When I was a student, I had a job. It was at a youth building place in the north of Amsterdam where children could build their own house with pallets and other leftovers. These children came mainly from poor families, broken families, drunken families and other families with issues. So, you could say, the building place was a safe haven for most of them. Some were violent, to me and my colleagues.
It was long time ago, so I am not quite sure how old he was, but we became very close friends while working there. M. came to work every day with his van without a driving license . He lived on a little sailing boat. He was very poor and he was very fond of cheese. Every month on payday he went to the supermarket and while shopping he ate a pound of cheese for which was not paid yet. But he did finally of course. Sometimes we cycled to the ferry and just before embarking we stranded in a pub and drank Dutch gin all night long, eating a stroopwafel along. We slept together in a very small bed, spoonlike. That was all.
I stopped working at the building place because a little boy threatened to hit me with a bicycle chain. Two years later, after sending M. an invitation for an exhibition, his girlfriend phoned to tell me M. died on his little sailing boat.
Stop.
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