Ralph Herder RIP

Through all these years now and tomorrow have been my steady companions, but now, how I long for a friendship lost in time but not forgotten. There was a time that we were brothers and I became the better for it.

Goodbye old friend, may strength, peace and light guide your loved ones

For the last few years the week between January 16th. and January 24th. has been an absolute bummer to deal with. Phoning a few friends and dragging them down to the pub so they can watch me get twisted and go berserk is no longer really an option and neither is contacting a few old acquaintances from a shared past. Robin's gig is too surreal when compared to my own madness, Brammetje has fallen of the deep end and Bert Jan can barely remember how to brush his teeth. I doubt if they still listen to the boy that dwells in all men. The answers I seek need to be found elsewhere. The following stories where written during a few cold days in January when a hot toddy, a generous supply of cold beverages and a few tears were never far away

Ralph, the long way home

Friday night, dogs at my feet, a fresh case of honey brown ale within reach and Willie Nelson crooning in the background. You'd think that the spirit would be upon me to write that last chapter. However it's proving to be the hardest one because it inevitably ends with January 16, 2010, a date that will forever be etched upon my memory as a truly obscene, rotten day. If there is any truth to that old wife's tale that there actually is such a thing as a bearded old omnipotent white hack ruling the afterlife, pretending to be jury, judge and executioner, then I hope for his sake that he's taking extra good care of me unless he wants to have me hanging around asking some very queer questions like:" What the fuck where you thinking when you cashed in Ralph's chips?" and a few other ones along that line. I really don't care how many saints and righteous angels he's got in his posse nowadays and neither does the fire and brimstone routine bother me all that much. Hell, no pun intended, that's probably where all my friends are going and where we'll find Ralph.

Later. The beer is gone and I'm ripping the liquor cabinet apart for something stronger. Tonight is not the night to file that last article and right now I'm not so sure if I even want to write it. In order for it to be called the Final Chapter it inherently involves walking through that door and shutting the goddamn thing. The last few days have once again allowed me to cloak myself in the warm embrace of an old friendship and I just can't bare to hang up that coat just yet.........................Holy creepy Jesus, the Ipod, sitting in a nasty little, but loud, Bose station, just switched to Hotel California, one of Ralph's favorites, back in the day. That has to be Karma, or maybe......God's Will?! If its the latter, Hey, I was just joking, ok, a slip of the tongue, madness really, gibberish from an unstable country boy, so get over it.
Maybe tomorrow, eh.

The first time he started showing up in my dreams was around my birthday, a few months after he died. I didn't think much of it since that day is usually accompanied by a pervasive sense of nostalgia, melancholy and indulgence. I was a bit unsettling though, having him sit on the edge of my bed blabbering away and it woke me up wondering if I was at the beginning of an acute case of Alzheimer. Since then he's been popping by regularly, no matter what bed I was sleeping in, either talking my ear off or just staring out into the blue wild yonder.  Eerie and certainly freaky.

I still love hitting the road, hiking, camping, dancing around a menacing campfire, that sort of thing, spending time in the great outdoors with all those who enjoy a bit of privacy to let things get out of hand. For the last 10 years or so we've been doing it from the comfort of a monstrous motor home. I prefer a natural setting and all it has to offer compared to the madness and hectic pace of an urban existence but I also deeply appreciate a steaming double espresso, a warm king size bed, air conditioning and all the other little luxuries that a hideous gas guzzling behemoth holds. However even there I would conjure up Ralph in my dreams. Palm Springs, La Jolla, Zion, West Palm Beach, you name it, he'd come right along sitting on the edge of my bed. Last year, while camping at  the Grand Canyon, one of our favorite hiking spots, he once again showed up haranguing me incessantly, calling me a "pussy" and daring me to find the "Edge". To be honest, not many souls know where that just might be and those retarded enough to start looking for it usually go over and have not been seen again to let the rest of us us know what the exact benefits are of crossing that line.
Since the start of any Canyon hike is at the edge of a colossal chasm, most people tend to forget that what goes down must come back up, not an easy task for Joe Six pack, shuffling down the trail, hanging on to a giant Slurpee and dragging the little woman and his slightly overweight offspring down with him into the pit. Not a day goes by that not some poor slob needs to be hauled out on a mule by the park Rangers or, when things go really sideways, gets choppered out to the nearest hospital or morgue. At every trail head there are giant warning signs not to hike down to the river and back up in one day and to make it stick they show pictures of some athletic build "ubermensch", the marathon kind, who tried, failed and perished along the trail.
It must have been the fourth or fifth night that we were parked at the campground when he showed up, sitting comfortably on the left side of the bed, babbling away about God knows what and everything in between. I managed to wake up from his sanctimonious sermonizing, got dressed, grabbed a few things on my way out the door and found my way to a trail before the sun came up and hoofed it down to the river where I had a warm beer and a bite to eat. During the summer the temperature at the bottom of the canyon can be anywhere from 40 to 50 C, a challenge for even the most sophisticated little cooler. I was able to make it back to the lodge before the lounge closed down. Afterwards I managed to crawl back to the motor home where I got a severe tongue lashing from those who pretend to care about "paps" when they found out what I had been up to before I passed out.
I didn't see Ralph again until a few weeks ago when we had just arrived in Boekelo, over come by jet lag and exhausted from sterile airplane food, cheap beer and the overnight trip.

