Missing in Asia - Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

John Harwich was having an interesting day.

It was hard for him to fully acknowledge what he was doing now. Several hours had passed since he'd left Boston but where he was going and what essentially he would have to do once there was unreal to him.
Harwich, not far from being fifty years old, was comfortably seated in a window seat of a row of three seats, the other two unoccupied, in the Royal Ecomomy section of a Thai Airways International 747 bound from Los Angeles to Tokyo and after a brief stop at Narita Airport, the 747 would continue on to her final destination of the long flight... Bangkok, Thailand.

He shook his head in disbelief, smiling at both the uncertainty of this trip and the memories of his past that had so much to do with Thailand and Indochina. Thailand had been his home but it was a home he hadn't seen in almost thirty years. A typically beautiful Thai Airways stewardes came by and asked him in perfect English if he'd like a second Singha beer. He nodded, telling her in excellent Thai that he would. Thai was a language he hadn't used much in a long time but it was coming back to him. Harwich shook his head again, thinking about how he'd gotten into his seat thirty-five thousand feet above the Pacific.

May of that year had not begun in a very good way at all. Harwich lived on Cape Cod, Massachusetts in his own house and had a good friend, a mishmosh, Heinz-57 type of dog, Mr. Rex. Harwich and Mr. Rex were the best of buddies and therefore what happened to Mr. Rex hurt his human friend immensely. The first day of the month Mr. Rex, who normally stayed on the property, walked into a busy road in front of Harwich's house and had been hit by a cement mixer too heavily-loaded to stop in time. One of Harwich's neighbors had seen the dog howling in the road and had driven him to the animal clinic while Harwich was at work. Mr. Rex had been in critical condition and the doctor told him it was much worse the following morning. The dog was convulsing and leaking blood like a sieve.

John Harwich, a kindly, sensitive man who had nonetheless killed many people in Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia and Thailand, was as torn apart mentally as his pet was physically. He knew the dog was suffering as he slowly died. He could help Mr. Rex in only one way now but Christ!--it was tough.

This was a bad morning and more came quickly.

The following morning, Harwich had been working a day shift at his job. He was a manager at a local restaurant called The Jolly Whaler, a Cape place that catered to tourists in the summer, hence the tacky name. If worrying about Mr. Rex hadn't been enough trouble, he'd gotten more.

An unhappy tourist from New York had complained about bad service and even though Harwich had done the best he could to take care of the customer and calm him down, it just wasn't enough. The New Yorker had lost his temper and used some foul language on Harwich. To make matters worse, Jim Mantrell, the owner of The Jolly Whaler, had shown up. He had asked what was going on and the New Yorker had yelled about how rotten the service was, how incompetent Harwich was and that Harwich had tried to bribe his way out of this mess by offering breakfast for free.

The concept of "free breakfast" hadn't pleased Jim and while he was thinking about what he'd say to Harwich, the customer had shoved Harwich aside. Bad idea. Harwich's polite manner went away and he very coldly told the New Yorker his shove wasn't necessary.

The New Yorker couldn't believe he was being spoken to like a little kid. Jim had been surprised, too. "I don't take that kind of guff from anyone, meathead!" and then poked Harwich in the chest with an index finger shaped like a chubby sausage.

Sometimes that's all it takes.

Harwich had punched the New Yorker's face, breaking his nose and knocking him into a table filled with plates, cups and glasses that the busboy hadn't picked up yet. Nor was that the end of the fighting. Jim had grabbed his right arm and thrown him up against a wall where he demanded to know what Harwich's problem was.

Harwich had told Jim to get his hands off him; Jim didn't, instead lecturing Harwich. Harwich had told him one more time to let go. Jim still didn't. Harwich ended up driving a shoe into Jim's balls. Jim fell into a three-pot Bunn coffee machine and fell to the floor with two glass pots that broke and assaulted him with hot coffee and shards of glass. Unlike the New Yorker, Jim was not down for the count and he proceeded to bellow at the top of his lungs about how Harwich was a rotten worker, a "poor-misunderstood-Vietnam-vet" and then he fired him.

Harwich's response was to call Jim a douchebag who didn't know what he was talking about. Jim had continued shouting, calling Harwich a loser and telling him he'd never amount to anything worthwhile in society. Harwich had heard this speech before and it bored him, particularly since it wasn't true whatsoever. Sighing, the last of his temper subsiding, he'd reached into his pocket, drawn out a quarter and thrown it at his brand new ex-boss. It'd struck Jim off the forehead.

"Use that to call somebody who gives a shit, Mantrell."

Jim was on his feet, his hands bloody from broken glass. "Get outta my place right now! Get out before I call the police and don't think I won't!"

"I'm shaking, pal." Actually, Harwich had been remembering barroom brawls in Vientiane, Phnom Penh and Bangkok. In spite of everything, he had felt a smile creeping across his handsome face. Jim's bluster and stereotyping cliches aside, the last time Harwich had decked someone had been six years earlier and that was a mugger in Boston trying to lift his wallet. Still, it would be best not to push things any further than they'd already been pushed. He had undone his cranberry-colored tie and tossed it with great contempt on the floor. "Sayonara, shithead," he said as he headed for the door.

Jim Mantrell had given him a withering glance of acidic hate.

Harwich had driven his battered, lime-green GMC pickup to the vet's. The vet in charge of the clinic, Dr. Hurttegarde, was in the lobby when Harwich walked in. He'd eyed Harwich's face and sighed. "You took time off to come here, eh?"

