My life on the Quay

My name is Stanley Rochet. I am fifty-nine years old. I live on the Quay. The address is 2198 Sisowath Quay, Phnom Penh, Cambodia. That is the address my sister uses when she sends me money. That's the money we got when our father died. Sometimes she sends the money to the Paragon Hotel. That's how most people know 2198 Sisowath Quay.

I have room 404. I have had this room for five years. Maybe it is six years now. I am a little vague about that. I think of the room as my room. It has a small writing desk. It has a TV. It has a bed I don't use. It also has a larger bed I use. It's good for when one of my girlfriends stays over. There is also a picture above the small TV. It is of three clowns. They are laughing. I don't know who made the picture. There is a small lamp near the writing desk. I turn it on when one of my girlfriends comes for the night. I put a pair of my long pants over the shade. My Khmer girlfriends don't like a lot of light. They always want the curtains on the window closed. I tell them no one can see us. They still want the curtains closed when we are together.

I have a routine. I make my girlfriends leave by eight o'clock in the morning. Sometimes I let them shower before going. Sometimes they shower while I am shaving. This is when they are late getting up. Some of them don't like to go home. They want to stay with me all day. I don't allow that. I have my routine.

I have my favorite corner restaurants. There are six of them along the Quay. I have my favorite chairs too. They are close to the street. This way I see everything. I don't know why I want to see everything. I used to know. I don't anymore.

I have breakfast every day at nine o'clock. Already it is hot. I sit in the shade so it doesn't matter. I have the girl waitresses bring my coffee first. Then they bring my juice. Then they bring my eggs and bread. I don't have to tell them to do this. They all know me. They know what day I will come to their restaurant. They know I will tip them one dollar.

I return to my room before noon. I read. I watch sports on TV. I nap. I try not to think when napping of my life before the Quay. That was when I was married. That was when I had a job and was not happy. That was when I stopped going to church. That was when I had my stroke and stopped loving my wife and said goodbye and she cried. That was when I came here.

Once in a while somebody wants to talk to me. That's okay. I tell them to sit down. I listen. They ask me what I do. Maybe I tell them I read. Maybe I also tell them I watch TV. Sometimes I just tell them I do nothing. I am just living. That is pretty much the truth.

I tell myself stories. The stories have happy endings. I am always in them. They are the endings I wanted before I came here. They are the endings I will never see. That's okay. I think I understand why. It happens to everyone.

I have my first beer at ten o'clock. This is after I have paid my breakfast bill. I like to keep things separate. I want everything to be simple. I once had lots of complications in my life. My wife was a real complication. My job was one too. Then I had the stroke that made everything simple.

I keep it simple with my girlfriends too. They want complications. They want to live with me. I tell them no. I tell them it is better the way it is. When I need you I will find you, I tell them. They are all on Street 136 and Street 104. I will invite you for the night, I tell them. Then you will have to go in the morning. I might see you the next night too, I also tell them. Maybe I will not see you again for another week, I might say. I don't want to decide before I decide.

I have my first cigarette of the day with my first beer. My second smoke I have with my second beer. I cannot now do without the second one. I have three more like the second one before dinner. Sometimes I have one before I find my girlfriend for the night. Sometimes I have one with her too. It depends on her.

Four years ago I had a little hobby. I would write a story. Then I would print it out and paste it on the wall by the TV. I would write another story and paste it on the wall by the bed I don't use. Then I would wake up one morning and take the stories down. I would put them in the trash. They weren't very good. I didn't want to think about them ever again.

My sister who sends money writes to ask how I am doing. I don't answer these questions. I also don't know what to tell her. I can't tell her about my drinking or dope smoking or young girlfriends. She wouldn't like that. Sometimes she tries to tell me about my wife. She wants me to know what happened to her. When I see it coming I don't read what she writes. I don't want to know anything about the woman. Maybe she is remarried or is dead now. I don't know. I just don't want to know.

Sometimes I sit on the balcony outside my room and watch the monks. They walk along the river with their umbrellas. I don't think they pray. I see them laughing too much. I think they wear the robes to get free food.

There are other men living here like me. We talk a little sometimes. I don't ask questions about their lives. They don't ask about mine. That's good because I don't want to tell them I've got nothing to say. There isn't much to say.

I now have a good girlfriend who is 28. I have been seeing her for several months. When I met her she told me she had a son. He is two, she told me. I think this was a story she invented. She has no breasts and no birth marks on her. I don't know why she told me this story. I never asked her. I won't ask her. I see her every Friday and Saturday. These are the days she stays with me. She takes my laundry on Friday and comes back on Saturday with everything clean and pressed. On Saturday afternoon we sit at the Hope and Anchor Bar and Restaurant and have ice cream. She has two scoops of strawberry and one of vanilla. I have one scoop of chocolate. We share a pot of tea. She wants to be with me all the time. When she says this I talk about something else.

I read books about wars and the Romans. I read books about the Victorian era too. I just started on wars and Romans one day and that's why I read about them. The same goes for the Victorian era. I read a lot some days and don't remember much. That is okay. I like forgetting. I like forgetting my girlfriends too. They are here one night and then they are not here. That is fine. Everything is here and then it is not here. That's what I learned when I had the stroke.

Last year I had a hobby of counting young foreign girls with blond hair on the street. I would do this for an hour and then quit. I had notes for every day of the week. I did this for two months and then quit. Now I don't know why I did this.

I have another sister. She lives in New York. She doesn't write to me and I don't write to her. She wanted no more of me when I disappeared on my wife one day. I think that's fair of her to feel like she does.

Three years ago I had a girlfriend who had a motorbike. She took me everywhere I wanted to go. One day we fell and she got hurt on one leg. She wore a bandage wrapped around the big scar until it healed. After that she liked how the bandage made her look. Last time I saw her she was still wearing a white bandage on that scar. This was five months ago. I can't remember why we stopped seeing each other.

I have lunch every day at one o'clock. It is always at the same corner caf?. I always order a sandwich and French fries. I don't eat the French fries. They are for my two little friends who come by. We don't talk. They just put their hands on them and then run away. I think of them as my sons. I don't even know their names.

My girlfriend before the one now disappointed me. I had seen her many times. I came to trust her. One morning I showered and she took my pants and disappeared. I had ninety dollars in my money wallet in the pants. My other wallet which I hide has my debit and credit cards. My good sister pays the bills on my credit cards. She also puts money in an account for my debit card. She has three children. I guess they're good children. How am I to know? I should send them money or gifts. I don't. I don't know why.

A Dutch boy wanted to talk to me one day. I was eating lunch at the French restaurant near my hotel. He had seen me every day for a week he said. What do you do? he said to me. Nothing much, I told him. Do you get bored? he said. I don't think about that, I said. He asked some other questions. I told him I don't like to talk about myself. He left. I never saw him again.

I like the afternoon rains. They start slow around two o'clock. Then it rains hard and the streets flood. The monks disappear. The tourists get wet and smile. I don't know why they smile when they get wet. One day I might ask one of them why. I have different questions I might ask my sister. Maybe I won't ask her though. It seems like a lot of trouble. I want to keep everything simple.

My sister who sends money asks when I am coming home. She asks me every couple of months. I don't answer the question. She would not like the answer.

The author can be contacted at:  korski1@cox.net

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