The Boy Who Had Become King

Every night at three in the morning a boat arrives at Ton Sai Bay from Krabi carrying anywhere from six to twelve, 500 gallon drums of cooking oil. The drums are off-loaded and distributed to the dozens of restaurants and guesthouses throughout Kho Phi Phi while the empty ones are returned to the boat where they are taken to Krabi and refilled. The livelihoods of the Kho Phi Phi people depend on the arrival of this oil. At around four in the morning the boat, then full of empty drums, would disembark for the Thai mainland. Tyler checked his watch. It was nearly three. In an hour’s time, he thought, both him and Karl would leave Kho Phi Phi forever on that boat.
Tyler, lying in a cot, holds his knockoff Casio watch above his face. The Casio, a staple of the knockoff accessories found in Tyler’s current part of the world was already beginning to rust in the humid wet-season air. His eyes squint, pressing the button in the top left corner he makes the watch’s illuminating color change rapidly from red to blue to green to yellow and back again. He presses the button again watching the lights, paying no attention to the time. The watch’s novelty wears off after a few light cycles and Tyler slowly returns his arm to his side.
A fan, that at one point appeared to osculate, stares Tyler in the face. Without the fan the small one cot room would be unbearably hot. The humidity makes sleep impossible and the sound of the wall fan on full blast is defining. Throwing his legs over the bed Tyler stands and walks to the fan. Spreading his fingers wide in front of the exposed blade brings back memories shared with Caroline. The mental image of Caroline’s hand rhythmically raising and lowering in the wind brings a smile to his face but, nearly as fast as it was conjured up, the image changes to Caroline’s face pressed to the sand by a hand as she struggles to keep her underwear on. The image makes his hand return instantly to his side.
There’s a soft knock at the open door and a Thai boy, no more than eight or nine, stands in the open doorframe. The look in the boy’s eyes was one Tyler had never seen—sympathetic and scared. Mok appeared behind the boy who could easily be his son, resting his arms around the boy’s neck. A small cut on Mok’s chin appears as if it were recently bleeding.
“We find him,” Mok informs.
“Where was he?”
“Like you say.”
“At the dock?”
“Waiting for boat, yes.”
A warm smile comes to Tyler’s face. Extending his hand to pat the boy on the head recalls a voice in Tyler’s head reminding him of Southeast Asian etiquette. The head is what connects the soul to the heavens; he remembers reading verbatim in Lonely Planet as he moves his hand to the boy’s shoulder.
“Get him ready. I’ll be out soon.”
Mok nods submissively before nudging the boy along away from the door. Mok pulls the door closed, still nodding, as he remains avoiding eye contact.
Sitting on the edge of the cot, elbows on his knees, Tyler breathes deeply. The humid air is heavy. Reaching into his pocket, Tyler removes a pack of L&M cigarettes and a book of matches and a digital camera. Pocketing one, lighting the last cigarette and tossing the empty pack in the corner of the room he turns on the camera, inhaling the tobacco deep into his lungs. Flipping through pictures of the elephant trek, the slow boat and the Full Moon Party, all of which spotlighting the beautiful Caroline brings a tear to his eye. Any sense of time is lost and Tyler extinguishes the burning cigarette filter on the metal bed frame.
“Oi! Ty? Ya in der?” the unique accent could only be that of Stephan’s. Without a response the door cracks. Stephan’s vibrant blue eyes peer in through the opening. “Can I come in?” his eyes seem to ask. A nod is enough of an answer and the door opens more reveling a short tan Aussie with long curly blonde hair.
Stephan was as local as a Westerner could be on Phi Phi. Speaking fluent Thai, Stephan acted as the middleman between the locals and the tourists. It was said Stephan could get anything one’s heart desired on the isolated island, except prostitutes that was—he made that very clear. He was Phi Phi’s vice guy of sorts. Naturally, he was the first one Tyler came to after hearing the news from Caroline. Stephan sat on the rickety table, the only other piece of furniture in the room, rolling a spliff.
A moment passed without conversing before Tyler spoke, “Do you think this is right?”
“Right?”
“Yeah, do you think what I’m doing is right?”
“That’s not fer me to decide,” Stephan spoke blankly. “He put up quite a fight.” The room now smelt of marijuana as Stephan offered up the spliff.
