Is this the real life?

These are the most beautiful moments of his day. When the blue-white light falls gently and benevolently on the worn cherry wood parquet floor. So late in the afternoon. He is sitting behind his desk. A mahogany brown English piece of furniture. He bought it at a flea market last year. He loves it. That disorderly appearance. Hence the vases with plastic flowers. The broken Brother typewriter. The thin curtains. Posters of Henri-Toulouse-Lautrec.

After all these years he is still proud of it. This narrow bohemian existence that he has led for forty years. Despite his marriage. Despite the many financial worries. The grumbling of relatives. The detachment of his friends. The scornful looks of neighbors.

He cuts his hair every six months. He buys his clothes at the thrift store. He refuses to watch TV. He cannot be found on social media. You often see him in his vegetable garden. He weeds the soil with a lot of love and regard. He carefully removes the snails from the iceberg lettuce. He adds extra manure to the summer carrots.

He cherishes his freedom. That is mainly what drives him. He does not want to be a slave to matter. Of the money. He does not want to be dependent on bosses. He does not want to get sucked into political games. He prefers to read the poetry of William Blake. To listen to the music Smetana. Watch paintings of Vincent van Gogh.

His first wife eventually could not get used to his lifestyle. Ultimately, she missed the luxury. The car. The holidays. The new clothes. Fortunately, his new girlfriend accepts him as he is. Free-spirited. Independent. And he is proud that his only son also prefers a casual life. And does not choose a superficial material existence.

Every now and then he dreams that he has an office job. That he is expected at the office at eight o'clock sharp. That there are colleagues, bosses and HR managers who expect everything from him. Reports. Analysis. He then he wakes up. Bathing in his sweat.

A knock on the door. Someone comes in hesitantly. It is his son. He is smartly dressed. Wool-blend blazer, waistcoat, cotton shirt, chinos pants, classic leather lace-up shoe. Instead of messy, medium-length curly hair, he now has a clean-cut hairstyle.

“What happened to you? Are you going to a fancy dress party?”

The son looks around. Sits down opposite his father on a seat cushion. He rubs his hands nervously, stares at the smudges on the floor. Without looking up, he starts talking in an unsteady voice.

“It started three months ago. I met a girl in cinema. We had chemistry. Immediately. I fell madly in love with her. After seeing each other a few times at a small restaurant, she invited me to her house. Her parents are wonderful people. Her father is a partner at Nolet, Kuyper & Bolsch. Her mother is a pediatrician at the University Hospital. And maybe I should have told you this earlier. I had a job interview today. I got the job. I will become a junior product manager at Lloyds Insurance. I also get a lease car.”

The son takes out his cell phone. He shows the car. A Hyundai Kona Electric. He starts talking about rapid-charging capabilities.

“Tomorrow we are going to view an apartment in the old Coffee Factory. It costs a fortune. If we live frugally, we can make this to happen. Oh yeah, your birthday next week. I will not be at home. We are going on holidays to Venice with her parents for a week.”

The young man gets up and walks out of the room. Relieved, satisfied. The beatnik stares blankly at the vase with the plastic flowers, at the thin curtains, the beanbag. It has now become dusk. The blue-white light has made way for a bare darkness.

The non-conformist does not know for a moment that he should be sad to the point of death. Or genuinely happy. He touches his long, unwashed hair, his unpolished nails. He trudges to his collection of LPs. He chooses a record, takes the black disc out of the cardboard sleeve, puts it in the record player. The diamond needle falls onto the vinyl with eerie precision. With his eyes closed, the bohemian listens in peace to the melancholy sounds. Smetana. The Vltava.