In my regular supermarket yesterday morning I ran into an old, severely demented colleague. An artist. He asked if I knew him and then listed all his successes. A small row. According to himself, he forgot a few highlights. I do not think so. Then he thought he knew me from somewhere. I said I had no idea what that could be. Neither does he.
While I continued to fill my basket, he addressed another customer with exactly the same tune. Again, according to him, he forgot some of his own successes. The situation moved me and while walking home I fantasized about a future supermarket in thirty years, in 2053, in which all kinds of former celebrities with crumbling brains may approach customers with the question whether that customer still remembers who he or she is.
Suddenly I see a confused Glennis Grace claiming to be Whitney Houston, when you thought she had a lifetime supermarket ban. Or a fragile Frank Masmeijer who claims with an open sack of flour that it is unadulterated Colombian stuff, while only Thierry looks on with interest. Or a smooth-talking Mark Rutte, who shows an old lady his collection of penitents. “I always wore the one with those tears after every Groningen debate, that discolored rag always hung outside on the rotary clothesline and I then wore it after an afternoon of chatting about the Supplementary Affair. Why was it hanging outside? Because he was evicted.” Old Mark himself has a good laugh at this. Then he shows a burqa that he wore after every asylum debate and a farmer’s smock.
“From pure nitrogen,” jokes the former prime minister. Nobody laughs.
The gossip magazines probably have Gordon muttering to himself, who can’t understand that he’s not in one of the magazines. “And Eloise does,” he scoffs at Thijs Römer, who in a Tina is browsing. Meanwhile, everyone hears the blazing argument in the office between the elderly Matthijs van Nieuwkerk and a screaming Dennis Wiersma. It’s about who they think is in charge of this store.
“Me”, shouts 101-year-old Johan Remkes and lights a cigarette. Meanwhile, some Belgian corps balls are scurrying around. They search under the scaffolding for mouse bodies and rat carcasses. With bleach and used tampons, a nice cocktail is made of it. For a house party. Former top lawyer Bram Moszkowicz, like his colleagues Peter Plasman and the carefully formulated couple Knoops, does not see anything criminal for the time being. Meanwhile, Wouter Koolmees stands motionless as a living statue in a corner of the shop. On his stomach a sign with the text: I am the NS!
I’m 99 myself and I have to constantly explain to everyone that I didn’t have a podcast in my working life or my own talk show.
“But everyone had their own talk show and podcast back then, right? Why not you then?” No idea.
Then a child asks if it is true that Max Verstappen only competed in Formula 1 at the end of his career if he was allowed to drive backwards. And if we were ever a monarchy?
Then Mark Rutte proudly tells everyone that he never resigned in the end. Dropped off. In 2043. Heavy-handed. By the descendants of Caroline van der Plas, who were tired of his dawdling. He thought it was really cool to drop it off.
Suddenly a still quite fit Sywert (62) passes by with seven overfull shopping trolleys. He rummages around the shelves like crazy and shouts: “Everything is free. The shopkeeper is an idealist and does it for free!”
Back to yesterday morning. After the supermarket I drank coffee in my favorite café. Before I knew it, the demented artist was also at the bar. He asked a regular drunk if he remembered him. He had no idea who he was. What was his name? The old man looked ahead for a very long time and very hesitantly and then said: “Do you know that I don’t remember myself!”
At that moment I was perfectly happy.
A version of this article also appeared in the June 10, 2023 newspaper.