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The Butterfly Trap - Chapter One


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This is an excerpt of the book: The Butterfly Trap - posted here with the permission of the publisher.

 

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The Butterfly Trap - Chapter 1 - Unknown Cargo

 

In the sky, there is no distinction of east and west; people create distinctions out of their own minds and then believe them to be true.

 

***

 

The first security guard checks my passport and boarding pass. The second checks it again and lays my bag flat on the conveyor belt. The third x-rays my belongings. The fourth stands by with a machine gun. The fifth waves an electronic wand over my body. Beep, beep, beep. I wish I'd taken my belt off. "Please step to the side, sir. Arms up. Legs spread. Lift your left foot, now the right. Remove your shoes. Remove your belt. Is this your bag? Open it. Fingernail files are not permitted in carry-on luggage. I'm going to need to confiscate this. Okay, you can go."

 

The sixth leads a German Shepard to sniff my luggage. The airline clerk at the gate calls my name for a random baggage check. The seventh security guard repeats the search routine of the fifth. I'm sure that someone feels safer because of this rigmarole, but a sharp pencil is deadlier than a fingernail file, and who says my water bottle isn't filled with napalm? I don't feel any safer; I just feel annoyed. Two more passport checks to get on the plane and the War on Terror is over. We lost.

 

The digital map on the seat back hypnotizes me into tranquility. Every pixel the plane icon moves is evidence of progress, though not many of us are progressing; the plane is half empty. We pass Oregon, Washington, then Vancouver Island. I wait for the pilot to turn left and head across the Pacific, but he never does. I look at my ticket to make sure I'm on the right flight and then out the window at the Alaskan peninsula. Snow-capped mountains plunge into the icy waters of Bristol Bay.

 

I pick up my newspaper, as much to block the view of the vacant first class seats mocking me, as to read. If the point of this trip is to get away from reality, I may as well know what I'm fleeing. Among today's headlines: "More SARS Outbreaks in South East Asia" and "State Department Issues Terrorist Alert for Thailand." No wonder there's so many empty seats; all the worrywarts are staying home. Nowhere does it announce, "Divorced Man Runs Away."

 

Given the choice between stewing in the wreckage of divorce, dating my best friend's ex-wife, or the reverse evolution of the online personals, running away seemed a better choice. As if I?m flying away from my own reflection, freeing myself from my own identity. There's no reflection on the Pacific when the pilot announces the International Date Line. The ocean a blank slate as today becomes yesterday and we cross into tomorrow. It's the closest I'll ever get to time travel. I like the idea of going into the future and am already lamenting my imminent return to the past. But when today's gone, where does it go? And where does the big dufus in the red sports jersey think he's going?

 

He saunters into first class and slides into a leather recliner. He doesn't look the part: shaved head, sailor's earring, neck tattoo, baggy satin shorts, and plastic sandals with socks. A fashion statement no one wants to hear. What kind of jersey is that anyways? It has a big white 7 and says Beckham across his shoulders. The leather creaks as he leans back and pretends to be asleep. Damn, that looks good. Maybe I should try it.

 

A passing flight attendant stops next to him, looks down, and then waves to someone at the front of the plane. She taps his shoulder. "Excuse me, sir." He keeps the charade up, but she doesn't buy it. "Excuse me, sir, I need to ask you to please return to your seat."

 

He opens his eyes and coos, "C'mon love, I?s just getting comfortable."

 

He's English. Must be a soccer jersey.

 

"These seats are for paying first-class customers only, sir."

 

His attitude changes in a flash. "So the lot of me aren't good enough?"

 

"That's not what I'm saying, sir. It's airline policy?"

 

"Bollocks! This seat's empty, why can't I sit here?"

 

"Sir, please calm down, I don't want to make this difficult."

 

Beckham crosses his arms. "Then piss off. I'm not moving."

 

"Sir, the other passengers would appreciate it if you lowered your voice and returned to your seat."

 

"Tell the other passengers to kiss my hairy arse!"

