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Part 3

As I glanced down a shrill shriek of fear burst from my lady and her sister, startling me, and I looked up to see what the hell was the matter. I look, and there is the truck backing up toward me, rather quickly I might add. I fumble with the shifter while leaning on the horn, but ... too late, the asshole smashes right into the front of the trusty old red shitbox! Fuuuuuuck! A grievous blow is dealt to the pick-up; the hood buckles up, I hear the tinkling of glass, never a good sign. Further injury is noticeable as steam rises from under the hood, along with a screeching noise and the sudden stopping of the engine. Holy shit! What the hell is with this moron?

I shut down the ignition key, and rest my head on the steering wheel and grit my teeth, while chanting "Jai yen yen, jai yen yen" over and over (translates to be cool, chill out, have a cool heart) and counting to 100 with my eyes closed.

Meanwhile my ladies have turned in whirling dervishes of wronged Thai womanhood. They jumped from the truck and started yakking at the driver, who was just climbing down from his lorry to see what the hell had happened behind him. He gets cute, and asks my lady why we hit his truck, a big mistake, as she tears him a new asshole. Her sister took over and chewed his ass some more. I decided to remain in the truck while the locals argued this all through. What the hell can a falang add to it all anyway, besides baht (money), right? Or beating the guy to a pulp before the other Thais jump in and kick his white butt all over the village sois. I remain in the truck for a while until my passions cool, and observe the goings on through the windshield as the sun beats down and turns the truck into a very efficient sauna.

Ah, Christ! What the hell is this going to cost me? I'm the falang. I'm totally convinced no matter who was at fault that I would be the one forking over the dough. Bummer. From everything I'd read and been told if you get in an accident, and were a falang, you'd be paying the freight. Shit.

I finally stop crying and whining to myself and decide to get out and assess the injuries to the old red beast. I climb out of the truck and walk over to my wife and her Sis where they are still continuing to harass the poor truck driver. He spots me and runs over smiling and saying, "Sorry. Sorry." over and over again. Obviously he's looking to get me to call off my women. I give him a strained smile and a, "My pen lie (no problem)," and leave him to his fate while I go over to the front of the truck to see what the damage is.

Damn! The chrome water buffalo bumper is squashed flat and pushed into the grill, the grill is broken, cheap plastic crap that these are now-a-days, a headlight is busted, and the hood is bent in half at a weird angle. Crap. Dollar signs are already flitting in front of my eyes as they fly from my wallet. I walk to the driver's door and reach inside to pop the hood release latch. Well, it works at least. I open the bent hood; with a screeching sound it reluctantly opens. I prop it open with the rod provided and look inside the engine compartment. Uh oh. The fan is shattered into pieces with just stubs left where the blades were. Looks like it tried to eat its way through the radiator. Damn. The radiator is all chewed up and leaking everywhere. I can imagine how much this would cost to repair in the states. New radiators ain't cheap, although I do know that here in Thailand this is cheaper, but how much cheaper when a falang is paying? My wallet already starts feeling a pain in my hip pocket.

I closed the hood, after bending the radiator back as far as I can from the torn up fan. I figure I might as well see if the damned thing will start, just in case I have to move it off the road. Beats pushing the heavy metallic bitch, right? At least it did start right up. My lass comes over and asks what I'm doing and I explain it to her. I asked her why the hell the guy backed into us. She started ranting and raving in her broken English, and told me he admitted that he never even looked in the mirrors or behind himself before backing up. He didn't even know we were behind him.

"Typical Somchai driver." I think to myself, "Oblivious to everything."

Her sister was on her mobile phone I noticed and I asked who she was calling.

"She phone police." my lady says.

Oh great. This should soon be much fun for the falang. She also tells me that her sister had already called our friends who own the truck, and they were on their way as well. More fun it seems.

(to be continued.)

Cent
(The Central Scrutinizer)

© Written in the year 2000. All rights reserved by the author.