“Did anyone see?” Tyler asked, waving off the offer. Although he trusted Stephan, Tyler was aware of the Thai government’s attempts to crackdown on drug use by tourists. Horror stories of fellow travelers being forced to participate as undercover bait by the Phi Phi police were frequent. Smoking a joint in Thailand could land you on death row—this wasn’t anything Tyler wanted to risk. Tyler also knew that if any authorities caught word of a Westerner doing what it was Tyler had planned on doing, that every cop on the island would jump at the opportunity to apprehend him. Tyler would not pay any sort of bribery money based on the simple fact he had none to spend. Being caught also meant possible harm to not only Stephan but also Mok and his son. This was something he was willing to risk. Tyler knew if everyone did their part there would be no repercussion—at least no lawful repercussions.
“It’s hard to say. We tried to keep him quiet. He hit Mok.”
“I noticed that.”
There was again silence between the two as Stephan puffed away. “What ya got der?” he asked, motioning to the camera.
“Just pictures.” Tyler replied powering down the Cannon, tossing it on the bed next to him. “Where is he?”
“Ready when you are.”
Tyler was on his feet before Stephan could even finish speaking. Stephan took another hit and before he could exhale Tyler was at the door.
“Hey, don’t forget this,” Stephan motioned to the knife that had been sitting on the table next to him the entire time.
A group of Thai men stood around a closed door. They watched Tyler’s every movement as he joined them. The group gazed at Tyler as if he was the Angel of Death. The knife, tucked into Tyler’s belt was visible under his sweat-soaked shirt. Stephan hadn’t moved, finishing his cigarette, he had done his part for now.
A muddled voice came from behind the door. It grew louder and louder until Tyler could make out words. “Get me the fuck outta here! Hey! Ya hear me?! Get me outta this fucking chair!”
Hearing the voice from within was reassuring. They had found him before he could escape. Tyler again thought of Caroline. He wondered if she was asleep. He wondered whether or not she would be okay with what he would do. Tyler thought she would.
With a nod from Mok the group separated, forming an isle where they once stood. As Tyler walked to the door the Thai men bowed their heads, some said prayers, others, eyes up, watch Tyler like a boy who has become king—hungry with power.
Behind the door sat a man tied to a chair. The man recognized Tyler in an instant.
“You? What the fuck do you want?” the man barked.
Tyler remained silent as he circled the bound man.
“Well? Are you gonna get me outta here or what?” The man struggled in his chair to get free.
“You shouldn’t struggle,” Tyler spoke in a reassuring voice. He gathered a chair from the corner of the well-lit room and placed it in front of the man. The man tried to kick at the chair but discovered he was tied too tightly to kick any distance. Tyler scooted the chair away from the man and took a seat.
Tyler sat, peering at the man much like the men outside the door were staring at him. He took in every inch of the man’s body: the sweat running down the man’s neck, soaking into the man’s shirt collar; the broken toenails attached to toes sporting tuffs of hair running wild; the tattoo of the initials C.M.M. on the underside of his wrist; the torn armpit hole in his green tattered t-shirt that revealed darkly tanned skin just below the shoulder.
For a moment Tyler thought about the man’s life. He wondered if he had kids, maybe someone back home he cared about. Tyler wondered briefly what his favorite band was, his favorite food, the best orgasm this man ever had. He thought about all the things that could have given this man pleasure and how he was going to take all those things away.
“Karl, right?” Tyler finally spoke in a soft tone.
“You’re name’s Tyler.”
“That it is,” Tyler nodded in approval. “I assume you know why you’re here?”
“Psh, I’m standing by the dock mindin’ my own goddamn business when I’m jumped by a mob of chinks. So no, I don’t know why I’m here. Why don’t you tell me.”
The denial set Tyler back for a moment. He hadn’t assumed the man would take this course. Tyler stood, turning his back to Karl. He placed his hand over his face to collect his thoughts. He thought of punk music, about how jacked it got him. He tried not to think of Caroline and the night they shared not 48 hours ago.
“What was it like?” Tyler nearly murmured with his back to Karl.
“It’s a mob of pissed off Asians, how do you think it felt?” Karl replied.
“I’m talking about Caroline!” Tyler snapped, pounding his fist against the closed door.
“Who?” Karl sounded genuinely confused.
“The girl, the one you… ah, you know who I’m talking about, goddamn it! Don’t pull this shit with me!” There was a new ferocity in Tyler’s voice.