 

The flight attendant shakes her head and strides toward the front of the plane. Beckham settles back into fictitious slumber?victorious?for the moment. He's got nerve, I'll give him that, but this battle isn?t over. Reinforcements arrive in an officer's uniform. "What seems to be the problem here, sir?"

 

Beckham reverts to sweet-talk. "No problem guv'nor. Just catching a wee nap."

 

"Sir, I need you to return to your assigned seat, right now."

 

"I'm not going."

 

The pilot?s eyes widen in disbelief. "I'd advise you to reconsider, sir."

 

"Or what? You going to boot me off? Huh?"

 

A hush falls over the plane, heads pop into the aisle to hear the response.

 

"No, sir. What I am going to do is return to the cockpit and do the job I was trained to do. And if Miss Scott reports to me that we have an unruly passenger on board who refuses to cooperate, that job entails notifying the airport police at our destination. They will also do their job, which means they will most likely detain the troublemaker for questioning, and quite possibly send him back to wherever he came from under police custody. Now if you'll excuse me I need to get back to the cockpit. Enjoy the rest of your flight, sir. Miss Scott, please report to me in five minutes."

 

The pilot walks toward the front of the plane and the flight attendant toward the back, but Beckham stays put. He's lost, and unless he's incredibly stupid, he'll know. He sits, and sits, and sits?then curls slowly out of leather luxury, and strolls back into livestock class. He disappears behind me and I'm sorry to see him go; if nothing else, he was entertaining.

 

The food-carts make the rounds and the anticipation of being fed settles the cabin down. I peel back the pre-fab meal's foil cover and try to figure out what it is. Two rows back a familiar voice says, "Ello, luv. What have we got here then?"

 

"Would you like a meal, sir?"

 

"It's about fookin? time. What are me choices then?"

 

"Your choices are yes, or no."

 

***

 

From thirty thousand feet, Japan looks just like California, only on the wrong side of the plane. From one thousand feet, only the telephone poles look different. I've wanted to visit Japan since making origami swans in the third grade. I doubt I'll have a chance to leverage my paper-folding skills on this two-hour stopover, but I'm still excited to experience whatever bit of culture Narita International Airport can provide.

 

On the runway, the airport support vehicles look futuristic, or maybe just small. The ground staff wear neatly pressed uniforms and plastic helmets. The guy waving glow sticks has perfect posture. Everyone seems very serious: transporting luggage, driving buses, digging ditches, all with the urgency and precision of an aircraft carrier crew. Tora! Tora! Tora!

 

Down the escalator to connecting flights, a glass mural of dancing people doesn't look particularly Japanese; it could just as easily be in Cleveland or Des Moines. A young Japanese woman in a blue skirt holds a sign as if it was a game-show prize: This bus to Terminal 2. There isn't anywhere else to go, so I get on the bus. The driver follows the sweep of his wristwatch's second hand. At the appointed moment, he closes the door and drives off. Beckham runs out of the terminal. "Hold the bleedin? bus, Tugger." The driver pays him no mind, and we drive off without him. Japanese precision has its merits.

 

Terminal Two is a big shopping mall, and the shoppers are all Japanese. None have cameras. They are well-dressed, business men in business suits, women in well-coordinated ensembles, and retirees in track suits?a caricature of western style instead of kimonos. A shop girl arranges and rearranges a display of tourist knick-knacks. She notices my attention and flashes a bright smile. It catches me off guard, and I look away. I'm not used to strangers smiling at me, least of all attractive young women.

 

I head for the currency exchange with dollars in hand. Inside the glass booth, an elderly woman points to a small table behind me. "Fill form please." I wonder why I have to fill out a form to exchange twenty dollars, but I fill it out anyways.

 

A girl with a Canada backpack walks past me, taking my place in line. She says to the woman, "How many yen for one-thousand Singapore dollars?"

 

The woman behind the glass points to the table. "Fill form please."

Canada explains, "I don't want to change the money. I just want to know how many yen for one-thousand Singapore dollars."

 

"Fill form please."

 

I've already filled my form please and am ready to go, but Canada wants to try again, this time slower and louder. "How?many?yen?for?one-thousand Singapore dollars?"