"Uh, yeah, something like that," Harwich had said, sidestepping the truth. It wasn't important now. Ending Mr. Rex's suffering was.

"Mr. Rex is down the hall, in C lab. I think you know what has to be done, John. He's counting on you."

"There's really nothing you can do, is there?"

Hurttgarde's stony expression made the question an instant statement.

"I'll only be with a moment or two, doc."

"Take your time, John. I'd expect nothing less from you."

Harwich had gone down the hall and entered the room where Mr. Rex was waiting for him. The shattered shell that had been a happy dog two days earlier whined and groaned on the examination table. Each cry drove a razor-sharp dagger into Harwich's soul. Mr. Rex had rolled over on his side as best he could and looked at his master with glazing eyes. Harwich had carefully bent over to touch Mr. Rex, fully knowing the dog might snap at his hand because of the shock and pain in his canine body. Use your left hand, the old warrior in him said. If he bites your right hand, you could lose the ability to use a gun. Harwich ignored that voice.

"Hiya, Rex," he mumbled, his throat tight with emotion as he touched the dog's matted fur. Hurttegarde himself had cleaned Mr. Rex up as best as possible but there could be no hiding of the reality here. "How ya doin', kid?"

Mr. Rex had weakly licked his hand and whimpered again.

"I'm sorry about this, old buddy. I--I really am. Jesus, I wish there was something I could do to make you better." There is, his cold voice told him. Do it and spare Mr. Rex more pain.

"I--I don't know what it'll be like on the other side, Rex--maybe none of us know--but I hope there'll be lots of salt marshes for you to romp in, lots of sand dunes to run across, lots of bugs and cats and birds to chase..!" He made a choking noise he recognized as crying. His rough, ragged sobbing filled the tiny room.

Mr. Rex kept looking up him. Please, master, please let me go.

Dr. Hurttegarde had come in and spoken with him. Harwich nodded and the old vet had injected Mr. Rex with a needle, putting him to sleep. He sent Harwich homeward bound after giving him two fingers of good Kentucky bourbon. Harwich had insisted on paying his bill immediately. Hurttegarde had ignored him.

What a day, what a day.
Lost his job, lost his dog.

The blowing rain that smacked against his windshield had matched the storm in his heart. When he pulled into the driveway of his house, he'd shut off the truck, got out and stared for several minutes at the lump in the plastic bag that had been his dog, his best friend. He had paid no heed to the rain.

After a time, he went to the tool shed out back, got a shovel and began digging a grave for Mr. Rex. The rain made the digging easy and at any rate, you don't dig very far on Cape Cod before you hit sand. He had the hole dug and Mr. Rex in it within fifteen minutes.

"Goodbye, old buddy," Harwich had whispered, shoveling dirt and sand back into the sad little hole. If there was a heaven for dogs, he hoped Mr. Rex was in it now, running like the wind, full of piss and vineager.

Day Of Disaster, Part III: Harwich gone inside his house and proceeded to get completely shitfaced on Budweiser beer. He'd sat in his living room, chugging his beer and thinking about all that had happened that day.

"A real winner this day has been, eh, Rex?" he called out cheerfully, feeling a serious buzz beginning. "Punched out an asshole from New York, punched out Jim Mantrell, lost my job, put you to sleep, buried you in the backyard. Yeah, life's a real fuckin' wonder, ain't it, pal? Ha ha!"

Harwich held an invisible microphone in front of his mouth. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, I'm standing here live outside The Jolly Whaler Restaurant where former Vietnam vet John Harwich has gone insane! Despite thirty years of normal living, the 'police action' has finally snapped his sanity. At least one man is unconscious as a result of this dangerous lunatic and another man, Harwich's generous, caring superior, has suffered third-degree burns from hot coffee! The State Police, the National Guard, the Marines and the Seventh Fleet have been dispatched to deal with this madman who is also a well-known loser in good standing. He is to be considered armed, dangerous and un-fucking-likely to amount to anything worthwhile in this society!"

Harwich laughed loud and long, shaking his head and crying. Time for another beer, he thought and stumbled out of his recliner to get one. The phone started ringing and he'd changed course, going into the master bedroom to listen to whoever it was on the answering machine. He sure as hell wasn't in the mood to personally talk to anyone. Besides, it'd probably be Jim Mantrell calling to tell him that the jerk-off from NYC was going to sue the restaurant and he, Jim Mantrell, was going to sue Harwich, blah-blah-blah, ad nauseum.

Instead, the voice that followed the dippy recording Harwich's girlfriend Sharon had left on the machine was older, familiar to Harwich.

"--damn!" the man said to himself under his breath. "I hate talking to these blasted machines, especially when I'm calling from halfway around the damned world! Uh, hello, John? I know you ain't home, obviously--"

"Obviously not," Harwich snorted, burping.

"--but you're the best person I can talk to about this. This is Glenn Lucas. It's been a while since we had beers at the Driftwood Tavern but I'm sure you already know who this is without me telling you--"

"Oh, I do, Glenn-o."

"--but like I said, you're my best choice to talk to about this. I don't want to siscuss it over the phone, especially on an international line, but I can tell ya this much; it has to do with the time you spent over here in Southeast Asia. When you get a chance, please call me back as fast as you can, John. I'm in Room 515 at the Oriental Hotel in Bangkok. The phone number here is--"

Harwich's buzzed mind was going too fast to hear the number. Glenn Lucas being at Asia's greatest hotel and wanting to speak immediately to Harwich about "his time spent in Southeast Asia" was a lot to deal with all at once, unexpectedly, following what had already gone on that day.