“Listen man, I really have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about!” The man pleaded.
Tyler stopped for a moment, breathing in the sticky tropical hair. “How was it?”
“How many times do I have to tell you man, I don’t know what the fuck you’re…”
Tyler turned abruptly and stabbed the knife through the back of Karl’s hand into the wooden frame of the chair. A scream, like a cloud of noxious gas filled the room, then at once was gone. Tyler removed the knife flicking the blood off the blade.
“What have I done? Huh? Tell me!” again the man pleaded.
Tyler removed the last cigarette from his pocket. Sliding the cigarette between his damp lips, Tyler then removed the book of matches from has pocket.
The man screamed again, this time louder than before.
“Please be quiet,” Tyler spoke, readying the cigarette for lighting.
“You’re fucked up, man! You’re a sick son of a bitch, ya know that? What’ve I done, huh? Tell me!”
Tyler, in a single fluid motion spun around, sticking the knife deep in to the man’s left leg. The man jerked from the pain as Tyler held the knife steady in place—still deep in his leg.
“Why are you doing this? Huh?” the man pleaded.
Tyler slowly removed the knife from the man’s leg, this time wiping the blood off of the man’s face, slowly caressing the knife, first on the left side, then on the right until the blade appeared clean. Holding the knife to the light Tyler examined every grove and knick in the blade, rolling the handle over in his hand.
Squatting before the man Tyler spoke clearly, “Because she would want me to.”
The man, bleeding heavily from the right hand and the left leg, began to laugh. “All this over some girl.”
“Don’t you dare say her name,” Tyler snapped.
“You really think you love this girl?” the man chuckled. “Let me tell you something boy, love? It’s all bullshit.”
“Stop.”
“You think you’re in love? You don’t know what love is. Ask yourself something, kid: is she really worth it? To kill over?”
Standing slowly, Tyler removed a match from the matchbook, struck it against the back of the book and lit the cigarette still between his lips.
Inhaling deeply, “Yes. Yes, she is.” Tyler made eye contact with the man, staring deep into the man’s brown eyes, exhaling the a thick cloud of smoke in his face. In a slow and steady motion Tyler began repeatedly stabbing the knife in to Karl’s gut. Each bend of the elbow, inserting and removing the knife from the bowels of the captive man, came in a rhythmic fashion. Tyler remained in eye contact the entire time until his elbow and bicep grew sore from piercing the man’s flesh.
The man lay motionless in the chair, blood flowing from his abdomen. His head flopped back, eyes still open, peering towards the ceiling. With his thumb and forefinger Tyler held the man’s right eyelid open. Taking one last breath from the cigarette Tyler extinguished the burning tobacco directly on the man’s pupil. The man jerked his last jerk as his feet spread out away from his body. Blowing on the tip of the cigarette to keep it lit Tyler did the same to the left eye.
“I can live with what I’ve done,” Tyler spoke, “you don’t deserve to.”
Tossing the butt at the feet of the bloody corpse, Tyler turned, opening the door and exiting the room. The crowd of people had reduced in numbers; Tyler figured that most couldn’t bear the man’s last screams. Stephan still sat in the same place, keeping his eyes to the floor. Mok stood, eyes adverted as Tyler exited the room. Tyler’s eyes scanned the faces of the on looking Thai people, all of which gazed back upon Tyler with the same look the small boy had given him before. With a single nod Tyler left the room.
While Tyler returned to his bungalow to retrieve his backpack the lifeless body of Karl was stuffed deep inside a 500-gallon drum that earlier today held cooking oil. The drum would be the last loaded on to the ship that night. When the vessel was far enough between the island and the mainland the barrel of oil and corpse inside would be dropped to the ocean floor never to be seen again. Stephan has arranged all of this, including Tyler’s safe passage to the mainland.
Collecting his North Face backpack from the bed, yet another knockoff purchased along the way, Tyler scanned the room one last time as he always did before leaving. Tyler checked his Casio once more. A single, unsmudged droplet of blood covered the last digit. Three fifty something, the watch read. Unlatching the watch from his wrist, Tyler held it in front of his face. He pressed the top left button one last time before tossing the watch into the bin. Stephan’s people would scour Tyler’s room one last time for any evidence unconsciously left behind. Stopping the fan and turning off the light to save electricity, Tyler quietly closed the door behind him. As he began to walk in the direction of the beach his eye caught the illumination of the adjacent bungalow—Caroline’s. Tyler continued to walk. He would board the boat, leave Thailand and never seen Caroline again. He had his reasons.