 

The Japanese woman blinks, and then leans toward the glass. "Fill form please."

 

They stare at each other in confrontational silence. Canada waits for an answer, glass woman waits for her to leave, and I wait for the stalemate to break. A wiry supervisor pops up from his desk and walks toward the window. Canada launches into her speech. "How many yen?" He shakes his head and points to the table. Canada waves her arms in disgust. "I can't believe this."

 

I say, "I don't think they can understand you."

 

"You'd think these people would speak English."

 

"Well, this is Japan?"

 

"All I want?"

 

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Where are you from?"

 

"What?"

 

I point to her Canada patch, and say, "I have family in Canada. Where are you from?"

 

"Oh, that's just camouflage from terrorists. I'm from Chicago."

 

***

 

I memorize how to say ?Eel over rice? in Japanese from the little sign next to the plastic-toy-food example in the display case and head for the cashier. I put a bottle of water on the counter and say, "Unagi don."

 

The spiky-haired teen behind the cash register shows me his calculator, and says, "One dollar, fifty cents".

 

I guess I didn't need yen after all, but the price is too low. He must think I just want the water, so I speak louder and with my best Japanese accent, "Unagi don."

 

He looks at me as if I'm speaking a foreign language. I think he thinks I'm speaking English. We stare at each other in uncomfortable silence. I don't know how to tell him I'm speaking Japanese. I stop myself short from saying unagi don louder and say, "Eel?"

 

He nods quickly, punches the keys, and shows me a new price, still in dollars. I pull a couple of Nippon Ginko's finest from my wallet and say, "Yen?" He looks annoyed, recalculates, takes my order, my yen, and gives me a plastic number.

 

I find a seat at the end of the counter between a group of homely schoolgirls in blue pleated skirts and some German speaking backpackers. Why do backpackers, no matter where they're from or where they're going, always look the same? Tri-color knit caps, army surplus pants, beaded necklaces, too many bracelets, and something that says Bob Marley on it?the international uniform of traveling young rebels?reflective of neither their origin nor destination.

 

Spike calls a number out. I don't know what it is. I only know how to count to four in Japanese, but I'm number eighty-seven. I head for the counter, leaving my carry-on behind?unattended?to save my place, less worried about it being stolen, or tampered with, than an over-zealous security guard confiscating it.

 

I admire the shiny glaze and sesame seeds briefly before digging in. The Fraulein Rastafarians hoist their heavy bags and something about their tone makes me think they're talking about me. When one taps my shoulder, I know it. "Scusen, you speck English?"

 

I swallow hard and nod that I do.

 

"Is smell vonderful, is fish?"

 

"It is wonderful, but I?m not sure if it?s a fish."

 

"Vat is?"

 

"It's eel."

 

She translates for her friend, and they shudder at the thought of it. I hold the plastic plate up and say, "Would you like to try it?"

 

They shake their heads in unison. "Nein, nein, nein."

 

***

 

The next flight?s passengers file on board: Japanese families with too much carry-on luggage, businessmen, retirees with a grandson, and an unusual number of goofy looking single men. A tall skinny guy with a bad perm and a slight limp, a big black guy in a light blue suit that doesn't quite fit, a fifty-ish man with two locks of black hair combed over his head and held in place by his glasses?all traveling alone.

 

The All Nippon Airways flight attendants are cute in their pin striped suits and pink shirt collars. All smiles as they hand me a Thai Customs and Immigration form. I set it aside for later and stare out my exit row window. The sun has set in the land of the rising sun; all I can see is the neon sign on the control tower: Narita International Airport, in English, and only in English. So much for a cultural experience.

 

I review my Thailand guide book?s chapter on Bangkok and check off the places I want to see: The Grand Palace, The National Museum, The Giant Swing, Jim Thompson's House, The Reclining Buddha, Lumpini Kickboxing Stadium, The Floating Market, Wat Saket, and Wat Pra Keo. Bangkok, here I come. I wonder what I'll do on day two.