I left Enschede in the winter of 79 on a planned one year sabbatical that would take me 5 years to complete and didn't see Ralph again until the fall of '84. I'd send him a postcard now and then but since he had moved, a disturbingly questionable habit he would keep up, he didn't have a clue as to what kind of mischief I had been up to. He didn't doubt for one second that my path would end up in a trail of broken dreams, tears and perhaps even jail. When I finally tracked him down and looked him up I gave him and Birgitte no cause to change their opinion. On the contrary, he seemed elated with the notion that I was seeking my fortune and fame on the other side of the pond. I continued sending him an update once in a while regarding whatever nut cracking crisis was looming over me while he would keep me informed on the by now ever expanding Herder clan. I would find my way home at least once a year but we mostly kept track of each other's adventures by mail. He'd tell me about the solid advice he got from the old man regarding challenging business practices such as insuring his exports against corrupt hacks trying to take him for a ride and I would let him know about the wonderful benefits of ganja when hiking through Ghorapani on the Annapurna trail or the pitfalls of trying to find a cold beer in Mombassa. Now and then I'd run into him, not for lack of trying but mostly because of timing issues. We'd  have a few beers, laugh about the old days and true to form he'd give me another "bier viltje" with once again another address where he could be reached before we went our separate ways. Once in a blue moon I'd find him hanging out at one of the places on the west side of the "oude markt". He had gradually abandoned his old hangouts and had gotten into the habit of hanging out with the rabble that would prefer places like "de Kater" and similar establishments. Although I found it exhausting to work my way through such a brutal crowd, all drinking heavily and dressed the same way, looking like drunk bank tellers on a binge, jabbering away about the same old bullshit, I always hoped that I would find my old friend, the pirate, pretending to be just another "burger", living the good life,  forever on the hunt to make ends meet. Sometimes I would. Upon seeing me he would make up some kind of believable nasty excuse, turn his back to his drinking buddies, perhaps protecting me from them and vice versa and we'd share a few drinks for old times sake, avoiding discussing anything contemporary but instead hashing up a few tales from the past, preferably in a low voice as not to raise any suspicion that all was not as it seemed with Mr. Herder.

Once I ran into him and as usual,  he managed to pull himself away from his posse and join me for a few at the bar. However this time around he was less concerned with those around him and we guzzled down quite a few more then he would usually allow me to buy him. While staring in his glass he told me that things hadn't worked out between Birgitte and himself and that he now had shacked up with a girl, four more kids and that they were one big happy family like the Brady bunch but without the white picket fence. It was disconcerning about the offhanded way he was trying to tell me about such a dramatic change in his life. I knew that this was the farthest thing from his mind when he started out with Brigitte. He was a private person and having to admit to himself and others that things were not as peachy as they should have been could not have been easy. We had a few more, closed of our session with a shooter and I wished him well and then watched him stagger off to his regular crowd.
A few years passed before I ran into him again. By now I knew where to find him if he was out on the town. I had made my way back with the whole gang, Jan and our 3 kids, attending another  wild and wacky  traditional family function of dubious origin. A few of my friends and associates had also flown in to see Jan and to check on the quality of our offspring. While the ladies stayed at home, trading secrets as how to keep their men in line, I dragged the boys downtown to check out if the beer was still as good as I always had been raving about whenever I was in their illustrious company. As per tradition we stopped for a few at Ralph's hangout, to the dismay of my guests, who expected a different, somewhat more stimulating setting for a night on the town. After more then just a few beers I found my way to the bathroom upstairs, staring at the wall listening to Frank Sinatra, Bennett, or some other washed out has-been plying his ugly trade when all of a sudden the guy next to me whacks me on the shoulder, looks at me like a fox who had just found the key to the chicken coop and yells "Hot damn Wim, what are you doing here?!" I stuffed my business in my pants and before I even had a chance to wash my hands he gave me a bear hug, right there in the middle of the men's bathroom. To see my old friend, the Pirate, in all his fiendish glory was such an unexpected treacherous twist of fate and overwhelming treat that I hugged him right back before he could come back to his senses, which he did when someone else walked into the bathroom and ran right back out when he saw us doing the jig. He had a fine twinkle in his eyes, a devil may care attitude and smiled with his whole being. God, it had been more then 20 years but here he was, all juiced up and unrepentent, the boy I knew so well and had been looking for all these years whenever I'd find my way home. We talked, laughed and cried until both of us reluctantly rejoined our respective parties. We finally had reached an age where we both had met our fair share of the bitter realities
of life allowing us to overlook each other's perceived shortcomings. From there on in I was always able to find the boy inside the man he had become.

We kept in touch and on occasion I'd phone him, harassing him viciously, either threatening to come over to drag him away from his beloved business so I could lay a hideous beating on him or at least accuse him of being a goofy sex fiend just to hear him laugh. No matter where I'd find myself on January 24th., I would phone him, hoping to find him healthy and juiced up. The last time I talked to him he had just phoned my place, interrogated my kids for a while since I wasn't home and had left specific instructions that I should phone him back. We talked for a while about the economy, portfolio's, blah, blah, blah but then the conversation slowly started bending over to parents, kids and life in general. He became emotionally engaged when I suddenly realised he was doing it in front of Andrea. I didn't feel quite right and I remember a cold shiver running up my spine and asking him several times if he was ok. He never budged but neither did he retreat into his arrogant alter ego whenever things didn't go his way. I knew something was up. I knew it. I goddamn Fucking knew it............................................................... It just failed to register because I had 3 teenage kids, a meeting to attend, stocks to trade or bonds to buy, dogs to walk, a cake to bake or some other make belief inconsequential crisis to attend to. 

