Four Short Stories

1. Air Conditioners

It's unbelievably hot and humid. Bangkok hot and humid. April in Bangkok hot and humid. And I am in Chinatown. The most hot and the most humid place in the most hot and humid city and in the hottest month. A place the Devil sends people to punish them. It is so hot, and so humid, and so crowded, and so stupid, and so noisy, and so filthy that it almost defies description. Well, not quite; it is called Chinatown.

I figure the reason I don't see more people is because all the others have just killed themselves. I would. If you think I am exaggerating, do this the next time you are in Chinatown in Bangkok. Pick any main or side street. Your choice. You know; a typical street, where the shops are at the street level and the people live above the shops. Look up at the windows of the rooms and the apartments where the Chinese people live. Do you know what you will not see? AIR CONDITIONERS. That's right. These people are so cheap they won't even buy air conditioners for their babies, and their children, and their families, and their elderly, and their sick.

Now someone is going to email me and tell me I am an ignorant Westerner who doesn't understand the greater world and these people's poverty. Bullshit. They've all got money in the bank. It is a point of pride with them. Their private or public bragging story. Their only accomplishment in lives that will be instantly forgotten.

And like Asians the world over they love to tell the westerners about their love for their children and their families. As if they and they alone had stumbled across the wheel of human emotion and love. As if somehow Asians had a special gift, or desire, or intent to love their families and offspring more than other peoples of the world were impelled by instinct and want and emotion to love their children and their families. Be careful what you say: somebody might take you seriously and judge you by it.

Hey, I've got an idea Chinese people of Chinatown in Bangkok. After you've had your firecracker holiday, and your new moon festival, and your Year of the Rat parade, and your Water Lantern Festival, and your get stuffed with mooncake day, and the Winter Solstice Festival, and the Blue Dragon Festival, and the Lion Dance, and the Magpie Festival, and the Wholesale To Retail Mark-Up Prayer Day, and the Ghost Festival, and the Cheating The Foreigner Dance, and Xi Shai Jie (Bathing and Basking Festival), and Tomb Sweeping Day: why don't you have a BUYING AN AIR CONDITIONER FOR THE FAMILY festival!

That's right: a BUYING AN AIR CONDITIONER FOR THE FAMILY YOU LOVE SO MUCH festival. Water lanterns, and costumes, and kites, and mooncakes, and tomb sweeping brooms, and firecrackers could all be in the shape of air conditioners. Forget the fighting dragon parade. That was boring one thousand years ago. How about a parade of fighting air conditioners? How about a Chinatown Miss Air Conditioner beauty contest where all of the lovely Chinese women are dressed up like air conditioners?

Come on Chinatown people of Chinatown in Bangkok, Thailand; it is the 21st Century. Don't talk about how much you love your family; show your love. Get some air conditioners. Learn to let loose with some of that money in the bank. Learn to shower your babies and sick and infirm and loved ones with BTU's. Learn to install the heavy motherfxxxers out 2nd and 3rd story windows without dropping them on the street. Learn how to install central air in that place you have been living in for one hundred and fifty years. Learn that some of the generations of marital discord, and fighting, and long silences, and poor production at school, and lousy decisions made was because everyone was just too damned hot. I'll see you at the festival.

2. Mount Everest

I've got my free breakfast coupon, and my 'longtime' honey bunny. We are seated in the Nana Hotel restaurant having the breakfast buffet. And I am pretty full of myself. I hope everybody is looking at me and taking note of a real man. Yessiree ladies and gentlemen of Bangkok, I spent the night with this woman who is sitting across from me and we had sex. I am a real man.

A couple of minutes later, I happen to look over Na's shoulder and receive a personal shock. I see a Frenchman who appears to be at least sixty years old having breakfast with TWO women. And I realize with a jolt that I have seen him having breakfast with two women every morning this week. Different mornings, different women; but always two.

Suddenly I feel diminished. Because I have already looked within myself and taken sexual inventory and I realize that I couldn't handle two women. Just not man enough. Hell, some guys do three women. These stories of two and three women are everywhere; on the net and in the bars. You can not avoid them. Apparently, there are a whole lot of studs with accents who can handle more than one women in a hotel room in a faraway place with the skill and panache of a professional juggler working with lots of balls.

Well, that ain't me. If there is going to be any ball juggling in my life it is going to be with only one woman at a time. All you've got is what you've got, and all you are is what you are; and I'm not a 'two women' guy. Nowhere in my obituary is the word orgy ever going to appear. Anyway, who is this guy? He's got long stringy hair that I guess looks hip when it is not still wet from the shower, and his face is not shy about showing his age. If Mr. Paris was ever the model on the cover of a French romance novel that was a long long time ago. So how does he do it? What exactly goes on? And if he can do this now, what the heck was he like when he was twenty-five years old? Fxxxing Christ, there is always a bigger story. Always someone to burst your balloon. Always someone to rub your little doggie nose in the fact that you are not special. Other people are special. Not you.