 

Language study next. I've already learned how to say: Hello, thank you, what is your name? Where is the restroom? How much does it cost? I don't understand, and I can count from one to ten. That should get me through the day, so I work on some phrases for the night: May I buy you a drink? Would you like to dance? You have beautiful eyes. I study Thai phrases until 3 a.m., California time.

 

I've never been able to sleep in a moving vehicle, but envy of the unconscious, encourages me to try. I swallow a Melatonin capsule and an Ambian sleeping pill, remove my shoes, put a pillow under each elbow, position my inflatable neck brace, insert earplugs, and cover my eyes with a black sleeping mask. It still lets a little light in, so I drape a blanket over my head. I'm sure I look ridiculous, but since everyone's sleeping, no one will see me. The drugs kick in and I can barely support my head, yet sleep evades me. Stuck in a semi-conscious state of stupor: hoping, wishing, waiting for nothingness.

 

A familiar voice pierces the haze. "Bloody hell! Where's my drink then?"

 

Maybe I'm dreaming. No. If I was dreaming I would be able to see something, and I wouldn't be wondering if I?m dreaming. Now closer, "Oy! Where is everyone?" I pull the blanket off my head. It?s Beckham, standing in the aisle, drunk, supporting himself with the bulkhead wall. One of the cute little flight attendants rushes up the aisle and whispers, "Yes, please, may help you?"

 

"Yes, you can bloody help, I want me bloody drink."

 

"Yes sir, please sit, I bring drink."

 

He reaches up and adjusts her breasts, as if turning the dials of an old-fashioned radio. Her face turns red, and she shakes. "Sir, return seat please."

 

"I haven't taken me bloody seat anywhere. How about you help me find it, then I'll bloody return it?"

 

She backs away from him. "Please sit, sir, I come back," then disappears through the first class cabin?s night curtain.

 

He stumbles up the aisle, gripping the seat tops to maintain his balance. "It's too hot, it's too bloody hot in here." The few passengers that aren't asleep exchange nervous glances. He doesn't seem to be a threat to anything but breast tissue, his own dignity, and peace and quiet. He leans against the emergency door and notices my attention. "What are you bloody looking at?"

 

"Just watching the show."

 

He looks through the window into the blackness. "It's too bloody hot in here."

 

I reach up to spin the little air vent above my seat, hoping he'll get the hint. Instead he starts fiddling with the safety release on the door.

"I don't think you're supposed to be playing with that."

 

He grabs the silver handle and starts pulling.

 

"Hey! Let go of that!"

 

He pulls on it again. "Bollocks, I'm leaving."

 

I unsnap my seat belt and bolt forward, planting my shoulder into his flabby midsection. We slam into the seat backs of the next row and then to the floor. I scramble to sit on top of him and struggle to keep his flailing arms from slapping me. At least I don't have to worry about him pulling a finger nail file on me. He's more confused than angry. "Who the bloody hell are you?"

 

"Airplane security."

 

Heads pop up over the seats to see the soccer riot in progress. The flight attendant?s feet appear next to me, and I see she?s brought company. The Japanese flight officer?s nametag says Lt. Kobayshi. The flustered flight attendant is at a loss to explain, so the lieutenant asks in perfect English, "What's going on here?"

 

Beckham slurs, "All I want's a bloody drink, and this piker jumped me."

 

"Why are you sitting on this passenger?"

 

"He was trying to open the emergency door. He wouldn't stop, so I stopped him."

 

The flight attendant adds something in Japanese, and then Kobayashi-san points to me. "Okay, stand up." I get up with the help of a shove from Beckham. Kobayashi-san grabs Beckham?s wrist and snaps a set of plastic handcuffs on him.

 

"Bloody hell, I'm the victim here."

 

The lieutenant escorts Beckham back to his seat and seatbelts him in place. "I don't want to hear from you for the rest of this flight."

 

"Bollocks, I'm going to sue your bloody arse."

 

"We will take a statement from you after we land."

 

Beckham shouts toward me over the seat tops, "And I haven't forgotten about you, Tugger. I'll see you later!"

 

Kobayashi-san stops by on his way back to the cabin. I'm expecting a thank you, but that's not what I get. "Do I need to restrain you as well?"