It's been 2 years since he's been gone. I hope he got to roll around naked in front of a roaring fire squeezing his woman, I hope he hugged his kids as often as he could, jumped up and down on the couch whenever his team scored, went goofy with a few good mates, enjoyed long walks in the snow with a dog following his every move and got to freak out on everyone giving him grief. To some these things might not seem to fit with the person they knew but he was all that and more.
I'm finally starting to grow up and only now, in the middle of a full and rewarding life, understand the full measure of our old friendship and the values that sustained it. I would have loved coming full circle and still wonder about where that ride would have taken us but, alas, it wasn't meant to be, the shithead upstairs called him home, whatever that means, and the world got to be a lesser place.

I'm sure that my own erratic journey will have me looking for the "edge" time and time again and perhaps will take me over it one of these days. Maybe we'll see each other there so we can catch up,
Until that day old friend,

Willem

Ralph, the latter years, '76-'79

Friday morning, 10.30.
Just walked in the door, feeling all warm and cozy, proud of myself for getting out of bed on time, shortly after the kids left and having put in a hard day at work. Yes, boys and girls, it's the Weekend, the kids will be tortured at school for at least another 4 or 5 hours while I get to light up the fireplace, real logs, thank you very much, prep a pitcher of margarita's and put up my feet and take another walk down memory lane. It's pretty tough to relate to a word like "work" when you've been self employed or unemployed for the last 30 years or so. Not that I don't keep myself busy. It's always been "all in" regardless what kind of trouble I got myself into or not.

This thing with Ralph has drawn itself out now for over 2 years and in order to put the issue to rest, or at least make some kind of concerted effort to get him to stop haunting my dreams, I find myself irresistibly drawn to my laptop in the den by the fire, my pc in my office or the Ipad when I'm on the road. We just returned from Enschede, where we spent Christmas and New Years with the family.  Good times, kids got to blow up things, my oldest daughter got to hang out with a few friends and run around the town until the early hours,  an activity outlawed here in big, bad , beautiful B.C. unless your 19 years or older. Politicians, a politically correct alternative for swine, have chosen to stick to a fairly narrow, atavistic concept of what B.C youngsters should be exposed to therefore condemning a sizable group of our community to seeking solace in drinking in dark places, getting pedophiles to ply them with alcohol, preteen motherhood and a whole array of other mind bending avoidable societal problems.
Anyway we stayed at a resort in Boekelo, Bad Boekelo. The old wave pool has been turned into a pond, fountain and all and the large pool had been filled in. In its place they had constructed a four story gleaming concrete hulk, " het apartementen complex" that reminded me of the old jail in Almelo. Jan and I used to go out for walks in the morning and at times I would stumble across some reminders of the good old days like where Ralph and I would spread our towels between the wave pool and the large pool, out on the concrete, a strategic location allowing us to google, a fine word and already part of our vocabulary 40 years ago, all that the female species had to offer. Most of the time we'd have our backs to the sun, hiding the tent in our shorts, snickering away at our devious ways.

Ralph's first year at the HTS was about just as rewarding as my last year at the MTS. We talked about the possibility of me continuing on to the HTS thus being able to hang out more often but we both had gotten so frustrated with what our future prospects would be that the ugly truth was rearing its head and the beastly consequences of a road less traveled became unavoidable. There was no way that either one of us was going to work for any considerable time for someone else and feel good about it. I already had gone through my first job interview where some sick company prick wouldn't shut up about the fantastic benefits, including a generous pension plan, should I be so privileged as to fit into the fold. Ralph tried to soften the blow by generously supplying me with numerous beverages after that horrible, depressing experience but I never really got over it. Whenever things, during the early days with my own company, did not go as planned and the panic and drama of running my own show would be so overwhelming that a steady pay check looked damn attractive I only had to think of that poor sod sitting in his office firing off all that gibberish. No other motivation was needed to double my efforts to turn things around.

It became frighteningly clear that we were on a very slippery slope indeed and that darker days were ahead. The unrestrained madness of the early years would once in a while still guide our ways but the joke was over and life kept us reminding that the piper had to be payed. We both got ready to throw in the towel on the education road to nowhere allowing us to graduate to the next stage of our journey that inescapably would involve our debt to our beloved homeland. The Army. Ralph tried everything to convince the powers that be, that he was a raving lunatic and should be locked up before someone  would teach him how to load, or even worse, how to aim and shoot a gun. However he failed to convince anyone during the "keuring" although I did offer to put in a few words on his behalf agreeing fully with Ralph's own assessment that he should be locked up and put on strong medication. It was not meant to be, they wanted him. He was devastated, blaming his mom, then his dad for not putting in enough of an effort when he was conceived. He was 198 cm tall by now and he would have gotten his walking papers at 200 cm. The Dutch draft board was not interested in clothing, let alone feeding, those who had reached that magic mark. Weeks before he had to go in for his medical check up, he started whacking the bottom of his feet to speed up the growth of hideous calluses but the extra 2 cm kept eluding him. During the written test he pretended to be a "boer" from the backwoods of Twente, a genuine Tukker, the product of too much inbreeding in a closed and ignorant culture, answering every question with a convincing absurdity, not realising that these wonderful characteristics would make him extremely eligible to join Her Majesty's Royal Forces. At the end of it he just gave up. He knew it was fate and  that an inescapable great doom was upon him. I didn't fare much better.