He would mention this incident only once more in his entire life—alluding to it only in story written for a writing class.

Where the Sun Doesn't Set

I roll the legs of my jeans up—the right first, then the left. There is a pleasant breeze blowing over Karon Beach on the isle of Phuket in Thailand. The lack of clear, blue sky is disappointing, but I’ll take the breeze over the blue sky any day.
Walking to the end of the concrete path that leads to the beach, I inhale deeply. The sea is calm tonight, the calmest I’ve seen it in the four days I’ve been here. I look south and find nothing but a horde of tourists. I look north and find much of the same. I elect to head north anyhow. The time is 6:40. Sunset is supposed to be 6:48—according to Google. I check my watch again. I can only assume Google can’t be wrong.
Expecting a spectacular sky, red as the sunsets into the Indian Ocean, I see nothing but horrific thunderheads journeying towards the island. The red sky will come, I know it.
A couple takes turns passing their camera off as they pose for pictures on the sand. An Asian man buries his girlfriend in the sand giving her exaggerated breasts. Two boys kick a soccer ball back and fourth. All look to be in a complete state of bliss. I take a moment to admire the woman posing for pictures. Her beautiful tan is accompanied by a perfect complexion and her solid black two-piece bikini only accentuates her beauty. One of the boys has kicked a ‘goal’ and, with his shirt pulled over his head, runs circles around the other boy with his arms extended like an airplane. The Asian man laughs hysterically, groping his girlfriends sand breasts.
Pulling my camera from my jeans pocket I snap a quick photo of the beachscape. After a few more paces down the beach I prop the camera up in the sand and take a self photo. I shove the camera back into my pocket a pull out a pack of Marlboro Cigarettes. I struggle in the whipping wind to get one lit, but persistence pays off. I take a deep drag off the newly lit cigarette and continue up the beach.
The tide seems to be coming in and the water feels cool on my feet. I stop and turn looking into the seemingly infinite ocean. I’ve always liked the ocean. It’s the thought that just on the other side is a world I know nothing about that gets me. You can never really grasp the enormity of the ocean until you fly over it. As the water retreats my feet sink into the sand—one my favorite sensations.
Without really thinking, I bend over and write her name in the sand with my finger. The waves come close to erasing the letters, but for now it's safe.
"How'd you know my name?" a voice asks curiously from behind me. Sitting on the sand no more than fifteen feet away is a gorgeous blonde, a blue towel is wrapped around her waist, her flip-flops sit to he right of her bare feet.
"Excuse me?" I ask.
"You just wrote my name in the sand. How'd you know my name?" she asks again. I don't notice an accent, she's either American or Canadian, I am unable to tell yet.
"That's your name?"
"That's my name, and you just wrote it in the sand. Is that your girlfriend's name?" a smile crosses her face as she wipes away an obvious tear.
"Ha, nope, it is not." I try to calculate the odds of what I've just done, but they're simply too astronomical.
She sniffles and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. I can tell she's been crying. I can't believe I didn't notice her. I must have been too occupied with the ocean.
"Then why did you write it?" I catch the hint of a slight laughter in her voice. I seem to have brought her some sort of humor. After all, I'm still blown away by the odds the act.
I can't help but laugh. "I really don't know." I look down again at my feet in the sand, embarrassed. Why did I write her name?
"Can I bum one of those?" she points to the cigarette in between my fingers. I've nearly forgotten about it and it has burnt nearly to the filter.
"Sure," I answer, pulling the pack from my pocket. "You know, I don't usually smoke," and it's true, I don't, aside from the occasional marijuana and hookah.
"Me neither," she says, again laughing, "but what a better time to start?" she jokes. I hand her a cigarette which she immediately places between her lips. I shove the pack back into my pocket, next removing the lighter. She leans forward, motioning for me to light it. Again the wind wreaks havoc on the process. I cup one hand around the cigarette in an attempt to block out the wind. It's no success, however that is until she places her hand against mine, creating an even bigger wind-block. The touch is innocent, but I feel there's something more to it.