 

"No, I don't think so. As long as no one tries to open the door, I'm not going anywhere."

 

"If someone causes a disturbance, ask one of the attendants for assistance. Do not take matters into your own hands. Do not attack the other passengers under any circumstances."

 

"But he was trying to open the door."

 

"The door will not open when the cabin is pressurized."

 

"Well, I didn't know that. Have you ever tried it?"

 

"No sir," he smiles like he knows he's not supposed to and walks away.

 

Sleep is now out of the question, so I pick up the Thai Customs and Immigration form. Lightning flashes between clouds outside my window when I get to the line that asks: Do you have anything to declare? I don't know the answer. I agreed to deliver a package for the woman who suggested I make this trip, in exchange for her brother-in-law picking me up at the airport. I could just check the box Nothing to declare, but what if there is something in there that should be declared: cigarettes, alcohol, marijuana, heroin, plutonium? No. The sleeping pills have made me paranoid, but what if? After all, I am king of the random baggage search.

 

A little further down, the form says: Failure to declare may result in fines or imprisonment, and then: Check "Items to Declare" if you are not sure. Okay, that?s me, so I check that box. But then it wants me to list the items, which I can't do. My phrase book doesn't have anything for: This bag is not mine, please don't take me to jail. I could say: You have beautiful eyes, but I don't think flattery is going to help, so I piece together the words grabpow dam Thai puan pee chai norng chai. I think it means black bag Thai friend's brother.

 

From the night sky, Bangkok is indistinguishable from any other metropolitan area. It might as well be Tokyo or Chicago. I've been flying nineteen hours, and it?s been over twenty-four since I've slept. The plane touches down and I make a silent prayer, to no deity in particular, that I'll soon be in a hotel bed. The passengers start filing off, and I jot down notes for: I don't know, and I don't understand. In the absence of any reasonable explanation, I'll plead ignorance.

 

I expect to hear from Beckham when I stand, but there's not a sound. I shuffle into the musty terminal, following the crowd. A frowning Customs and Immigration officer, beneath a Land of Smiles poster, stamps my passport. So far, so good. I escalate down to the luggage level and am tempted to open the mysterious black bag I am delivering. If there's something incriminating inside, I could get rid of it before I reach the Customs checkpoint. But if I get caught trying to flush a bag of heroin down the toilet, it's going to be even worse. I adhere to my strategy of ignorance.

 

The horde at the Nothing to Declare line fans out in all directions. Little old ladies with luggage carts, families of six, and tourists of one, they all jockey for position as the line squeezes to single file somewhere across the room. There's no waiting at Items to Declare: just one guy with a computer, and I'm next.

 

The Customs agent is a stern little man with shoulder boards. He watches my lips as I read my pieced-together explanation. His squint says, What the heck are you talking about? But his lips say, "Open bag."

 

I notice his holstered pistol as I rummage through my pocket for the key and hope his sidearm stays there. The zipper slides open and I wish I knew how to say, We are both seeing the contents for the first time. Shoes, books, compact discs, and a coffeemaker in an unopened box, the inspector keeps digging. But he doesn't find anything of interest, so he points to the coffeemaker and asks, "How much cost?"

 

I guess, "Thirty dollars?"

 

The inspector laughs, and says, "You go now."

 

***

 

Metal barriers contain the mob at the lobby entrance. People shout for attention and wave signs with names on them. I walk through slowly, looking for someone looking for me, looking for a sign with my name on it. Whenever I make eye contact I'm offered a taxi. I keep looking for the brother-in-law but keep collecting taxi drivers. They swarm around me as I emerge into the open lobby. I keep repeating, "No taxi, I have a ride," until they give up and move on to the next bewildered looking arrival.

 

I stand in the middle of the open lobby so I can easily be seen, rows of orange plastic seats on one side and rows of people against the tinted lobby windows on the other. I scan them one by one, some look back, but none show recognition. The night behind them looks like ink, car headlights tiny spots of blue on the dark glass. Apple said he knows what I look like. Maybe he got held up in traffic, so I wait. 10 minutes. 20 minutes.