I got my notice at the end of 77, 78 and I think they hauled him in at around the same time. Chance would have it that for a while we were stationed on the same base somewhere on the Veluwe, het Harde. An appropriate name, it hardened him. It made a man out of him alright but not the kind of man that would easily be manipulated by the bullshit that the Army was laying on us day in, day out. He did not like to be told what to do by some kind of second rate shithead who just happen to have a few stripes on his shoulder. He just fucking hated it with all his being, almost as much as I did.  However he handled it a lot smarter. Obstinacy, violent tendencies and an embedded dislike of all forms of authority would make the brig my second home and I would spent many a night there. At times I would run into him whenever they'd march me back to jail and he'd be hobbling along on his crutches, pretending to have gangrene, polio or some other hard to diagnose horrible flesh eating  disease. He would look at me slyly, grinning from ear to ear, because the Doctor, a sickly little shyster, easy pickings for a sublime con artist of Ralph's caliber, had once again signed the papers that he was better of resting at HOME for the next month or so. Whenever I did find my way home, having done my time, I would inevitably run into him at one of the local dance halls. And, Praise the Lord, a miracle, he'd once again would have full control over all his limbs and be running around like a  man possessed, daring anyone to best him on the dance floor or at the bar for that matter. It was a good gig and he had my blessing although at times I was sorely tempted to rat him out so that we could share a jail cell together.

I still had my apartment downtown, "op de oude markt", above the Pimpelaar, the pub where I used to help out whenever I needed the cash. By now a wide variety of artists, pot heads, punks, bouncers, long haired bozo's, musicians and other degenerates pretending to be my friends were able to find my doorbell. It was Party Central and if not then people knew that I'd be raising hell somewhere in the immediate vicinity. De Pijp was one the places within crawling distance and another one of my favorite hangouts. It was also Ralph's older sister's favorite place. She was a lush (who couldn't hold her liquor), a dope head and a looker and inevitably would always attract a string of "admirers" looking for an easy score. At times I was able to scare them off however she had a taste for the more adventurous but darker characters that were so prominent in Enschede's bar scene.  Trying to persuade her to leave and seek her kicks in a more appropriate environment was like trying to guide a psychotic horse through a burning barn. At times she was completely berserk and she'd be raving incoherently about God knows what and it be hell on wheels to get her into a cab. One night she ended up at one of my parties and we both ran amok and became completely twisted and got along splendidly, maybe a bit to well.
Ralph by that time was shying away from the downtown scene and preferred going crazy in a more private setting. Sometimes we would end up in Marloes's house and by now Robin would join us for a few beers. We'd sit around, shoot the shit, giggle and assault each other because of our strikingly opposing different political views. Robin and Ralph became natural allies, although Robin was in the midst of one of his last soul searching episodes. His affinity for excessive alcohol consumption and mayhem forced his hand my way for about 6 months but he never caved in to such an extent as to give up his love for the good life as he understood it. I on the other hand would look for guidance to Mencken, Freek de Jonghe and other like minded freaks. I never did find a party where I could hang my political hat. A free enterprise party, for sure, but one that would be able to attract a dynamic, inclusive and interesting crowd, not the usual bunch of  naysayers, greedy scumbags, yahoo's and "galbakken" that made up the VVD with Wiegel at the helm, Ralph and Robins preferred vehicle to bliss and happiness. One time Ralph got so worked up that he jumped up on the couch, frustrated that he once again had failed to convince me of the righteousness of his beliefs and proclaimed exasperated that surely my ties to my past and my family made me a natural ally of the PvdA horde, therefore failing to see the Light and doomed to a bleak future. I went completely of my rocker, no holds barred because this was the first time that he was pegging me, something so out of character that I didn't know how to put it into perspective. We gave it to each other and for some asinine moronic reason his sister's wild wanderings slipped into the argument and that's where he lost it and we both went for the jugular. When things got physical, we suddenly realised where we were. I apologized, grabbed my coat and walked of.( Just thinking about it makes me curse the delusion of youthful idealism, not that its wrong but that its not tempered by life's realities. Not many things are black and white, there are many shades of gray and many devils hiding in the shadows)

We both pretended it never happened, but it did and played itself out in our friendship. For a while we teamed up with Robin, Paul, Marloes, Helen and Astrid, got to hang out together in Delft at Paul's dorm parties, terrorized the bars in Oldenzaal during Carnaval and I even went so far as to travel to Pau, a place on the northern side of the Pyrenees where he had a girlfriend. He begged me to drive down and give him a few directions as to how make things work out between him and his French Belle but I only managed to introduce her to the wonderful wacky world of Mr. Crazy. It cured him from ever seeking my advice again regarding his romantic involvements. He liked the fiery tempers of the Spanish and French ladies however shortly after a few doomed foreign affairs he ended up in Losser, dating a native girl, Brigitte, that he would end up marrying. It struck me as odd that he should be the one, setting up house, in such a traditional way, banning the old Ralph to a mere memory. I felt ambivalent about where his gig was heading because I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that the old warrior had just packed it in. He settled down and although he'd come out for a few drinks now and then, he no longer drifted of into bouts of  fearsome anarchy and uncontrolled mayhem. The two of them were a good fit, he loved her and she was able to keep that temper of his in check. I saw them sporadically and had them over for dinner but our paths slowly separated. He was getting ready to chase his dreams while I was itching to find mine.

