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.