brugmans said, <<Oh, we've got no concern about liability. This case will be a walkover..>>
Willem fingered his ornamental bong as if it were, say, a flute. <<So what I have got to do with it?.>>
<<When a man wakes up one morning and finds his skin greener than Kermit that man has to reconsider his future.>> Mr Kroon said. <<Especially if he's a school dropout and is living in an age of permanent 10 per cent unemployment. We could milk you for 30 million but is 30 million enough? Your a PR man, Mr Boonzajer," Mr Kroon smiling now, <<you understand these things..>>
<<No I don't.>> Willem said, fingering his bong.
THE night before Willem was at one of his courses, this one a Jungian therapy group. The topic of the night was monsters and the archetype they represented. The woman in front of Willem began by talking about Jenny Longtooth, a witch who hid out in the leas and dug trapdoors for unwary children. After 25 minutes the coordinator had to interrupt and pass the torch to Willem.
<<I've never believed in monsters," Willem said. "I didn't stay up all night terrified of the bogeyman leaping out of my wardrobe or anything like that."
<<Don't be so defensive>> the coordinator said. "Get in touch with your feelings.>>
<<Well," Willem said, <<if we're going to broaden this topic to cover fear, I'll tell you about my fears. I've always had this feeling, this gut feeling that flowing beneath the skin of this life there being another realm, a world behind this one. Another dimension. Here but not here, if you will.>>
<<The only place in the universe is here the coordinator said. <<If Jung didn't say anything about the fifth dimension then he certainly should have."
<<But it's more than that," Willem insisted. <<I don't fear what is here but not visible. It's the interface which scares the hell out of me.>>
<<Where is the interface?" the coordinator cooed. <<What does it feel like?"
<<The interface occurs only in situations of metamorphosis. A caterpillar turning into a butterfly, that's the fifth fucking dimension. That successive melding and permutation of gamete to zygote to our primitive and original embryonic form." Willem's knees were wobbling at this. <<A man dying and hitting that tunnel of brilliant light...>>
"It's okay Will>> when the tears started flowing, "we're all here for you.>>
"I do believe that>> Willem said eventually, "wedded to the underbelly of this world is another, just beyond our reach. It is sometimes glimpsed as a movement over the shoulder or revealed in the brief union of lovers, when time, space and matter meet. But unless you can submerge yourself all you can do is stand at the brink of this world and catch flashes of what lies below the opaque surface. Only sometimes does someone burst through the skin and become a part of it, merging, breathing underwater.>>
"Jenny can jump into mirrors>> the psycho woman said.
"YOU'RE not actually saying>> Willem was reading Pavel's bio over morning tea biscuits, guarana flakes in them to help preserve stamina. Pavel was born in the Ukraine in 1992 and moved Dutchward with his parents when the EC came. In Rotterdam he fell into EC habits like crack cocaine and nosebleed dancefloor. The story about him being a school dropout was true and there were documents to prove it. He had acne as well. When he was 16 he started using Glam facewash to dry out his zits. It was reasonably successful so he kept using it, two times a day for three years.
"The rest is still highly confidential>> Mr Wagenaar said. So confidential, Willem noticed, that Pavel hadn't said a word all morning. "In August this year our client took a daytrip to France where he contracted an especially bad case of sunburn. He returned home, applied Glam facewash as every other night and went to sleep. When he woke up half the skin on his face had peeled away. The skin underneath... well, you can see for yourself.>>
"The specialists have diagnosed a complete melanin mutation," Mr Brugmans said. "As you may well know melanin darkens the skin in a range from white to jet black. For the first time in recorded history, in a mutation somehow linked to your product, our client's melanin has turned chlorophyllic green.>>
"Our skincare range is a simple variation on a recipe which has been around for decades>> Willem said. "Suitably cosmopolitanised, naturally. It has never caused a mutation before.>>
"That's why we want to have fun with it," Mr Kroon said. "Glam makes the world's first Green Man. We'll make a fucking mint!>>
"Of course," Mr Wagenaar said, "there will be dividends enough for Glam to share.>>
WILLEM'S wife was Lisa and she was Israeli. This may puzzle readers who've developed a preconception (in turn founded on stereotype) that Willem is a racist. Willem is not a racist, he is simply obsessed with the ideal of racial integration. The fact this is a racist ideal in early 21st century society is irrelevant. Willem would willingly orientalise his eyes if he felt that would homogenise the global gene pool. Lisa is not a Dutch convert and Willem is not a tryhard Zionist, but when they are together he yearns for some kind of middle ground where everywhere is here, a metaphysical Anne Frank kind of rapprochement.
Occasionally, usually in bed, they achieve it.
"I can only stay an hour or two>> Willem said from the middle of a delicate cunnilingus position. "I've got to stay back all night working on this new promotion.>>
"Oh Christ," Lisa trying desperately not to revert to Hebrew, "an hour or two with you is all it takes." She wrapped her Mediterranean thighs tight around his golden head, his tongue their temporary axis. "Oh God," she said, "I'm exploding!>>
Getting redressed for work Willem dropped as casually as he could, "Fucking hell. I met a green man today.>>
JUMP TO: SECTION CASSIUS CROON (c)opyright Crunch Millennia 1996-2003.
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The Life of Pi