"Huh!" Harwich had realized he'd been holding his breath and let it out. Buzz or no buzz, he knew strange when he heard it and Glenn Lucas' cryptic message was strange with a capital S.

"It has to do with the time you spent over here in Southeast Asia'. Now what the hell does that mean?" Harwich asked the phone and the answering machine. Glenn Lucas had just finished giving the phone number, thanked Harwich in advance and hung up after saying goodbye.

Harwich shook his head, getting a couple more cans of Budweiser and a bag of onion-flavored chips, thinking about Glenn Lucas. Glenn was an old timer who had to be in his late seventies or early eighties, a World War II vet. Harwich had met him at the local VFW Fourth of July party back in 1991. It was one of Harwich's rare trips to the VFW hall, which explained why he and Glenn had not met earlier. It had been a big deal then, in '91, a welcome home tribute to some of the local kids who had been involved in Desert Storm. The sight of the happy, youthful soldiers, Marines, sailors and Air Force personnel had reminded Harwich both of his own age and the fact that his generation hadn't gotten any welcome home parties or parades. It depressed him and he'd wandered away from the crowds.

He'd been standing under an old oak tree behind the VFW, pondering the slings and arrows of fate when Glenn found him.

"Cape's nice but sometimes I just can't get Asia outta my head, can you?" the older man had asked him without preamble, smiling sadly as if at a joke only the two of them could get.

"No, I guess I can't at that. Where you do your time over there?"

"Glenn Lucas is my name, soldier. I was with the Flying Tigers. China. Burma. That whole derring-do shtick against the Japs. Let me guess, you were in Vietnam, right? You've got that 'someone just shit all over me' look."

Harwich had laughed, giving Glenn a sad smile of his own. "Yeah. John Harwich, US Army Special Forces. I was in Vietnam at the end, then Laos and Cambodia. I finally ended up in Thailand."

Glenn had seemed to consider this, nodding. "You were there longer than most guys, huh?"

"Five different tours. Vietnam was the first, in '70, as we were getting ready to pull out. Thailand was the last. Two tours there. I was lucky."

"Thailand, huh? We called it Siam back then. Beautiful place."

Harwich thought about the kaliedescope of memories that made up his time in Thailand. "Yeah, I thought so, too. I liked it there."

 "You miss it much?"

 "Sometimes, sure. But I was born and raised on the Cape and it's my home. I've got a house here, family, friends. Southeast Asia was a long time ago to me. I've got some buddies that stayed behind after '75, some in Bangkok or Chiang Mai, Pattaya, some in the Philippines, but I haven't heard from them in years. They cut their ties to the States and eventually, that means even writing letters to guys like me that were there with them. They became expatriates; it happens. How about you, Mr. Lucas? You miss the old China-Burma-India scene?"

"Miss it? I dunno, John--and by the way, please call me Glenn, all my friends do--like you say, sometimes I do. Those were heady days, intoxicating to say the goddamned least. We were mercenaries after a fashion, sure, but we were fighting the good fight against definite bad guys. Japan bombed Pearl Harbor, she invaded China--we were justified and life really was cleaner in the skies. Us in our P-40s and Mustangs versus the Nips in their Zeros. It was simple, very simple: you were quick or you died. Plenty of my friends were killed. Of course, joss entered into it, too, only the fools didn't believe that. You know about joss, don't you?"

"Sure I do. Joss is the Chinese phrase for luck. Luck, joss--same-same, GI."

"Yeah, right. Anyway after the war, I stayed in China. What the hell, right? I was young, single and free. I flew for the Nationalists. That's when life started getting murky. Your war struck me as being that way, too--don't take that as an insult, please. Lots of duffers my age scoffed at your 'conflict', your 'police action', but I wasn't one of 'em! You guys were in a goddamned war, same as we were. You didn't get a popular war but it was a war anyways."

Harwich had shrugged. "No problem."

"Don't misunderstand me, John, I hate those Red Bastards in Peking or Beijing or whatever the hell Mao's Merry Men call it nowadays and I hate what happened to you guys in 'Nam but let's face it--there were too many fuck-ups. Pardon my French. The Nationalists will never be remembered as the world's greatest or most honorable army. They've done a good job in Taiwan but that's completely different from what I saw them doing on the Mainland during the war. Your ARVNs were any better and probably were worse."

"God, ain't that the truth."

"But you guys had other Bs to contend with, also. The peace pukes. The left-wing press. The generals sitting on their asses in Saigon. None of it helped. 'Peace with honor', my wrinkled ass!"

Harwich had clapped. "Here, here." This Lucas guy is quite the soapbox orator, he'd thought at the time.

"Anyway, that's what I think. Doesn't make it gospel or anything. Say, you interested in a cold beer? I could use one and a burger, too. The guy burning them and those poor hotdogs on the grill was a POW in Germany--I think that's where he learned to ruin perfectly good food. How about it? Us old farts got to stick together, right?" He tipped Harwich a wink, pointing at the Twenty-something Desert Storm vets chug-a-lugging beer.