Ralph, the wild years, '72-'76

Thursday morning.
It's still about -8 out but the experts have us believe that the Arctic assault is about to morph into a freezing rainstorm of monstrous proportions. The morning news dedicated a whole segment of their program to  two wackos, professional survivalists, hell bent on demonstrating their skills and full of bile and good advice as to how to live through a mind boggling disaster with such hideous consequences that the world, as we know it, will seize to exist. It is 2012 after all.
Well, that's asking for a drink if nothing else.
Coffee and Baileys, perhaps even two, breakfast, 3 eggs, lamb sausage, a generous portion of beef bacon, hash browns, another coffee minus the Baileys but with just a hint of Amaretto, 2 glasses of orange juice and fresh fruit with yogurt to top it all off.
A quick shower and hot damn, ready to conquer another perfectly flawed winter day.

Ralph decided to remain at "Zuid" and switch to the HAVO however moving our show to the Borneostraat held no appeal to me. I decided on the MTS in Hengelo, a weird choice, granted, one that I would come to question repeatedly. Fortunately our proclivity for the bizarre had cemented our friendship to such an extent that this was not really an issue. Whenever we could we would seek each others company, forever on the prowl for bigger and better things or trouble. For a while we dabbled in the paper route business, dropping of leaflets at an excruciating insane low rate. The only way we were able to make any money at it was to forget about the prescribed route, seek out whatever apartment buildings we could find, stuff every mailbox with 3 or 4 leaflets ( to emphasize the great deals that our employer had to offer) and burn the rest of the rubbish, behind The Factory, out of sight of any prying eyes. The gig didn't last very long, we made some money and convinced the "Boss" not to press any charges.
Soon after that little episode I managed to get onto the "bar board" of the Bijenkorf, a youth society in the Walstraat, slinging beer behind the bar. Unpaid work, a nasty thought for sure, but with certain, enticing benefits. Free entrance to concerts (every Saturday night) for the both of us, free beer when no one was looking and close interaction with the female species. It was the mid Seventies, long hair preferred, smoking was cool, craziness optional and dancing a must. Ralph's spastic and uncontrolled  excentric suave moves on the dance floor, trying to keep up with the band's own inexplicable version of Stairway To Heaven while wearing my secondhand rabbit fur coat never failed to brighten my  evening and to give him credit, attracted the attention of a sizable following.
He knew his music though. I remember listening to an album by Steely Dan while he was ripping my room apart on the prowl for something to shame me with when I noticed him singing along to one of the lesser known tracks. I almost did a 180 when he said: Yeah, I know these guys, Fagan and his boys.". "Holy mother of God,"  I screeched at him, " what have you been smoking and why have you not been sharing?" I just never imagined him to be on the up and up on the finer little diddies that the magic of Music had to offer. Well, he loved the Eagles although for the longest time he referred to their album Desperado as "El Dorado", a wishful Freudian slip I'm sure, he had no use for Freddy Mercury and the boys, a bunch of goddamn faggots as far as he was concerned, even before it was common knowledge that Freddy was leaning that way and the media got on to the "politically correct" bandwagon. Pink Floyd, Micky and the Stones, Fleetwood Mac and a whole slough of others would put him firmly into my corner as far as music was concerned.  Unlikely as it may seem Andre van Duin's feeble attempts as a legitimate performer also had a place in his musical library. He knew the words to "Willempie" by heart and  the bastard would belt them out viciously while dragging me by my shoulders through the streets of Oldenzaal during Carnaval. "Bier her, oder ich fall um" and "Als wij naar Korea gaan" were another few of his favorites when he was completely lushed out and ready and willing to do just about anything.
Being part of the Bijenkorf opened up a whole new avenue of opportunities and acquaintances. My choice of joining the bar board was a strategic move considering a high percentage of people on the board were fun, frivolous and female. Janine, Helen, Marloes and Astrid were to become good friends as far as that is possible during the troubling and oh so confusing teenage years. Marloes de Groot was the first young woman ever whom I felt a very strong connection with and it scared the living hell out of me. The Fear that I felt whenever she was around was paralysing and almost drove me crazy with lewdness and lust. She was fun to be around, easy to talk to and smart. I kept seeing her during those years although it never led any further then innuendo and wishful thinking. However by remaining just friends we got to know her brothers, Paul and especially Robin, who would play a significant role in Ralph's future adventures.