 

A woman with a leather face, and wearing a bright yellow blazer with matching pumps, walks past and looks me over. I try to ignore her, but she appears at my side and offers a stick of gum. I accept and she asks, "You need taxi?"

 

I wish I hadn?t taken the gum. ?No thanks. Someone is picking me up."

 

She says, "You wait long time, no one come."

 

"Maybe they're stuck in traffic."

 

"Maybe she forget? What she look like?"

 

"It's a man."

 

Her head jerks back a little, and then she smiles. "Oh, you like boys?"

"What? No, no, no, I like girls, but a man is supposed to give me a ride."

She taps her clipboard. "If he no come, I give you ride, okay?"

 

"Okay, I'll give him ten more minutes."

 

"What you name?"

 

Why does she want to know my name? I guess for her taxi list. "My name's Jon."

 

She doesn't write it down. She says, "Me Pisamai."

 

There is no reason I need to know her name, but all I can say is, "Nice to meet you, Pisamee."

 

"No, no, no, not Pisamee, my name Pisamai. You come Thailand before?"

"First time."

 

"Me see you hand?"

 

"Why do you want to see my hand?"

 

"Tell fortune."

 

"You're the great fortune-telling taxi oracle, huh?"

 

She nods knowingly, "Yes, yes," takes my hand and traces its lines with her plum colored fingernails. Some of the people against the window look up to watch. Pisamai says, "Four demons wait for you Thailand. One you already know."

 

"How can I already know one? This is my first trip."

 

I try to take my hand back but she holds firm and explains, "Maybe follow you. Not worry. You safe. Five guardian angel protect you."

"Five? Will that be enough?"

 

"That enough for anyone. Only need one if you smart." She continues studying my palm with her deep brown eyes. "You want something. You have wish."

 

"What is it?"

 

"Me not know. You not know. Not yet." She looks up and releases my hand. "Your wish be granted, but not right away."

 

"How do you know that?"

 

"Me Pisamai. Me know everything. Your hand lucky and you have five angel help you."

 

"How many angels does Bangkok have?"

 

"Ha! More than you can count. Bangkok the City of Angels."

 

I wish one would show up now to give me a ride. I ask, "Do you know where a pay phone is?"

 

She twists her head and smirks. "Why? You call angel?"

 

?Something like that.?

 

A machine picks up and I try to sound calm. "Apple, it?s Jon, I'm at the airport in Bangkok and no one's here. I'm dead tired, so I'm taking a taxi. Tell your brother-in-law to call my hotel. Later."

 

"Pisamee, I'm ready to go."

 

She crosses her arms and glares. "I am Pisamai."

 

"Oops, sorry." I wonder if my mispronunciation is a bad word in Thai.

 

Pisamai leads me to a service garage on the side of the terminal, delaying my exposure to the outside world. She asks, "Where you go vacation?"

 

"First Bangkok, then Koh Samet."

 

"Samet very beautiful." She slips her arm in mine, and waves a finger between us. "Me go vacation with you, okay?"

 

I laugh at her joke. "Okay, we go."

 

She doesn't laugh. She's serious. I don't have the heart to break it to her, so I pretend to go along with the idea. She scrawls out her name and phone number on a piece of paper. "You remember call me?"

 

I get into the back seat of a waiting red and blue minivan and reply, "Okay, I?ll call you in a few days."

 

She peers in at me, holding her clipboard tight. Before the driver swings his door shut, she asks, "What you call me?"

 

"Umm, Pisamai?"

 

"Yes, yes, very good."

 

***

 

A freeway is a freeway. Except for unusually large billboards and driving on the wrong side of the road, I can barely tell I'm in another country. When we exit the freeway?then I can tell. A chicken crosses the road. I have no idea why. I thought it was only a riddle, I didn't know chickens actually crossed roads, least of all in the City of Angels. Perhaps it's running from the woman cooking on the sidewalk.