The crusty ex-Flying Tiger had helped to make Harwich's day a helluva lot better and they'd had beers together several times after that Fourth of July. Glenn always started to speak about the circumstances that had led to his leaving China in 1949 but he could never get far into his tale, his voice shaking and his hands twitching. He'd laugh nervously, blame it on the beer and change the subject. Harwich was curious but never asked, soon forgetting all about it. Work, bills and Sharon occupied his mind. The daily routine, the daily grind.

"Sharon," he'd drunkenly mused, his voice drowned out by the downpour pelting his house. She'd be home in a few hours and here he was, well on his way to being shitfaced before two in the afternoon. Come to think of it, she hated a lot of things he did. She hadn't been too fond of Mr. Rex, either. He was "messy", like his human owner.

"Said it before, say it again--fuck her."

He was working on his eleventh or twelfth beer now, wondering what Glenn had called him all the way from Bangkok for. And why was the ex-Flying Tiger halfway around the world?

Walking unsteadily into the living room, he'd stared at old pictures of himself in his tigerstripe fatigues cradling an AK-47 in some rice paddy in Cambodia, another of him posing with some cheerful H'mong hilltribe warriors in Laos, still another of him being held upright by two equally inebriated Air America vets outside the Grand Prix go-go bar on Patpong Road in Bangkok. The good old days. Shit, yeah.

But there were also the "good old days" of his first and only tour in Vietnam: the corrupt and pathetic ARVNs, the smell of the first NVA he killed, the rocket attacks in Saigon and the grenades lobbed into Tu Do Street bars, the desperate attitude of the South Vietnamese and the defeatist attitude of the Americans anxious to get on their "Freedom Birds" and return to "The World". The hell with the North Vietnamese Army and falling dominoes. Time to go home and get spit on by long-haired, peace-freak scumbags screaming "Babykillers!" Give peace a chance--after we set a police car on fire and take over a college. Can you dig it, man? Far out!

The "good old days" of working in SOG (Special Operations Group) for the CIA: the dirty deals, the betrayals, the scarifices made by Special Forces, Rangers, SEALs, Air America, Raven pilots, US AID agents, hilltribes, Cambodes, Lao, Thai, Vietnamese and all for jackshit, all for nothing. Hasta la vista, baby, and say hello to the Socialist Republic of Vietnam, the Lao People's Democratic Republic and Democratic Kampuchea. Say hello to boat people, poison gas sprayed in Laos and a million-plus Cambodians erased courtesy of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge.

It was the tours in Thailand that saved John Harwich's soul. The kindly, happy-go-lucky Thai with their KIng and their Buddhism and a warm smile for any occasion. The gentle, singsong language. The hot food that was more explosive than a Daisey-Chain of Claymore mines. The Singha beer that was beyond compare. The endless green of rice paddies that hurt the eyes if you looked at them too long. The towering mountains. The mighty Mekong River. The peaceful city of Chiang Mai, the clamor and chaos of Bangkok, the capital. And the Thai women!

Oh, god, he thought as he remembered the Thai women. Girls, actually. He'd rarely had one over thirty years of age. Bargirls, massage parlor girls, girls at the infamous "no-hands" restaurants who fed you themselves along with satisfying other "appetites" below the waistline, "water babies" in sampans on the Chao Phraya River--he'd sampled all the delights. In addition, he'd had many girls for no price--hotel clerks, waitresses, pushcart vendors. He succeeded by being mostly honest, smiling and complimenting the girls in their own language. Of course, he'd caught the clap a couple times, been slapped, kicked, punched, nearly stabbed with a pair of scissors in Khorat, and robbed by girls more times than he'd ever want to admit to anyone this side of a confessional but that was the flipside to Thai females. For all the smiles and good natures, there were the tantrums and revenges on men who "butterflied"--men who slept or screwed around with another girl and were unfaithful. It was a fact that many men--Thai and farang alike--had gone to bed with an enraged woman and woken up to the agony of having their manhood sliced off with dull razor blades. Harwich had been spared that fate but it was a close call.

Still and all, it was his experiences in the kingdom that had helped stabilize him. The off-duty time he spent at the Buddhist wats (temples) gave him a peace of mind that pushed away the ugliness and deceit of the dirty wars. Bottom line was that the Thai people helped him to get his head back on straight. When it was finally time for him to return to the States, he was ready to go and even looked forward to it. He knew he'd miss Thailand, miss it fiercely, but he had a life to get back to on the Cape.

And that's how it had been. Harwich flew home as a civilian, wearing sandals, a peasant's blue shirt, a Buddhist amulet and his 46th Special Forces Group green beret. People stared at his loud shorts purchased in Honolulu, his bristle haircut and especially his green beret. Some even glared angrily but he'd smiled and ignored them. His time with the monks had made him mellow, accomdating.

When he finally got to Boston's Logan Airport, his parents and older brother were waiting for him. There was a joyous and noisy reunion in the terminal and a welcome home party for him when they got to the Cape. The jet-lagged Special Forces soldier ate lobster, clams, T-bone steaks, drank copious amounts of beer from a keg and told fascinating stories to his family and friends about the "mysterious and exotic Orient". Lots of guys, including his older brother Ken, had asked about the women. Harwich didn't let them down. By midnight, he excused himself, took a leak and collapsed into bed. He didn't get up until one the next afternoon. Nobody cared.

Harwich, in his house on Cape Cod, had remembered his past after getting home. Buying his house, his jobs, his affairs with women on the Cape. Harwich, now aboard the Thai International 747, remembered what had happened with his most recent girlfriend, Sharon, had come home the day everything went wrong.