"So, you know my name," she scoots in the direction of her flip-flops and spreads out her towel in an inviting manner, finishing her sentence at that.
"I'm Skyler," I extend my hand towards her.
She places the cigarette in her mouth and brushes the sand from her hand off on her bare thigh. I can't tell if she's wearing a bikini bottom or simply short shorts.
"Nice to meet you, Skyler," again she laughs. "Where are you from? Sit down, sit down," she motions to the towel.
"Oregon, USA." I find that although everyone is familiar with the United States, very few people are familiar with the beautiful state of Oregon.
She nods in excitement, taking a drag. "I'm from Seattle," she says exhaling the smoke. It appears as if she has smoked before.
"I was just there a couple months ago!" I tell her enthusiastically, "I caught an M's game!"
"Don't get me started on the Mariners." There's a quite serious tone to her voice. "Who'd they play?"
"Texas, if I remember right."
"That wasn't the one they lost in twelve was it?"
I bow my head, about to recount the worst sporting event I've ever been to. "They had the bases loaded with no outs in the bottom of the tenth AND eleventh and lost by two in the top of the twelfth. Frustrating. And," I continue, "I had to drive five hours back to Oregon after it finally ended. Don't get ME started on the Mariners."
She just stares at me.
"What?" I ask concerned.
"I was at the game."
"No shit?"
"Yes shit!" She shakes her head as if she's trying to wake from a dream. "Man, how crazy is this?" She too appears to be baffled by our chance encounter.
"I know, right?" It is hard to believe. I want to ask her why she was crying, but it doesn't seem necessary.
We sit in silence, both awaiting something colorful from the setting sun.
"It's like the sun never sets here, it just becomes dark suddenly." Her words are hauntingly beautiful.
"Yeah, it looks like the whole, watching the sunset thing was a bust," I admit. I check my watch again and it's past seven. Already the darkness has moved in and the thunderheads are not too far off. I know our time on the beach is short.
"Looks like it's gonna pour," I say, in an attempt to continue our conversation and prolong our time together.
She nods, extinguishing the cigarette in the sand behind us.
"Thanks for the smoke. I really needed it."
"Not a problem," I say, bowing my head, "anytime."
Again we sit in silence.
The couple taking pictures has since dispersed. The boys have packed up their soccer ball and are gone as well. There is also no sign of the Asian couple. I peer down the beach, in both directions, and see no one. It is as if we are the only two people on Karon.
“How long are you in Thailad for?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“I leave tomorrow.”
“Ah,” is the only thing I can say.
“You?”
“Uh, I’ll be here until the month.”
"Ugh," she says suddenly, sticking her tongue out, "my boyfriend's going to know I had a cigarette."
"You have a boyfriend?" she can tell there's disappointment in my voice. Story of my life.
"Yeah, he's probably wondering where I'm at, actually." I could tell there was accompanying disappointment in her voice as well. "I better be getting back." She stands and I follow. Picking the towel up and shaking off the sand we both are quiet—then I remember.
“Oh, hey, here,” I reach into the pocket opposite the cigarettes and pull from it a roll of Mentos. I hold them up to her. “They’re the fresh maker,” I joke and pop one into my mouth giving a cheesy smile. I push a purple colored, grape flavored Mento to the top of the roll and extend the tube to her.
“Oh, perfect,” she says, jumping at the fruity breath freshener. “Yum, grape,” she smiles. She steps forward, and without any warning kisses me on the lips. I can taste a mixture of nicotine and grape Mento. “See?” she asks.
Throwing the towel over her shoulder she walks in the opposite direction from where I came, turning around after a few paces. “Nice to meet you, Skyler,” she shoots a smile in my direction and it is met by a simple smirk.
“Nice to meet you too.”
And then she is gone.
I walk back over to where I unknowingly wrote her name in the sand. It is since long gone.

Bill, or: The Exposed Genitalia

“Motherfuckers,” Bill says, “they’re just a bunch of totalitarian motherfuckers. They make their money by…” This isn’t the first rant of Bill’s I’ve endured here in Malacca, Malaysia. It started with a simple question, of which I can’t remember by now. Bill is a master of going off on tangents. I’ve heard him rave about the search for the perfect beach and how it doesn’t exist nor will it ever, his views on this dystopian world we live in, and how he has to get out of this fucking country.
