It’s 2008, late summer. My book was finished. It has 167 pages of short stories. When I started writing it, sometimes the words flowed quickly, then not at all, or more slowly, or unexpectedly. Pen and paper on the nightstand, in case a plot or a beautiful sentence ‘popped up‘ into my head in the middle of the night or too early in the morning. Seventy stories! There was just one issue left: The book did not have a title yet! For weeks, all kinds of ideas had been running through my mind, only to be (quickly) rejected. I would have loved to use ‘Bij nader omzien’.* But then again, Simon Carmiggelt** already took that one. ‘Van de hoed de rand’*** had been sticking in my mind for days. It does fit somewhat with the short, often detailed (’the brim’) stories. Or perhaps with its footnotes. But then again, a top hat with (the back of) my head underneath it on the cover: That’s not who I am. I don’t even own a hat, and I’ve never worn one either.

*

That Sunday afternoon, too, I couldn’t come up with any title ideas. I called my friend W. and explained my dilemma. “Well”, he said. There was silence on the line; he was thinking. “Are you still there?” I asked. “Yeah, yeah”, he mumbled. And: “Wait!” There was a silence again. Then: “You could”, he began, “maybe use the title of one of your stories or an issue from one of them?” I was thrilled: “That’s a great idea, W.! I’m going to try that right away!”

On my desk computer, I scrolled through the table of contents with the story titles, feeling reenergized. ‘Between the Rails’. “Hmm.” ‘Veluws Fragment’. “Hmm.” Further down was ‘Ghost Runner’. “Mmm.” And: “Eureka..! Ghost Runner!!”

My wife, R., was trying to master a (new?) crochet stitch, and our daughter’s friend, E., spelling out an article from Voetbal International****. “Do we have an old, white pillowcase?” I asked, breaking the silence. R. looked up. “Yes, we do have one”, she said, surprised, “what do you want it for?” “I’m going to put it over my head, so we need to cut two holes in it so I can see through it. I’m going to be a ‘Ghost Runner’. And you guys have to help me!” “Do we really have to?” asked R. “I’m making just as much progress with this stitch!”

She looked outside: “And I think it’s about to rain.” E. shook up, alarmed, his index finger on the last paragraph, no doubt hoping to get back to reading soon. “We have to go to Rottummerweg!” Now that I finally had an idea, I didn’t want to put it off. “You’re not seriously going to run down the middle of the road with that demolition mask over your head, are you?” R. predicted. “No”, I said, explaining my plan further, “on the bike path. It’s never busy there, and there are also lines running down the middle. As a ghost, I’ll run on the left side.” I looked at E.: “And you have to take pictures with your phone while I run toward you!” “Running? You?” R. exclaimed, “You have a back injury!” That was true. I had not been able to work out for a few weeks now. “It’s getting a little better”, I downplayed it. And: ‘You can still jog gently as long as long as it doesn’t hurt’, the physical therapist said.” R. sighed and gave up. She grabbed a pair of scissors and went looking for a pillowcase. E. laid the VI magazine open on his chair and grabbed his cell phone. I put my running gear on.

On the bike path, R. helped me with the demolition, and after a bit of trial and error, I could see through the holes. “Why don’t you stand thirty meters further down the path”, I instructed E., “in the middle of the bike path, and I’ll run toward you. Take as many photos as you can!” “Let’s hurry up a bit”, said R. I understood why: From the little farmhouse across the road, the residents (parents from one window, three children from the other) were watching our antics with curiosity. E. had now taken his position, phone at the ready. A little ‘rusty’ (since I didn’t do any warming-up or stretching), I broke into a jog toward E.

E. had taken five photos. Too far away, too close up, and in the three in between, I’m standing unnaturally ‘crooked’: my back out of alignment and my legs in an almost laughable pose. “Well?” asked R., glancing toward her knitting on the couch. “No”, I said, “it’s no good! We’ll have to try again!” “It’s raining now!” said R. I was not giving up:  “All the better! Twilight, sinister!”

It was raining heavily. R. had put on her raincoat, its hood up. She pulled the pillowcase over my head so I could see through it again. It was wet now, and she smoothed it out seamlessly. The onlookers across the street reappeared -one by one- at the windows. A car driver stopped and rolled down the window: “What’s going on? Can I help with anything?” “No, not at all!” R. called out, “Everything’s fine here. We’re experimenting!” E. returned to his spot further down the street. He was not wearing a jacket. Did I hear him muttering softly?

This time E. had taken six photos. When he showed them to me, I exclaimed, “This one. This is the one!” R. and E. came closer, curious. Triumphantly, I held E.’s phone up in the air to show them: “Perfect, a real ghost runner!” I gave E. a triumphant pat on the shoulder: “Look at that hood! Those eyes!” And: “My feet aren’t even touching the ground anymore!”

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* “At second thought” or “Looking back over my shoulder”.

** Simon Carmiggelt (1913-1987), a famous Dutch writer of short stories.

*** The brim of the hat.

*** Dutch Soccer magazine.