A cellar rat on the prowl

A CELLAR RAT ON THE PROWL
Written by Bert Plomp

In the mid-sixties, when I was about sixteen, I used to visit a variety of cellars along the wharf-side basements of the Utrecht canals every day. These cellars had been turned into pubs or coffee spots and were extremely popular with teenagers, especially those with a taste for modern music. Music by The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and other British pop artists. You could play these records on a so-called jukebox, which stood in virtually every cellar. Those jukeboxes also held plenty of soul music in those days, by artists such as Percy Sledge, James Brown and Sam & Dave. For a dime you could play one of your favourite records; for a quarter you could select three. While listening, you might drink a small cup of coffee for fifteen cents. Cellars I frequented in those days included The Cavern, Sarasani, Catacomben, De Paraplu, the Hoelahut and many other similar, shadowy vaults.
On my cellar excursions I was usually accompanied by a couple of other long-haired lads, Fred and Willem from Adriaen van Ostadelaan. When we went out for an evening, it was mainly about trying to pick up girls. We would enter a cellar with a certain nonchalant look in our eyes, quickly checking whether there were enough interesting girls around and, if so, whether they deemed us worth a glance. If not, we would disappear back into the darkness in no time. Later in the evening we would return to make another entrance, this time with a slightly more confident expression on our faces. Quite often this renewed appearance worked in our favour. Perhaps the girls now showed more interest after having taken stock. Or maybe they assumed they would have to make do with us, since no other visitors were expected that night.
Unlike other nights out, I decided on this occasion to go alone. I had the idea that it might be easier to make contact with a girl if I were on my own: it would seem less threatening. That evening I had set my sights on visiting Sarasani, a wharf cellar located on the Old Canal, at the corner with Geertestreet. Dressed in my favourite long black corduroy coat with a black fur collar, I carefully descended the steps by the Geertebridge. I was somewhat tense, as I would have to manage on my own tonight. At the bottom, I bumped into a doorman standing firmly by the entrance. The man not only had the build of a heavy vault door, but the intelligence of one as well or so his square head seemed to suggest. After this character, with a hostile look in his eyes, stepped aside, I entered the cellar.
The bar was located immediately by the entrance. There I ordered a cup of coffee. With the hot drink in my hand, I made my way to the jukebox at the back. After inserting a dime into the slot, I was about to sit back and relax while listening to my chosen record: Warm and Tender Love by Percy Sledge, casting a glance around to see whether any nice girl responded to my musical message. Without my noticing, the squat-headed doorman had crept up behind me. Suddenly he was there, ordering me to take off my coat. Seeing no reason to comply, I ignored his friendly request. It was winter, after all, and in places like Sarasani it was damp and cold even on hot summer days. Besides, my fine long coat was an essential part of my overall act. Slightly irritated, I decided to leave the doorman to his own devices and surrender myself to the sweet sounds of Percy Sledge. Half of Warm and Tender Love had already, damn it, passed. The man with the square head, however, kept insisting. To avoid trouble, I eventually decided to take off my prized coat. As I was removing it, with my back turned to the bouncer, the scoundrel suddenly began to pummel me like a madman. I could do nothing in return, not even ward off the blows, as my arms were still halfway stuck in the sleeves of my coat. As I tried to make my way towards the exit, the brute tripped me. I fell to the ground in front of the bar. As if that were not enough, the coward then kicked me several times full in the face. The owner of the bar and the other patrons did not dare lift a finger to help me. Somehow, I eventually managed to drag myself outside. Half unconscious, I lay for a while at the edge of the canal. When I regained a bit of awareness, I struggled to my feet. Once standing, I nearly toppled straight into the water. Fortunately, two girls had run outside to see how I was doing. They caught me before I could fall into the canal. Supported between them, my arms draped over their shoulders, I staggered towards Tolsteeg police station to file a report. Many passers-by must have thought I was blind drunk, the way I swayed from side to side across the street.
The violent doorman was arrested immediately after my statement. When he appeared in court, his lawyer argued mitigating circumstances. Earlier that same evening, he had allegedly been attacked by two lunatics who had thrown a chunk of kerbstone down from the bridge onto the wharf, intending to strike him and silence him for good. One of them, it was said, had long hair and wore a long black coat. I vaguely knew those lads. They came from District-C and were genuine troublemakers. The one with the long hair had dark ringlets and always carried a hefty claw hammer. His partner in crime had a sly face and was bald. Despite the mitigating circumstances, the brutal doorman was sentenced to several months behind bars.
Well, one man’s fortune is another man’s misfortune. Had the doorman been struck by that chunk of kerbstone, I might have calmly finished listening to Warm and Tender Love over a nice hot cup of coffee and returned home unscathed. On the other hand, I would probably not have wandered through the city supported by two kind and concerned girls.

END