 

Boiling pots steam on top of a small cart lit by a single bulb. Foldout chairs sit next to a vacant lot fenced with barbed wire. My driver pulls into oncoming traffic and then swerves into a dark alley. Our progress lit only by the glisten of headlights off the rain-slicked street. The buildings, three and four story walk-ups, are old and crumbling, with peeling paint and boarded up windows. And everywhere, stray dogs: running, sleeping, waiting?for a chicken perhaps.

 

We swerve through a maze of back streets and I wonder if my driver knows how to get to the hotel, or if we are going to the hotel at all. Our route seems to be completely random. I lean forward. "Excuse me?"

The car lurches to a stop and he says, "Hotel, sah."

 

My hotel is on this street? The driver opens my door and the night air envelops me like a hot towel, scented with a complex blend of exhaust fumes, sewer gas, barbecue chicken, fish sauce, garbage and flowers. The rotting air fills my lungs and burns me from the inside. Two-stroke scooters blow blue clouds of smoke and crackle as they pass. Loitering teenagers in soiled t-shirts flick their cigarettes into the gutter and watch as the cabbie unloads my suitcase. Sight, smell, taste, sound, and touch?every sense overloaded with unfamiliarity, but more than anything it's the heat. I?ve got to get out of here.

 

A uniformed doorman relieves me of my luggage before my first step into the lobby. The polished marble floors and a gleaming chandelier shockingly extravagant after my brief excursion through the third world. I check in, and then the bellhop leads me back under the gleaming chandelier, across the marble floor, toward the furnace door.

 

"No, no, no, I'm checking in, not checking out."

 

He smiles. "Your room on other side, sah."

 

Into the fire, I follow him toward a black hole on the other side of the already dark street. Only the promise of a nice bed keeps me on his tail. Traffic doesn't slow, but he strolls across the street casually. I sprint between a delivery truck and a moped to avoid being left behind. The alley is like a tunnel, a glass wall on one side and the dark silhouette of trees wrapping overhead like a giant black wave. The only light comes from a distant doorway?more like an apartment entrance than a hotel.

 

The room's a mix of modern upgrades and low budget decay: painted plywood and cut-rate construction in the kitchenette, marble counters and gleaming fixtures in the bathroom. The bed is surrounded by mirrors. The bellhop leaves the door open and demonstrates the room's features, apparently unaware that I already know how to operate a television.

 

A uniformed policeman appears in the doorway. His starched uniform has a crisp military quality to it; a totalitarian dictator, and he frowns like the Customs agent. What could he want? I haven't been here long enough to do anything wrong. He watches with interest as I tip the bellhop twenty baht. Does he want a tip as well? He speaks to the bellhop, who then translates, "Police want look in suitcase."

 

Unbelievable. I lift my suitcase onto the bed. He searches every seam and pocket, and I feel like he's going to find something incriminating, though I have no idea what. I don't have anything to hide, unless there's a law against importing condoms. A loosely bundled dozen fall onto the bed. The bellhop and policeman look at each other. I wanted to be prepared if the occasion arises?maybe I've been a little optimistic in how often it might arise.

 

The bellhop smiles, the policeman does not. He stands, salutes, and marches out. The bellhop follows him, looking disappointed there wasn't a bigger spectacle. The door clicks closed and for the first time in twenty-four hours?silence. My watch says it's lunchtime yesterday, but sleep deprivation has made me sympathetic to the local time zone. Vacation starts tomorrow, whatever day that is.

 

 

-------

 

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  • 4 weeks later...

I bought this book through DCO (good service there by the way.. :) ) and I found it to be a bit lacking. The writing was good I thought, and it contained a lot of situations - both amusing and familiar - that most (of us?) would relate to. The book is largely devoid of plot, however. Its a shame because a little more fantasy sprinkled into the mix introduced by the author would have gone a long way - there were a few plot lines there that could have helped make this a real gem.

 

The "A true Story" bit on the cover should have warned me really.. :)

 

Its very American though.. The 'Beckham type' references in the first chapter almost put me off buying it. (I thought David Beckham was an internationally recognised comodity these days?? ;) )

 

Worth a read all in all, just don't expect him to end up taken out by a motocy hitman. :) :)

 

Anyone else read it?

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