He had met Sharon Chandler not long after he got the day manager's job at The Jolly Whaler. That had been two years ago. They didn't have much in common--she was ten years younger, a bit left-wing, fond of poetry and the Grateful Dead--but maybe that's why it had worked so well in the beginning. Her being a well-built blonde who had a healthy appetite for sex, the kinkier the better, didn't hurt either.

Funny, but the fact that he was nothing like the cliches of the Vietnam veterans protrayed in the movies--the losers, the dope addicts, the Rambos that went nuts with machine-guns--made it easier. Sharon was constantly amazed by John Harwich. One minute he could tell her about a bloody ambush in Laos, the next he could tell her about the fundamentals of Therevada Buddhism, the next he could tell her a dirty joke about two parakeets and a blind accountant. He was friendly, caring and he treated her with respect.

Also funny, he thought to himself as he finished his thirteenth Budweiser and opened the fourteenth  can, that dickhead Mantrell was always trying to get me to open up and talk about the war, always patronizing me like I was some kind of nut because I was over there with the rest of the "losers". Shit. Thirty years of peace, a few nightmares, minimal bitterness and in two minutes, I make myself look just like what he thought I was by punching him and that asshole tourist out. Never mind that I was a good worker. Never mind that I was on time and got along well with both the crew and the customers. He believed what he wanted to see. Easy for him, Mr. College Deferment. Oh, well. Mai pen lai. It's done now.

"Wonder what Sharon's gonna say," he'd slurred.

Aboard the 747, Harwich smiled cynnically, remembering.

Sharon had come back from her job as a clerk at a snotty clothes store that catered to yuppies in the local mall. What happened to Harwich that day wasn't going to go down well but he was beyond concern. Point in fact, he was beyond a lot of things at that moment.

He'd remained sitting cross-legged on the floor with beer #14, listening to her getting out of her Pontiac Firebird. She'd come in, seen the mess in the kitchen where he'd tossed empty beer cans in the sink and the war negan in earnest. Sharon had expressed disbelief at the kitchen and this was tripled when she'd found Harwich sitting on the floor of the living room with more empty beer cans surrounding him like religious taliismans. She'd yelled at him, demanding to know what was going on and why he was "as drunk as a skunk". Her anger got worse as he'd told her about Mr. Rex and then losing his job at The Jolly Whaler. She was furious about him hitting Mantrell, somone she called a "friend" of Harwich's. He'd reffered to Mantrell as an asshole who wasn't his friend.

That's when Sharon had gone on about the stupidity of losing a job when the job was needed, money was needed and bills had to be paid. And that's when Harwich'd lost his drunken blues and dark humor, being propelled into action for the second time on that fateful day. He'd told Sharon to calm down.

She hadn't, still screaming at him for what he'd done that morning.

His buzz faded even quicker as he'd explained to Sharon it was his house, not hers, and that he made the mortgage payments. She didn't.

Sharon yelled at him about paying half of the gas, water, phone, cable, electricty and food bills.

He didn't yell back. Instead, he quietly told her she made more money than he did, that she drove around in a thirty-thousand dollar sports car while he was driving a twenty-year old pickup. He told her he didn't feel bad about what he had in life and didn't begrudge her forwhat she had but he didn't want her crying poor to him. He pointed out that it was cheaper than living by herself.

That concept only further enraged Sharon and she let him have it again, going on about starting a fight inside a family restaurant, losing his job and---

Harwich'd had enough. His temper started to worsen, too. He'd told her there were extreme circumstances at work: Mr. Rex was dying, he was stressing out and the tourist had pushed him too far. He told her he'd just lost his cool.

"And your job," she'd snidely remarked.

Harwich had told her how much Mr. Rex meant to him, how it was eating him up and how he'd tried to be as courteous as he could be to the customer. He'd asked her why people like her always chose to believe or side with perfect strangers instead of the people they knew.

She'd proceeded to give him a hard shot about the dog just being a dog and that he wasn't a teenager any more. She also told him he was a real prick sometimes.

That did it. He'd rubbed his chin, smiling thoughtfuly and threw her out of his house.

She couldn't believe it so he told her to pack up her stuff and get out quickly. She told him he was crazy. He'd replied he was simply tired of her horseshit and had begun tossing CDs and cassettes of hers onto the rug. He at this stage--less than politically correct--let her know how much he hated Bob Dylan and The Grateful Dead.

Sharon was in tears, telling him he was a bastard, to stop throwing her albums and finally that she hated him. Then she'd run off to the master bedroom to start packing.

"Jim was definitely right about you! God, what a fool I've been..."

"How do you know so much about what Jim thinks? Are you fucking him, too?"

"Maybe I should!"

"Yeah, maybe you should!"

He'd tossed another album and then got up to get another beer. What the hell, right? It'd been a pisscutter of a day so far and the sun, although hidden behind gloomy clouds, was still in the sky. One more beer couldn't do much to alter a situation going from bad to worse.

And it did get worse. Sharon had crammed her clothes and the rest of her junk into the Firebird--the junk that would fit in the sports car, that is. Sharon had kept up a nonstop tirade about him and all his problems and when she had fit everything she possibly could into her car, she'd told him she'd be back for the rest of it the next day, after work. He told her he'd be waiting with bells on. She'd told him to fuck off. He threw an empty beer can at her that missed and smacked off the side of the Firebird, chipping the paint. She'd peeled out of the driveway, running over his newspaper tube in the process.