We both signed up for dance lessons, the traditional kind and that's were Ralph's romantic side came to full blossom. He was a graceful dancer and unlike me he loved swirling the ladies around. I preferred the slow moving, groin churning moves but he would have none of it. He was  a confident leading man and the girls loved being whisked away in Ralph's arms.
The lessons were on Thursdays but Sunday night at 8 was the Big Night. Everyone would come out and show off. I would usually make my way to Ralph's place at around seven, go upstairs and beat the crap out of the boxing ball that was so prominently featured in the middle of his room while he got himself ready. On one of these nights I was about to run upstairs when he yelled at me hysterically not to come upstairs but to wait in the living room instead and keep his dad company. By that time I had gotten used to the old man's habits. I was perfectly at ease with seeing him hanging out on the couch, focused on his newspaper while he would sporadically look in my direction with a mischievous smile. After about 10 minutes Ralph came downstairs however he refused to come into the room but instead wanted me to join him in the hallway. It was quite dark so I turned on the light and instantly all hell broke loose starting with Ralph screeching at me like a rat on crack. Holy fucking Jesus, I almost didn't recognize him. The sick bastard had once again raided his mom's make-up cabinet but this time around had helped himself to  such an ungodly amount of self tanning lotion to hide his persistent puber pimples that he looked like a giant "Molukker" with white hands and a white neck, bent on inflicting serious bodily harm to the first Whitey crossing his path. I ended up helping him out by smearing some more of this unholy concoction on the spots that still showed white, not an easy task considering I couldn't stop laughing (Even now, the memory of him scurrying around like a doomed rat praying for a miracle, has me in stitches) and had to run off to the bathroom every few minutes. That was the only night at the dance studio that he refused to come out into the light and dazzle everyone with his moves.

Cars.
Aaaah, we loved cars. Not so much as a status thing but more like a means to get from A to B, A being Enschede and B being anywhere else but Enschede. We probably were about 17 or 18 when we figured out how to get his dad's Mustang out of the garage when nobody was around. His parents had a  demanding social life and were often engaged elsewhere and neither did we worry too much about his sisters. It was the two weasels, Sjon and Sjarl that we had to keep track of.
 (My lack of respect for his brothers is entirely my own. I have never heard Ralph say one bad word about anyone in his family although he knew I was able to recognize the pain in his eyes. He would look away, embarrassed by this display of emotion. I never called him on it except once, causing both of us to freak out and in my case a heartache that still has to heal and perhaps never will)
The garage was so narrow that we used to push the bugger onto the driveway to minimize the chance of scratching up the sides and consequently having to immigrate to Brazil, penniless, broke and beaten, escaping the wrath of the old man who loved his faux pas green American made muscle car.  In those days there wasn't a highway to be had within 30 miles so to still feel the thrill of having the music full blast, windows open and see at least 130 on the speedometer we would take the monster out onto the Losserse or Oldenzaalse straat, where at one time we almost crushed a car filled with Benedictine nuns, then hit the Noord Esmarkerondweg, spent some time terrorizing the not so friendly folks in Stokhorst, throw a few empty bottles of beer in who's ever garden while shouting that we"d be back later to "settle up" and then hightail it back to the Varviksingel, just in time to finish our homework like the two well behaved young men we once were. For whatever dark reason Ralph always had an ace and an insult up his sleeve when it came to the Stokhorst crowd. He spoke the right language, carried himself accordingly and had all the credentials to join the rabble at the Kater and Cockneys but he refused to cater to the lowest common denominator. He had no use for pretentious chicanery and was quick and vicious in his judgment of the nouveau riche.

Partying, hitting the town and making the rounds with Ralph was always an adventure and not to be taken lightly. He was a walking time bomb, ticking away, ready to go off at even the slightest provocation, real or imagined. More then once I had to step into the breach and quiet things down and save the day thanks to my friends and contacts from the old days and my activities in Enschede's pub scene. By now I was working on the weekends at the Pimpelaar, either behind the bar or at the door, and it gave me some credibility with those who were more then willing and utterly capable of giving Ralphie the trashing that he always seemed to be asking for. On the other hand you couldn't wish for a more loyal friend to have your back when things got a bit dicey. I always enjoyed the adrenalin rush that came with the prospects of having to go a few round and so did he. Neither of us would budge and more then once I would see a twinkle in his eye when things got heated. Our saving grace was that we both hated, no, HATED losing. Anything. Ping pong, soccer, love, work, fighting, you name it. That knowledge mellowed him years ahead of me, eons before I fully understood that certain battles cannot be won and therefore should not be fought unless you can change the odds and still come out ahead. He started growing up then, trying to find his place in the scheme of things and taking full responsibility for his actions. It took the edge of that hot temper of his and served him well while I on the other hand just got started.

