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decreaseMalcolm fidgeted with the salt and pepper shakers on the table. The shakers were square, clear glass obelisks, and Malcolm was trying to balance the salt shaker on its bottom edge, leaning on a few grains of salt, as he had learned to do in his public school canteen.
When Thip appeared at his elbow he jumped to his feet and nearly knocked the table over, scattering salt across its Formica surface. "Oh, sorry," he said. "I'm a little nervous. But happy, nervous but happy. Thank you so much for meeting me."
Thip gave a formal bow, which he tried to return even as he was motioning her to the chair opposite. They both waited for the other to sit first, then Thip sank gracefully onto her seat and Malcolm perched on the edge of his. "I am nervous, too," she told him, looking furtively through the gloom of the restaurant to the big windows which faced the street. "If John sees us, I don't know what he will do."
Malcolm nodded. "I know. That's why I picked this place; nobody comes in here in the daytime. Nobody will see us. I feel just terrible, he is my best friend and all, but Thip I had to speak with you. Would you like something to drink?"
She shook her head, barely disturbing her long, glossy hair, and lowered her gaze to the table top. She began sweeping up the spilled salt with a paper napkin. Malcolm waved away the approaching waiter and cleared his throat. "The thing is," He began. "I don't think you're happy with John. I've watched you with him, and I can see that he annoys you. The way he orders you about, the way he constantly criticizes you. He doesn't deserve you, Thip, you know it's true."
The young woman looked up and there was obvious pain in her voice when she said, "But he has been so good to me. He took me when no other wanted me, and he has taught me so much. He is like my father, and my brother. He took care of me for five years, and I cannot leave him."
Malcolm wanted to reach out to her, to hold her hands and comfort her, but both of her slim, beautifully manicured hands were clutched firmly in her lap. "I want you to leave him, Thip. I think you're wonderful, and I need you. If it's a matter of money you know I can give you more than John can," he said.
"It is not money," she said in a small voice. "It is... It is..." her brows knitted with concentration over big, moist eyes. "It is my karma. You know karma?"
Before Malcolm could answer another man walked up to the table. Both Thip and Malcolm jumped this time, and salt scattered across the table again. "Thought that was you, old boy!" said the newcomer. "What are you two doing back here in the dark, having a secret conference, eh?" Thip leaped from her chair and said "Malcolm I am sorry, I must go..." and she hurried away. "Wait, Thip, wait..." Malcolm implored her but she kept going across the nearly empty restaurant, out the front door and into the brilliant white light of the street.
"I say, sorry about that." The newcomer took the seat Thip had vacated. "Hope I didn't muck anything up. That was John's girl, wasn't it? What's her name, Nit, or Yip, or something?"
Malcolm looked at the other man with a defeated expression. "It's Thip," he said, "short for Thipsuda. It means Blessed Angel."
"Well, she sure looks like an angel. Absolutely stunning girl, face and figure like that she could stop traffic. Can't say I blame you for being disappointed, though to be honest, I thought you were pretty happy with your wife, Malcolm."
Malcolm broke from his reverie and looked at his friend. "Of course I am, what the hell are you talking about?"
"Well, here, with that girl..."
"Thip? I was asking her to be my secretary, Potsy, not my girlfriend. She types fifty words a minute, she knows Windows inside and out, she's a whiz with accounting and she takes phone messages. Can you believe it? She actually says, 'May I take a message?' and then she writes down what the other person says, and then she gives that piece of paper to the boss when he comes back to the office."
Potsy looked at Malcolm like he was describing life on Jupiter. "You're kidding, right?" Malcolm shook his head. "Dead serious, mate. I've seen her do it." All the bluster left Potsy and he became very serious as he said, "I say, a girl like that could make all the difference in a man's life, couldn't she?"
Malcolm stared at the empty entrance of the restaurant. "I'm not going to give up," he said. "I don't care if it costs me John's friendship, either. She's one in a million." With a violent motion of his hand Malcolm swept the scattered salt to the floor.
© Steve Rosse. All rights reserved by the author.
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If you enjoyed this short story by Steve Rosse you can read more of his work by purchasing his books, 'Thai Vignettes' and 'Expat Days' online at BangkokBooks.com. Here's the direct links to each for easy purchase.
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May 25, 2008, 23:12
Can I ask everybody to use the radio buttons to rate my stories? I think that's an under-used resource on this site. Since hundreds seem to read the stories but only a few comment, I'd be interested to see what would happen if everybody used the rating buttons. Or are we all so exhausted by politics that we hate polls? I could understand if we were.
Reading "His Gal Friday" after something over a decade, I think it's not very good. Like a lot of stories written for a particular audience, it falls flat if you're not in the target market. I don't remember writing this but I'm sure it was written for Thailand Tatler, an upscale lifestyle magazine aimed at Bangkok's idle rich. Every member of the Thai minor nobility who's been educated abroad secretly misses the efficiency, the ambition, the drive of Western business culture. I'm sure this story went over big with the intended audience, and at that time Tatler paid the equivalent of a monthly car payment for 1,000 words, so I'm sure I considered the story a success at the time.
But now I wonder why I named Potsy "Potsy." That's a name from an old American TV show, and completely unsuited to this character. I think I must have been writing right up against a deadline. I hate that "…public school canteen…" plant at the top just so Malcolm can say "Dead serious, mate…" later on. I hate the spilled salt thing, which was only intended to be a bit of business to break up what was otherwise nothing but exposition. There's precious little you can do at a café table before food and drink are served, and it was either that or have Malcolm tear up a napkin. But now I think I should have done the napkin thing; the spilled salt seems to presage impending disaster, which was not my intention at all. (I do like the alliteration of "…swept the scattered salt…" at the end, but that's a thin punchline for so much set-up.) I hate "All the bluster left Potsy…" when he hasn't been blustering and "Malcolm broke from his reverie…" when Malcolm hasn't been musing. Those are two trite and hackneyed phrases, polyester throw-pillows tossed into corners by a designer out of ideas. Most of all, I hate the overall "It's better where I come from…" taste left on the reader's tongue at the end of this piece.
And I guess I hate that stuff about "John doesn't treat you right…" The real Thip was Rungthip H., business manager for the Phuket Gazette for over 10 years and one reason that enterprise began to turn a profit with its third issue. Most of the tourism industry on Phuket at that time was run by Westerners, and like any farang man in the Kingdom for longer than a year, we all tended to idolize "good girls." A lot of advertising was sold simply because men wanted a sales call from Rungthip.
Not only because it was a chance to chat with an extremely pretty girl for half an hour, but because she was so good at business. She kept the business cards given her and remembered the givers years later. She took meticulous notes at every meeting. She could debug a computer and speak English complete with grammar. SHE SHOWED UP ON TIME! Every man who had any kind of business to do with the Gazette had a crush on Rungthip.
And John Magee, owner and publisher, treaded Rungthip like a queen. Or I suppose he did; she always seemed happy with her job and stayed there forever. Now I wonder how this all read to John when it was published. He's never mentioned it, but I wonder if he was hurt. Like I said, I don't remember writing this, but I'm sure I never meant to insult John. He was a good friend, the first publisher who ever showed interest in publishing a book of my stories, and he fed and clothed my family for years. I guess this is just one more apology I'll have to make when I go back.