Clad in ratty red beach shorts and a light blue, and once white, button up, unbuttoned of course, Bill sits sprawled on one of the hostel’s three cream colored leather couches. He appears to be in his late forties, possibly early fifties. He’s unshaven but without a beard or moustache of any kind. It is as if he has permanent stubble. His feet are dirty and calloused. I wonder when the last time he wore proper shoes was.
I sit to the left of Bill, next to an opened window. No matter how hard I try I cannot escape the crippling humidity of peninsular Malaysia. It is worse here than it was in Singapore. I think about the three months ahead of me and wonder if I’ll ever get used to it. The dry Eastern Oregon heat is 8,000 miles away.
By now someone else, a Dutch girl who had intended on simply pouring a cup of tea and returning to her dorm, is locked into conversation with Bill. He’s telling her how the Cameron Highlands are the best place in Southeast Asia and recommends her some hostel, again “the best in Southeast Asia,” even though she says her and her friend are headed south to Bali.
“I stayed there for three weeks.” Bill frantically nods at times, “but now I gotta get out of this fuckin’ place. I’m looking at Taiwan. I think Taiwan is the place for me.” It only takes Bill a few hours before he’s telling me how now he wants to go to Australia. “I emailed a few friends I have down there. Hopefully one of them will let me crash at their place.” That must have been what he was doing on the computer not too long ago, chicken pecking the keyboard while flipping through business cards from his wallet. For some reason I speculate these “friends” are rather acquaintances.
“When was the last time you were in the States?” I ask Bill.
He tells me he left on January 1st without hesitation. Such a specific date, I note. My mind begins to go into its over-analyzization paranoia hyper-drive. What compels a man of Bill’s age to up and leave? It was evident from the conversations (if you want to call them that) I’ve had with him that his travels were unplanned and agenda free—much like mine.
But why did Bill leave? I’m skeptical that he’s only been out of the states for a mere seven months. I assume the absolute worst first. Maybe he killed someone and fled the country. Maybe he raped a little girl or maybe a boy—again fleeing. Maybe he came to Southeast Asia to meet a woman he met over the net and maybe things didn’t work out.
I’m thinking like Bill now, seeing only the negative.
Maybe he simply got laid off from his corporate job and took a year off to find himself. Maybe he simply wanted a lifestyle change. Those are both rational assumptions, right?
Bill leaves Malacca the day before I do. I’ll never know anymore about Bill. Unless I see him on some wanted poster in the post office when I get home, that is. But there I go again, thinking like Bill.
A week has past since I left Malacca and I now call a bunk bed in an ant infested guesthouse in Phuket, Thailand home. Being the low season here on the island resort, a Mecca for westerners, I find my guesthouse completely void of fellow travelers. The dorm, which houses five sets of bunk beds, is only occupied by me and a tanned leather hide of a man who has claimed the bunk closest to the window.
After being crammed, with absolutely no leg room, on an Air Asia flight from Kuala Lumpur to Phuket, I find not-so-blissful slumber in my bunk. I haven’t been asleep for long before I have my first interaction with the man.
“Oi, you’re makin’ too much damn noise,” he barks, obviously not pleased with my snoring.
“Sorry, I can’t help it,” I retort, still half asleep.
I can tell already there’s no hope for us being friends. He leaves carrying an umbrella and a wad of plastic 7-Eleven bags. I move my pack and all my belongings to the bunk furthest from his. Upon further examination of his bunk I discover that this man may in fact live here. Surrounding his bed are a web of clotheslines and even more plastic bags. It is borderline worrying. I find my way back to bed and to sleep.
I’m awoken, again by him, a couple hours later upon his return. At least this time he hasn’t woken me up for snoring. I close my eyes, hoping for another brief moment of sleep, but the heat and the humidity put a stop to that. I roll onto my side, peering in the old man’s direction. What I see frightens me.
The man is standing at the dorm’s only open window, bare ass naked. Not only is he standing at the open window, people below, but he’s rubbing himself—sensually.
I quickly roll back over. Then I hear him coming my direction. My new bunk is adjacent to the bathroom; I can only assume that’s where he’s headed. It’s too late to roll back over at this point, so I close my eyes, wondering if in the brief time since I saw him at the window last he has donned a pair of shorts. I hear him drop something right next to the bathroom door. My curiosity compels me to peek.