Ralph, the early years, '69-'72

Yeh Gods, what the hell happened.
Where is the rain?
Some deranged washed out barbie doll on the tube is trying to tell us with a glee in her left eye that the temperature has dropped to minus 10 and that things are about to get a whole lot worse. Snow. Imagine that. Finally an opportunity to take out the Hummer and strike fear into the local populace. This is not the time nor the place to show off your sophisticated little overpriced European or Japanese speedster. Those of us who appreciate the muscle of an American made gas guzzler are out in force. How's the bumper, Bubba? Do you even have one?
Jeremiah's, the place where those of us who appreciate a few beverages right after lunch congregate, is only a few blocks away from the old homestead however it took me about half an hour to get there. Vancouver drivers are notorious for going to pieces the moment the temperature drops below zero and the white stuff is starting to cover our gentle tree lined streets. I used to stop and help out whenever another poor sod would wrap his Lexus or Beemer around a streetlight however I'm no longer in the mood to get my hands dirty. Fuck them. Serves you right, freak. Weren't you the one last week that almost sideswiped our local homeless binner when he tried crossing the road with his Safeway card? Where's the smirk now, shithead.
Fortunately things at the pub are a bit more relaxed, almost civil except for the sniveling and whining from the usual suspects and associated wino's. Nothing that cannot be resolved by a free round of  cold beverages. Contrary to my usual destitute circumstances I happen to have a few big bills in my wallet compliments of the friendly folks at Revenue Canada making me the Go To Guy of the day for the regulars. However my new found wealth has allowed me to pay a few bills, taking off the pressure so to speak. I have a few glorious hours to myself which I'm not planning on spending with Bob, Bill, Bert and the other Bozo's but instead with my trusted little laptop.

I think it was in the summer of '69 when Ralph and I crossed paths for the first time. We both had graduated from Elementary school and were now considered sufficiently prepared to enter Junior High. He was a tall lad for his age and that combined with his haughty demeanor made him stand out from the rest of the rabble when we were called into the "aula" to find out who our classmates were going to be. He was standing right beside me, towering over me while looking down his nose at me, a pose I would come to know well. His polished manners and "kak" (but unlike so many others not "kale kak") arrogance was only outdone by my "volksbuurt" and " you want a piece of me" arrogance. Mutual animosity was instantaneous and was raised to even higher levels when we found out that we were in the same class. It only took a few weeks before things came to a head. Without any effort at all Ralph was instantly invited to hang with the cool group while I sought out those with darker motives and looked for coolness in all the wrong places. One morning, while parking my bike, I happened to bump into Ralph's bicycle and crashed it to the ground in full view of Ralph and his posse. Shit hit the fan and not before long we were having a go at each other and that's where I got to meet Mr. "Driftkikker" for the first time. He lost his cool and went completely berserk making me the object of his fury. However I had been there before and this wasn't the first potential beating I had been able to face up to. He seemed surprised that I was very capable of dishing out as much, and then some, as I was taking and that only enraged him further. Things took an unexpected turn when a boy from my neighbourhood got involved, a known thug with promising criminal tendencies, who felt that the conflict had gone on long enough and made it clear in no uncertain terms that the show was over. Ralph felt strongly that as far as he was concerned the matter was far from settled and he was threatening half heartily to get his older brothers involved to even the odds.
(I didn't know Sjarl and Sjon at the time but over the years I would consider the two of them about as useless as tits on a bull and compared to Ralph's character and integrity not fit enough to shine his shoes. Neither one of them would have had the balls or the skills to peel me off )
 It took us a few weeks to push beyond that first close encounter and act with a certain measure of civility towards each other and another few months or so to realise that although we were from opposing backgrounds we had enough in common to be on speaking terms.

It took Ralph about a year to abandon the rules imposed upon him by the cool group, just about the same time it took me to stop the slide into minor thuggery and mischief so easily associated with Enschede's  "a-sociale" underclass. My burgeoning friendship with Ralph allowed me to envision a different path forward. Even as a young man Ralph already looked at the future as a place of limitless opportunities, not limitations. So many people with similar backgrounds like mine end up believing the bullshit that they are fed in their younger years and already, at a very young age, started building the walls of their own prison. " Ai veur 'n dubbeltje geborn bint woi nooit 'n kwatje."(If you were born to be a dime, you'll never be a quarter) How many young minds have been corrupted with these types of vicious, hope killing, dream dashing, self imposed class based obscenities? Buoyed by Ralph's infectious confidence and hard hitting, demanding and unforgiving rules that characterized our relationship I was able to escape a path that until then I would have considered unavoidable or probably not even would have recognized as such. He gave as much as he took.

We solidified our friendship in our second year of high school and started showing up at each other's homes. Ralph was always quite comfortable visiting our small apartment while I on the other hand needed a few months to rid myself of a gnawing feeling that somehow I didn't belong whenever I was sitting at his kitchen table in, what at the time seemed like a ginormous kitchen, wolfing down a sandwich all the while talking to his mom. Although his older brothers never could shake their unrelenting quest for validating their position as upcoming make belief top dogs, Ralph never suffered such delusions. In those days he never even so much as hinted at our strikingly different backgrounds. We were friends and that was that. His mom and sisters were easy to get along with however it took me a few more years to feel comfortable whenever his dad was around. At that time he was still Mr. Herder, The Director, a mover and a shaker, a giant among mortal men, as far as I was concerned.