Then I spot Na playing with her food and I settle down. What difference does it make? Her breathlessly beautiful wet hair is black, her eyes are brown, her skin is dark, her toes are painted, and her cheekbones are high. I have never been with such an incarnation of beauty and sexuality and femininity. Not even in my dreams have I been with someone like this. Right now with Na here at the Nana hotel in Bangkok I am on the top of the Mount Everest of my life. That's all that counts.

3. Magic Moment

Some moments are magic moments. Personal. Untranslatable to others. But meaningful to ourselves. One of my magic moments always occurs on the second day I arrive in Bangkok. I leave the Mothership (Nana Hotel) and start down Sukhumvit headed towards the crossover bridge. The heat, and the humidity, and the noise, and the squalor, and the people, and the beggars, and the women are all new and all familiar at the same time. It's been six months since I was last here and it feels like I'm home. And I am headed for the bookstore on the other side of the street.

The bookstore is small and crowded, but also complete and friendly. It is clean, air conditioned, safe, and has a big and diverse selection of books and magazines and other stuff. I used to buy cards for girlfriends there, and the girl clerk at the check out counter would help me by writing lover's messages in Thai. I would tell her what I wanted the card to say; and she would look at me as if I had two heads. That is how we would always start. Every six months I would reappear at her cash register with more cards and ask her to help me with my love life. And every six months she would listen to me and then look at me as if I had two heads. After more tortured pantomiming, seemingly endless repeating, and obligatory smiling from me; we would reach an understanding on what I wanted the message to my girlfriend to say and she would write it for me in Thai. At least that is what I think she was writing.

On the way down Sukhumvit on both sides I will buy one of those 20 baht orange juice drinks, and I will look at the fantastic beach pants of which I already own more than I will ever wear, and then on the other side of the overpass I will buy one of those 45 baht paper cups of Gilato ice cream, and finally a coconut with a straw. By the time I get to the bookstore I have already had an ice cream, and a coconut drink, and a orange juice. I have also bought flowers from the flower lady in front of the Mini Mart on Soi 4, and I tried on those folding metal hats made out of beer cans. I have been thinking about buying one of these great hats for about ten years. Ok, not this year; maybe next year for a friend.

So with my pasty white legs, and my foreigner face, and my flowers that are probably only supposed to be worn to a Thai funeral, and my backpack; I look like what I am. Mr. Just Got Off The Plane. Commander Moneybags. Middle Aged Fool. Don't Look Now But Here Comes 'Ripe For Picking'. A Tourist. That's right, a tourist. I look like a tourist. Good for me. Being a tourist is cool. At least somebody is doing something right.

Finally I arrive at the bookstore. I go in and I buy the Post, and the Nation, and a Thai picture book of some kind. I buy some Thai fashion magazines, and Thai youth oriented magazines, and some farang magazines. I buy the Pattaya Mail. I buy paperback books by Thai based or Thai theme authors. I buy postcards, and maybe a Phuket video. Sometimes I buy a map. The bill is always huge as if I am negotiating some kind of baht mortgage; but the girl at the register is honest, the prices are the prices, and the process is efficient and friendly. And then I stagger out of the store with all this stuff: this completely trivial heavy tourist loot in bags. And I am happy. I am back in Thailand. It is a magic moment.

4. Old Underpants

Another Chinatown story. I am staggering around the streets of Chinatown. I am doing this because I believe most of what I read, and every tourist book I read on Bangkok tells me that I should go to Chinatown. It is exotic. It is charming. It is unique. It is the Old World preserved. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Well, I wish the faraway authors of these tourist books were here right now so that I could reach out and strangle them. Because the Chinatown that I am wandering around in is not friendly, not connected to the planet Earth in any meaningful or interesting way, and not remotely knowledgeable about how to display and sell goods. These people have been merchants for 500 years and have apparently learned nothing.

I am trying hard to have a good time but I am not really having a good time. The only reason I don't leave is that I have been lost for the last hour. I am doing circles. Then I spot a store that looks interesting. It's display window is full of things that might interest me. Getting off the street will be a relief. I feel happy tourist vibes as if a wheel has turned and I am now going to have fun. I go in. It is a shotgun store. A blast through the front door would go right out the rear door. Sitting in the back room a woman is watching TV. Her body language displays that she knows I came in but she does not move. Apparently, whatever is on the TV is more important than a customer. Finally, she comes out.

