The Grifters

Bob had a brief, whirlwind spell of success on the stock exchange in his native London. He seemed to have a knack for buying low and selling high. A skill, you might say. Emboldened from his successful international speculations he went on to invest his entire fortune in the tiger economies of the Far East. He lost the lot around about 97. Subsequently, having sold the house and all the assets in he has spent the formative years of his life in the Far East. Whilst admitting that the beds in the east are indeed softer, he has come to understand that the sunlight at times can be actually colder, and can hurt his eyes. He had lost a stack of money in the crash over here and has never been able to forget it. Most investors had used bank loans to invest in the building of apartment blocks and office buildings back in the nineties. Bob had invested real money, his life savings and lost the lot. After that he has given up hope. Every win is a loss, every victory hollow. His only solace is that of the cheap chemical Thai whiskey that he consumes bottles of every day. It is difficult to determine whether his depression has led to his alcoholism or whether his alcoholism has led to his depression. Or, whether the depression was there all along, waiting to pounce; like a snake in the grass.

“Bloody Hell!” He says to no one in particular.

Sitting on the bar stall next to him is Hans, a young youthful blonde Norwegian offshore Roustabout, who has recently become engaged to a bargirl named Oy. Oy, or Bamboo, is in her early twenties, pretty in a rural way and has a sex drive that can only be quenched by the occupation that she has chosen. During the brief spells she is without the benefit of sexual congress she breaks out in spots and pimples, symptoms of an unclassified hormone condition, subject to the wayward wanton type, that she so perfectly typifies. She is currently dancing on stage with unbelievable verve and athleticism. It’s something to see.

“What about Thailand?” Hans says “I love it.”

“Just you wait sonny.”

“That’s what I am doing. I am waiting for my girlfriend to finish dancing. And then we go back to hotel.”

“Then what happens?” Bob asks.

“What are you? Some kind of sick man?” with that Hans gets up and moves to another table.

A group of Japanese business men enter the bar and are seated next to Bob. The eldest of the Japanese takes a bag from his pocket and reaches his hand inside of it. Inside the bag are thirty, one thousand baht notes, folded origami style, into small rectangular pieces. The Japanese begins to throw the money onto the stage and he watches with an evil smile as the girls scramble to pick up the cash. The scene is strangely reminiscent of an old man innocently feeding ducks bread, in the park on a Saturday afternoon. But these are not ducks he is feeding. Bob is disgusted. This Japanese is abusing money in a way that anyone that has ever earned it would find disgraceful. In a flash Bob jumps up on to the stage and starts grabbing at the money. “Give it to me, ya bastard, give it to me.”

The mamasan intervenes and eventually Bob is led outside of the gogo bar where he reaches over the first floor ledge and thinks about jumping. ‘nah, not high enough, it will only break me legs,’ he thinks reflectively. Then he thinks about puking. Then he thinks about something else, then he stops thinking. He has at least two of the one thousand bills in his pocket.

His legs somehow carry him to the first floor. He is not approached enroute, even the longest toothed shemale looks the other way. He sits down at a bar near the entrance to the plaza and orders a Chang beer.

Sitting on the stool next to him is a Dutch grifter, aged about fifty, by the name of Jack. For Jack, the plaza is a market where he can find a mark. Jack specializes in the short con trick. He is broke and penniless, but manages to attach himself to naïve holiday makers who pity his sad conjuncture of circumstances. His story does vary, but normally involves a girl who robbed him of his passport and his wallet. He is waiting for money to be wired from western union. All the mark has to do is lend him enough, say a few hundred baht, until the following morning when they will go to pick up the funds tomorrow. Off course, the funds are not there tomorrow, and neither is Jack. Just a bleary eyed hung-over tourist, with the slow, weary look of realization crossing his gullible face.

“Hi Jack” Says Bob.

“Hi, Bob, how’s business”

“Ah, you know same as usual, managed to pick up a thousand from a Jap who was throwing it around like confetti.You?”

“A German couple wandered in here by accident. I took them under my wing; they took pity on me, picked up a 5.”

“Not bad for an hours work”

“Ah, not too bad,” Says Jack “there’s no work better than hustling in Bangkok. Just ask the girls.”

“Ah but the girls just use there bodies. Me and you, we have to use our minds.”

“Body. Mind. It’s all the same.” Says Jack “This place is a market, remember that. “You still using that ex Stock Broker trick?”

“From time to time,” Says Bob “I didn’t need it tonight. Just jumped up on the stage and grabbed a brown one. Will have to avoid the place for a bit.”

“Plenty more fish in the sea.” Says Jack philosophically.

“Yes” Said Bob.

And then they drank. Like fish.