We both had little use for school and it showed in our marks. Most of Ralph's posse had moved on to the HAVO/VWO on the Borneostraat while my gang was slowly but surely finding their way to the Ambachtschool and Huishoudschool. Ralph and I ended up somewhere in the middle, at the MAVO on the Jan Vermeerstraat. We were both surprised by our mediocre results and promised each other solemnly that should financial independence not be within our grasp by the time we'd turn 25, we would try our hand at crime and other associated career defining occupations. Not that far of a reach for me but quite a leap for Ralph, considering he was absolutely serious. We picked up smoking well before our fifteenth birthday, started listening to the kind of music that had our parents shaking their heads and our conversations  increasingly involved such fun topics like sex, politics ( his hero was Wiegel while I believed that they were all useless and should be hanged at the first opportunity except for boer Koekoek (or was it boer Kroepoek?) not that it makes a hell of a difference), sex, religion ( we both liked Buddhism for its pacifist tenets although we both believed that structured violence and  uncompromising massive retaliation was an acceptable alternative), sex, mopeds ( he was about to inherit his brother's Puch while I was considering a souped up German made speed freak, a Zundapp), sex, our female classmates and of course, sex.

By the time we moved onto grade 4 of the MAVO we both were in a process of letting our hair down, literally, and due to the potential violent aspirations for our future, had moved away from mainstream high school thinking and settled in for some unconventional extra curricular activities. Early into that school year a friend of mine "van de buurt" got caught stealing a moped on a dare, took off on the bastard like Evil Knievel and within minutes drove into a steel post, crushing his ribs and puncturing his lungs. His death affected me to such an extent that during one our classes I started losing it. Not able to get a grip on myself, my classmates had a pretty good time giving in to some of the darker aspects of the human psyche. When Ralph, now almost 195 cm tall, clued in, he once again turned to his alter ego, Mr. Driftkikker, and invited anyone who felt so inclined to come outside. We never talked about it, didn't have to. Loyalty stood at the core of our shared journey .

This was also the year that we discovered alcohol and its associated benefits. Beer was not really our thing then, however red wine was another matter altogether. He was a lush, a fellow traveler, and to see him lay down that thin veneer of control, discipline and sense of self and have it replaced by a raving wild man, singing along at the top of his lungs with Mick and the boys, rolling of his bike into the nearest ditch all the while laughing hysterically, was a hoot. God, he was a monster, a true villain right after my own heart. Cheap red wine became our beverage of choice whenever we found our way to "het kippenhok", an illegal drinking establishment in Boekelo, managed by Seine Snippe, one of our classmates and a fellow crackerjack. Our  dark habits and expeditions into the countryside demanded an ever increasing financial commitment and it was at that time that Ralph started developing a keen interest in supplementing our allowance with something more then just spare change. He conned his dad, a firm believer in teaching his rambunctious offspring the value of hard work, into letting us work at The Factory, during Christmas break. We started out in the "lasdoppen" department, a hellish and fiendish environment, noisy, dirty, just the right place for two young lads who were up to no good. Ralph did more then his fair share of the daily workload, much to the surprise of the old man and not before long we were both promoted to the "casting department" where we were taught how to make fake, authentic looking fireplace logs, an enterprise that would play such a feature role in Ralph's future career. He never asked or demanded any preferential treatment, either from his dad or from the department staff, worked diligently and got along amicably with everyone. however since our casting schedule did not always coincide with the regular coffee breaks we usually slithered into the "kantine" when everyone else was gone so we could have the ping pong table to ourselves. Since he was unable to outwork me, blue collar background and all that (and an unhealthy portion of stubbornness not to let the arrogant prick best me) we would work ourselves into a frenzy over a game of ping pong. It is there where we worked on our ever expanding cursing vocabulary. He was a better player then me but not by much and at times I would walk away, the Victor. And did he hate to loose! He would not talk to me but instead mumble and babble incoherently to himself, then move on to threatening  me with relentless beatings while I could not get enough of rubbing his nose in his downfall. His antics made me laugh until I cried which would infuriate him even further. Honor would not be restored until the next time he once again would reign supreme.
Just came back from the bar where I ended up freaking out a few regulars by downing in quick succession 2 double Balvenie's, no ice, straight up. My eyes were sweating and needed something a tad stronger then a cold Heini.
It was customary in those days that all workers would get a "kerstpakket" to take home during the holidays. Ralph was able to bypass my obstructive independent nature to such an extent that he cajoled me into taking his share of the loot also. On our way home that evening we cycled by my grandma's place  and dropped of one of the baskets. By then I knew his heart well enough to know that it mattered to him for all the right reasons.

On January 24, 1973 he showed at our apartment, proudly showing of a silver coloured wreck that he referred to as his kick-ass bike. He graciously offered to pull me all the way to school and I ended up hanging on for dear life, almost ripping off the sleeve of his jacket, while he showed off how fast the bugger could run. Of and on we kept up this scenario until my birthday, a month and a half later when I proudly showed off my ride, less elegant but a lot faster. It took about a week until we decided to switch bikes as to figure out what all the fuss was about. I ended up taking his Puchje to the max, loosing complete control and parking it under the front tire of a tractor on a lonely country road. While I'm pinned under the goddamn tractor with the farmer shouting all kinds of obscenities at me, Ralph is desperately trying to pull his bike from underneath the vehicle. He was at his best, prime form, even the farmer took a few steps back and managed to keep his mouth shut while Ralph was having a fit. When he realised that I was not hurt he did his utmost to break one of my legs but, alas, his attempts came to naught and we ended up hauling his bike, I mean I ended up hauling his bike back to the shop while he tried desperately to outperform me on my bike. We decided that the only course of action was to head back to the casting department at The Factory for Easter break thus allowing me to pay for the damage.

Despite our best efforts we graduated that summer.