'Maybe the big nose foreigner will have a heart attack and I can grab his wallet.'

No hello. No smile. No head bob. No eye contact. Nothing. She is 30ish. Could be attractive if she tried. Dressed Chinese poor. You get the impression she has been wearing the same underpants for five years to save money. Probably makes less money than anybody you ever met and has more savings. Chinatown.

I start to look around. The place is stuffed with items that would not call attention to themselves if they were scattered at a municipal dump. The display cases, and counter tops, and walls, and floors of this little shop are stuffed with stuff. I see something in a case I would like to see. She can't find the key. Undisturbed dust is on everything. She finds the key. But she can't get the door open because twenty five other unremarkable things are in the way. They have never been moved. Hold it. Let's examine this. If the dust layer is five years old and no one has asked to see anything in the case in five years: my mind tries for a second to get a hold on this but then just gives up.

Finally we get the display case open and pull out what I have been pointing at with my finger. It is a little jackknife. Now that I am holding it in my hands I can see that it is just junk. One of the blades is broken, the handle is cracked, and no one has decided that cleaning it might augment the sales process. But it gets better. When I ask the price, there are no prices on anything; I get a quote that sounds as if someone is on Chinese crack. Actually, it is the kind of quote you give some one when you really do not want their business. Example: "How much is this beer bartender?"

"Seven hundred baht."

When she gives me the price for the broken jack knife with the cracked plastic handle it is all I can do not to lift my head and look up for the hidden TV cameras as if I am on some loony Thai TV show. I can feel the toes in my sandals spread for extra grip because I have clearly stumbled into some kind of crazy house. Anything could happen. Presumably the reason this piece of junk was under lock and key was to protect it from being stolen. Ok, now I must be on some loony Thai TV show and this will be a big joke later.

I ask to see something on the wall. Behind me high up on the wall is something that looks interesting. She can't find the stepladder. Where could it have gone? You can almost hear the wheels in her brain coming to a stop as she labors with this new challenge. It takes so long to get the item off the wall that I can feel my hair growing longer. Another piece of junk. Writing this now I can not even remember what it was. It made zero impression on my brain and I will be buried without any memory of it's existence.

Next I try to get to something I see on the floor in the corner. I've got so much time invested now, and I am so spooked, that I am desperate to make the time pay. I am half way around the world for god's sake in Chinatown in Bangkok in Thailand in exotic Asia. There must be something interesting here. Anyway, getting to it is like threading my way through a minefield. Like the mountain climber that always has to keep in mind three point contact, I have to think about each foot placement, and each body movement, and each counter balancing move of my arms and my hands. Falling here would mean impalement followed by a trip to the ATM machine. No help from Old Underpants. When I get to it I do not even lean over to pick it up. Another hope dashed on the rocks of disappointment. Writing this I can't remember what that thing was either. Leaves on the wind.

Finally released from this Chinatown hell of indifference and stupidity I don't take more than three steps outside on the sidewalk before I have a revelation. I am not by personality prone to revelations, but this thing hits me like a Ming Dynasty meteorite slamming into a Peking duck. It hits me like a plank in the face. Witnessing Chinamen would have seen a foreigner almost leveled by an incoming thought wave. And what was that thought?

THEY DON'T EVER SELL ANYTHING.

Sweet Jesus on a cracker, they don't ever sell anything in that store. THEY DON'T EVER SELL ANYTHING!!!!!!!! They don't want to sell anything. Nothing here is really for sale. There was no cash register. There was no credit card machine. There was no receipt book. There was no price marked on anything. There was no negotiating. There was no telephone. There was no price drop at the door. There was no "I give you first customer of the day lucky discount." This wasn't really a store. Or a shop. Or a wholesaler. Or a distribution point. Or a vendor. Or a warehouse. Or a boutique. Or a start up. Or a tradition.

There was no Hours Open sign. There was no bell on the door (Customer's Here). There was no shrine to Buddha, or picture of the King, or lunar calendar, or pictures of children pinned to a wall. There was no new baby lying on a blanket on the floor. There was no cigar box with twenty pounds of Thai coins for making change. There was no cute little girl or cute little boy doing homework on a shipping crate. There was no retarded family member hanging around, or squatting ancient checking for a missing satang on an elephant ivory abacus. There were no invoices and packing slips scattered about, and no piles of unopened bills and correspondence: the sign of the Chinese merchant worldwide. Old Underpants was just waiting in her patient zombie Chinese way for me to leave. "Please foreign dog, please leave; I am missing valuable TV time."

What was that place?

© Dana. All rights reserved by the author.