By Gus Lemmerd
The following is a fictional tale told in the tenor and tone of what this writer, after fifty years of marital bliss shared with a real Amsterdammer; has been led to believe is the good-natured, cutting edge, caustic and cynical humor and intent of the people of historical Amsterdam, NL.
Any similarity to persons living or dead, situations, scenarios or circumstances is entirely coincidental.
The irritating ding-a-ling of the ancient rotary dial telephone echoed in the bare room. Struggling to wake up, Noteboom wasn’t able to reach it and stop the damn thing before it rang for the tenth time.
“Noteboom, here, who’s this?”
“She’s gone! I haven’t seen her or heard from her in the last three weeks. I have no idea where in the hell she might be and everyone keeps calling and asking me.”
“Whoa, slow down. What’s your name?”
“Is that all of it?”
“Well no! It’s actually Vogelpoop, but I got tired of being called birdshit, so I shortened it to Vogel.”
“I need the first and last name. Is it Vogel Poop?”
“No, dammit. Vogelpoop is my last name. My first name is KarlWillem and it’s actually van der Vogelpoop. Is all this necessary just to find her?”
“Yes, of course. And who are you looking for?”
After a cloudy and spotted career as a beat cop in the nearby metropolis of Bozeman Montana, Nigel Noteboom, had decided to go into business as a private investigator. He had resigned himself to an even slower lifestyle in hopes of finding redemption by being able to find non-threatening escapees running away from diluted and boring lives and condemned to live with people they couldn’t understand, abide or tolerate. He moved about nineteen miles west to Amsterdam, Montana