Harwich--barely able to stand at this point--waved goodbye to her and in his best Porky Pig voice had cried out: "Ebedeebeedee--th-th-that's all, folks!"

He'd stumbled back into the house, cracked open another beer, cooked himself four hotdogs that he wolfed down and ended up back in the living room, crooning "My Way" along with Frank Sinatra on the CD player.

Beer cans, half a bottle of Jack Daniels and empty potato chip bags surrounded Harwich as he'd passed out to the Animals singing "We've Gotta Get Outta This Place", the grunts' theme song from Vietnam.

He'd had no way of knowing just how prophetic that song was going to be in the next few days.

Sitting on the 747, Harwich recalled the next day. He'd wished he was dead.

He'd been crouched over his toilet, puking out about two cases of beer, Jack Daniels, potato chips and four hotdogs. He always forgot just how hellish it could be when you put away as much booze as he had the night before.

Especially when he hadn't done any serious drinking in a while.

"Oh, god..!" he'd groaned, heaving once more.

After twenty minutes of worshipping the porcelain goddess, a light-headed Harwich had stumbled into the shower and cranked up the hot water for nearly fourty-five minutes. The numbing effect of the water almost took his mind off his pounding head and churning stomach. Almost.

He'd stumbled out, toweled himself off and crashed through empty beer cans on the rug as he made his way into the kitchen. He had four cups of black coffee before he attempted to walk to the edge of his driveway and pick up the newspaper lying on the ground next to the demolished tube.

He'd been working on his fifth cup of coffee, flipping through the newspaper, when he said, "Probably should let Mr. Rex out for a run--" He caught himself in midsentence. Mr. Rex was dead. "Aw, goddamnit," he'd cried at the mute ceiling, "what the hell did I do to deserve this?"

It all came back to him. Punching out Jim and the tourist. Mr. Rex. The fight with Sharon. Yep, yesterday had absolutely been a shit-sandwich with all the trimmings, thank you.

"Mai pen lai," he'd mumbled in Thai. No problem. Well, not quite. Lots of problems. He'd put his dog to sleep, broken up with his girlfriend and was currently unemployed after being fired.

"Only one thing I can do about that now," he'd said, opening up the refrigerator. He'd eyed the surviving beer cans. His stomach had rumbled ominously.

"Okay, maybe that's not today's answer."

Harwich had wandered back into the bathroom, brushed his teeth and ended up in bed where he slept until noon. He'd gotten up feeling a lot better. His stomach rumbled again but this time it was from hunger, not nausea.

He'd been considering what to cook when the phone rang.

Harwich caught it by the third ring, wondering if it was Jim or Sharon. "Hello?" he said quietly, praying it was neither one of the brand-new pains-in-his-ass.

"John, that you?"asked an old man's voice that sounded like it was coming from Mars.

"Yeah, it is. Glenn, is that you?" Harwich had howled back.

"You got that one right, kiddo. What is it, eleven or twelve at your end?"

Harwich had quickly looked at a clock. "You got it. Glenn, are you calling from Bangkok?"

Laughter rolled out of the phone. "Bet your ass, I am. I'm calling you from my room at the Oriental Hotel. I'm guessing you got my phone message last night--your night, that is."

"I did. Sorry I didn't get back to you but I was , uhm, busy here. Lots of shit going on."

"No problem, John. 'Lots of shit going on' is why I'm here in Bangkok now and it's why I've called you. I need your help. Quite badly, to be honest."

"Glenn, what exactly is going on? I don't want to sound like Mr. Judgmental, but you being in Bangkok at the Oriental and calling me for help are not the most normal concepts in the world. Hell, I just saw you last week fishing in Pleasant Bay."

A tired old sigh came halfway around the world on the phone line. "Boy, don't I just wish I was back in Pleasant Bay right now fishing." There'd been silence for a moment or two before Glenn had started speaking again. "John, despite the quirks and beeps on the line, our call is going through fine from Bangkok to the Cape but I can't tell you too much over an open line. There's plenty of vaild reasons why but right now, it's not in my interests to do so."

Harwich wondered what the hell was going on. "Are you in some kind of trouble, Glenn?"

"Yes and no, yes and no."

"Meaning what?"

Glenn had ignored the question. "What's your schedule like, John? Do you think you could come over here to Bangkok?"

Now it was Harwich's turn to sigh, the hangover adding its own voice to the sound. "After everything that happened yesterday, Glenn, my schedule's okay."

"Really? Did something bad happen over there? Family, friends?"

"No, nothing like that. It's a long story but let's just say I've got plenty of time available. When do you want me to go?"

"As soon as possible, to be quite frank."

"How soon would that be, Glenn?"

"Can you go tomorrow morning, East Coast time?"

Holy shit! Harwich thought. "Uh, I'd love to but it's gonna take me some time to get money out of my bank--" not that I have much to play with now, he'd unhappily realized, "--talk to a travel agent, see if there's even a seat available tomorrow, get my passport stamped with a Thai visa, get--"

More laughter from Glenn. "Relax, John. It's under control."

"What do you mean?" Man, this conversation's getting weirder and weirder by the moment, Harwich contemplated.

"I've got a ticket booked for you on a Thai International flight out of LAX tomorrow, your time. I've also got you booked on one out of Logan with American Airlines."

