At the Van Coothplein in Breda, where we were waiting for a taxi in the midst of the summer buzz, a moped simmered past with a burly man in a white shirt and bags with advertising brochures over his luggage carrier, which radiated in everything that the high uncles at didn’t have to touch him with their sweet talk. His shoulders were sunburnt, powerful red-haired calves protruding from his short box, and as he noticed us as we passed I saw him slow down after about ten yards, turn around, and drive slowly back. “Can I ask something?” he asked when he was standing in front of us again. ‘You are Marcel van Roosmalen, aren’t you?’
Marcel van Roosmalen nodded.
The man turned off his moped, wiped his jacket on his pants and then silently thrust him forward. “Respect,” he said. ‘Respect for all you do. I am a very big fan of yours.’ He looked at us: unbelievable that he met Marcel van Roosmalen here, in his city, just like that in the wild, how was it possible. I now also looked at Marcel van Roosmalen and thought: where have we ended up?
That afternoon we had come to Breda by train to perform together at a festival. Together yes, but as soon as we entered the site I noticed the difference in standings – podcast listeners, book readers and television viewers came crawling up to him from every nook and cranny, right down to the chemical toilet, some of whom had clearly been at the festival for a while. What they wanted: chat, compliment and then for dessert a selfie, which I had to take. De Man, in a few weeks’ time smitten with all the attention for his self-created hype, has now undergone the petting resignedly but professionally. In the photo – fine. A little laugh – that’s good too. He refused only the request to lift his own 800-page book and pretend it was very heavy.
It was new, this.
For thirty years he had trudged around at meetings, gatherings, and events like these, but as fly on the wallwithout even being given a glance. And now he was suddenly the attraction himself. “Like I’ve had a magic potion,” he said after squeezing his third beer into his hands. At home we had noticed a double attitude towards success. Yes, it was great, but it was all a bit much, at times, especially in combination with a litter full of very young children. It was not the case that people were walking next to shoes, a breakthrough at 54 is really too late for that, but as far as I am concerned it was not the case that Mr. slats outdoors.
At the same time, it was sometimes difficult not to believe in it.
Recognition is a powerful thing, it’s also nice that the reports from then were paid decently with retroactive effect. Finally that start of a pension, the elephant in the room of every self-employed person. And now we were here again, on the Van Coothplein in Breda, after being cheered by two hundred people in a sweltering tent, after which we, drunk on ourselves and a bottle of red wine for 40 euros, did we care, on the sidewalk. were held up by a fan turned upside down especially for him – who will have it?
Well, the man emphasized once again how much he appreciated Marcel, that humor, how he could put things into words, brilliant. Then he put his helmet back on, turned his key and before he drove off he turned to me once more: “You should be very proud of such a father.”