"You do?" What the hell's Glenn into that he can do something like this?

"Yup. The travel people here at the Oriental have been nothing but quick, fabulous and polite as hell getting this flight set up for me."

"Well, they do tend to call the Oriental the best hotel in the world, not just Thailand or Asia," Harwich had remarked wryly.

"That's the truest statement in the world, young man. This hotel has been doing nothing but take excellent care of me since I got here."

Okay, Harwich had thought, time for our next Big Question. "Uh, Glenn, I don't want to sound too damned rude, but how did you come up with the kind of money to fly to Thailand, stay at the Oriental and pay for me to come over and 'help' you? You're not a homeless wino living near a dumpster but on the other hand--"

"--on the other hand, I'm a retiree who does okay but isn't grotesquely wealthy, right? Sorry, John, but again, those are details I just can't get into over the phone."

"Okay, I understand that. Well, I guess you got me. You know what kind of life I had in Thailand and Indochina with the Special Forces, what Thailand came to mean for me."

"Exactly. That's what I'm counting on."

Another Big Question, or two. "All right, Glenn. What about the tickets? How do I handle that part?"

"Get up to Boston, show your passport to somebody at American, maybe your license, too, and you'll be given not just your ticket to LA but also a stub that you can give to the people at Thai International when you get into LAX. You'll have to get yourself up to Boston, kiddo."

Harwich had chuckled. "I think I can somehow manage that part. But you know, again, I've been thinking: what about my passport?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't I need a Thai visa?"

"God, how long's it been since you were in Thailand, John? Don't bother answering, I already know: ages. Well, kiddo, these days US citizens get a one month visa stamp on arrival at the airport in Bangkok. You just give your passport to an Immigration officer, get it stamped, free of charge  and you're legally in Thailand for one month. And that should be more than enough time for what I need your help with."

Whatever that is, Harwich'd thought. He gave Glenn his best wishes and told him they'd meet in Bangkok within the next two days.

"Believe me, John, you've got no idea how much this means to me but I owe you big time and you will be fully paid by yours truly for your help. Now remember, there's gonna be someone from Oriental to meet you at the airport and take you over here. Have a good flight, kiddo, and I'll see ya soon."

Harwich thanked Glenn, wished him well, said goodbye and hung up the telephone. He still had the hangover but now his head was buzzing with twinkling lights and feelings of going back to Southeast Asia, back to Thailand and helping out a friend who was unexpectedly in Bangkok and couldn't explain why over an international phone line.

Harwich sighed again but now it was with relief and the beginnings of excitement. Putting Mr. Rex down still hurt him to no end but suddenly The Jolly Whaler, Jim Mantrell and Sharon didn't mean shit to him. In an odd way, he was going back home.

Nonetheless, things still had to be taken care of.

After lunch, calling his brother Ken was the first.

Ken answered on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Ken? It's John."

"John! What the hell have you been up to? I heard about Mr. Rex. I'm sorry. He was a good shit."

"Yeah, it was tough but I couldn't let him suffer."

"Amen, brother, I heard that. So what's up?"

"Ken, I've got to go away tomorrow."

"This wouldn't have anything at all to do with you kicking Jim Mantrell's ass, would it?"

"How'd you know about that?"

"C'mon, Johnny, it's a small town on the Cape. Of course I'm gonna hear about a biggie like that!"

Ken could be annoying but he was right. Nor did it matter too much at the time.

"Well, in answer to your question, no it doesn't. But it is something I have to do quickly."

"Like what? I don't follow ya, bro."

"You don't have to. Thing is, I'm going to Bangkok and--"

"Bangkok? Since when did you get money to aford a trip to Bangkok, John? Especially now that you're unemployed. Are you dealing crack on the side, ha-ha?"

"No, but the real story is too complicated to get into all the details now. The reason I'm--"

"Ooo, would this be connected with you and Sharon breaking up?"

Harwich groaned softly. His fifty-six year old brother sometimes acted like he was twenty-six. "No, that's a different story, Ken. Nothing to do with wonderful Sharon."

"Oh, so that's why you're going to Thailand, isn't it? Be honest, John. You and Sharon are history so you want to feel young again and get some slant-eyed pussy, right? You know, Mr. Boner, AIDS is a big problem there and--"

Harwich had rolled his eyes. "No shit, Sherlock. It's a big problem in LA, New York and right here, too by the way, bit getting lais is not why I'm going. Look, I can't tell you too much about the trip, okay? I''m calling be--"

"You going after POWs and MIAs, like Stallone?"

"No. It's not like that. Like I said, I'm calling you because I need to ask a favor, Ken. A big favor."

It was Ken's turn to groan. "Aw, c'mon, John. If it's money, you know I ain't got a lot these days. My hours at--"

"Ken, shut up and listen to me. I don't want money."

"You don't?"

"No. In fact, I'm offering you money."

"You are? Why?" Ken had sounded suspicious.

"I need you to babysit my house. For about three, four weeks. I'll pay you fifty bucks a week to do it.

"You will? To do what?"

"Jesus, are you going to be brain-dead all of your life, Ken. or just most of it? I want you to keep an eye on the place, pick up my paper and my mail, basic shit like that. Can you handle it?"

"Fifty bucks a week? Really?"

"Fifty bucks a week. Really. Since you can't be bothered to do it as a courtesy for free, I'm willing to make it worth your while, Ken."

"Hey, Johnny, I'd love, l-o-v-e, love to babysit your joint for free but you know how it is these days. I--"

Sharon had shown up as he was finishing the call, arriving in a shiny minivan that just happened to be Jim Mantrell's. How interesting.

Harwich had watched her coming up the steps, her hips swaying, her more-than-ample breasts struggling against a Celtics T-shirt that had once been his. He half-wondered if he should try apologizing, try to patch things up. No, he'd thought to himself. He'd always been a realist. They were finished. Last night had been thebeginning of the end. Today was the end of the end.

He was civil. She was cool.

Together, they got her few pieces of furniture in the back of the van. A dozen or so carboard boxes, a TV, a VCR, a mini-stereo, more albums, a blender and some framed pictures later, the van was loaded. All of sharon's belongings were on board.

He'd offered her a beer.

She'd declined, saying she didn't need to solve her problems with alcohol.

He'd smiled, shrugged and suggested she get some real problems before she passed judgment on others.

She'd called him a pathetic, pompous ass who would never amount to anything in life. She also said he was a shitty lover.

He told her he'd seen Barbie Dolls fake orgasms more believably than her.

She'd told him to fuck one and left in a huff.

He'd mooned her as she pulled out of the driveway.

Back inside the house, he'd offered himself a beer (the hangover almost being gone) and laughed. Bangkok was looking real good!

Later that day, he drove into town. At the local bookstore, he bought the Lonely Planet guidebook to Thailand and their big guidebook Southeast Asia on a String. He'd spent enough time in Thailand and Indochina but that was during the war, almost thirty years earlier. The region must have changed greatly since then in countless ways from cultural to financial to political. Anything he could learn about modern day Southeast Asia on the long ride from Boston to Bangkok had to help.

At the Army/Navy store, he'd bought two good pairs of jungle boots. He might not have needed them but he just had a feeling, the kind of feeling that had kept him alive in the bush.

At the medical clinic he usually went to, he'd gotten some injections against jungle nasties.

Finally, a pharmacy where he got two boxes of Trojan condoms, thinking of Ken and laughing out loud. The clerk had stared at him intently.

The day of the trip, Harwich had taken care of the last minute errands in and out of his house. He'd made sure there was a case of beer in the fridge for Ken (which he knew his brother would go after) and that there'd been gas and oil in the lawn mower (which he knew his brother probably wouldn't go after(. He'd bought a big Italian sub and a couple cans of Coke from a 7-Eleven store up the street so he wouldn't have dishes to worry about. Finished with lunch, he'd packed. Unlike some people, Harwich didn't need to take twelve suitcases. Nor did he need to run around like a nut, stressing out about something as mundane as packing.

One duffel bag and a small shoulder bag did it for him, both packed within thirty minutes. As an afterthought, he grabbed the brown fedora Ken had bought him years ago as a Christmas present after both brothers and Ken's wife had gone to see Raiders of the Lost Ark. Harwich had loved the Indiana Jones character and his unique headgear. He hadn't worn the fedora much lately because Sharon had thought it was "tacky and adolescent". Oh, well, he thought. Damned if I'm going to worry about what she thinks any more...

A cab showed up to pick him up and take jim to the bus station. Thirty dollars withdrawn from his savings account (he'd taken $2,500.00 US out) paid for the taxi and then he'd caught an express from Hyannis to Logan Airport, just outside of Boston. It was a comfortable ride that only took an hour and forty-five minutes.

Harwich had gotten dropped off at the American Airlines terminal and told an agent at the check-in desk who he was, showed them his passport and Massachusetts' driver's license. The friendly agent smiled, had him sign some paperwork and had tickets ready in no time. Harwich had thanked the agent, taken the tickets and made his way to the gate.

The flight had been a good one and once he got to lAX, he'd made his way to the international terminal and found Thai International's section where a lovely Thai girl waied him, checked his ticket paperwork and passport and then gave him his tickets, thanking him for his service.

He'd thanked her in Thai and made his way to the terminal. He could fell his heart beating a little faster now that he had the tickets and was just waiting to board the 747 parked right outside the terminal. It's so damned odd, he'd thought, to be going back after being away for nearly thirty years and to do it in less than forty-eight hours! And what the hell is going on with Glenn? He's suddenly got cash, he's at the Oriental, he's paying my way over, he ain't telling me shit about why I'm going or what I'm going to be doing once I get there. This is weird.

The PA system went off, a calm Thai voice telling the passengers in English, Thai and Japanese that it was now boarding time. As he'd wandered towards the gate, Harwich had smiled to himself, remembering one of the reasons he'd had for loving Asia so much: it was weird!

And he liked weird.

----------------------------------------------------

Harwich, Massachusetts, resident Sean Bunzick has spent a good number of his adult years living in Southeast Asia and has turned his love for the region into a successful series of thrillers. The first two were "Missing in Asia " and "Air Thermae." Sean Bunzick is an American who divides his time between Cape Cod and Chiang Mai. Sean has two novels available online and in some bookshops (like Bookazine). Next time you are browsing for books set in this region, have a look for Missing in Asia and Air Thermae.

If you liked this first chapter Missing in Asia can be purchased here:

http://www.asiabooks.com/browse/bookinfo.aspx?ProID=9781414021638

Here's a link to Thai Oasis where they have a great review section on Sean and his books: http://www.thaioasis.com/literature/bkkbangkokfiction_bunzick.php