As I carefully open my eyes I see him, more specifically I see his dick and balls, dangling between his legs as he bends over to pick up his dropped item. It’s for sure now—we’ll never be friends.
I spark conversation with Steve, the guesthouse’s proprietor later that day. Steve’s just returned from England and tells me not to worry about payment now, that he’s “Not back into the swing of things yet.” I ask about the naked man in my dorm.
“Been here for ages,” Steve says.
Again I wonder why.
I’ve always had this dream, a fantasy I am quickly realizing, of spending my life abroad, traveling the world. After all, I went to school to get a degree in English with aspirations of teaching overseas. But when I think of Bill, and what traveling has transformed him into, it scares me. Whenever I catch a glance of my dorm mate’s wrinkly old ass it scares me. I don’t want to be the nihilist Bill is. I don’t want to become the burnout my dorm mate has become. I cannot honestly say that these are two things I may not be able to avoid, and again it scares me.
I think of my family and my friends back home and how bad I wish I could be with them over the summer. Instead I have elected to isolate myself, an ocean away from everyone I know.
Do I regret my decision to spend three months alone in Southeast Asia? Not in the slightest.
After all, I’m still young. I’m not like them.
After a grilled chicken heart skewer and a 75¢ can of Red Bull, I return to my room. The housekeeper, Steve’s Thai wife, has turned off all the fans in the dorm. I remove my sweat-drenched shirt, hanging it on the bunk’s ladder to dry, and turn on every fan I can find an outlet for. It is still not enough. I undo my belt and remove my shorts. They rest around my ankles as I try to cool down in front of one of the fans. It’s still not enough. I kick my pants aside and remove my underwear—kicking them aside as well. The air feels cool on my naked body.
I hear the key enter the lock of the door. I can hear the man’s voice outside the door, frustrated he had selected the key that opens the front door rather than the one for the dorm.
I don’t move.
I see your nudity, I think, and I raise you my nudity—your move, old man.
What am I becoming?

The Cat

Huddled under a metal canopy, outside the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, dozen of people seek refuge from the pouring rain. Rush hour traffic has caused the bus to be unspeakably late and people are growing restless waiting for its arrival. Some duck in to taxis. Some bear the rain with only a newspaper for an umbrella. Others, including myself wait—wait for bus 103.
When the bus finally arrives it seems all the people waiting at that particular KLCC bus stop insist on boarding the already full bus. I pay my ringgit and stand adjacent to the driver, as there is no further room in the isle. In amongst the horde of people boarding the bus, a cat, dirty white with a yellow face, slips on undetected. Pulling away from the curb I feel the short bobbed tail brush against my leg. Looking down at my new feline friend draws the attention of two Malay men next to me to the cat as well.
We haven’t gone more than twenty feet in the hectic KL traffic before the driver is notified of the cat. Stopping abruptly, the driver, in Malay, instructs the man in front of me to vanquish the cat from the vehicle. Kneeling down, the man grabs the cat violently by the scruff of the neck. The cat yelps in pain. The driver opens the door and the man throws the cat from the bus to the nearby curb. Although landing on its feet, the cat is shaken and it is a moment before it is able to scamper off and find another cover from the rain.
The bus driver closes the door and gives a slight nod to the cat’s disposer and draws his focus back to the road. Standing behind me, the two Malay men who had alerted the driver of the cat notice a look of sadness on my face. They begin to chuckle at the idea I feel remorse for the sopping wet feline.
Pulling out in the traffic is more difficult and time consuming than the bus driver had expected. It’s no wonder why the bus was so late to arrive. Wedged between the driver’s seat and a twenty-something Asian man with a book bag, wiggle room is only a fantasy. Even before the bus’ first scheduled destination the driver stops, letting two more men squeeze on.
Glancing towards the rear of the bus I notice the two Malay men staring at me dead in the eye. Their expressions have changed from laughing at me to an almost scornful look. I turn to the front again, only able to see the car immediately in front. I scrunch down slightly, hoping for one last peak at the Petronas Towers. I can hear the men, chatting behind me. It is obvious, even to someone unable to understand their words to know I am the subject of their discussion.
I check my pockets, my left first, the closest to the men. Camera—check. Then my right pocket, the closest to the driver and the more difficult of the two to be pick pocketed. Wallet—check. iPod—check. Everything is in its place. I glance causally towards the read of the bus again, this time to find the men pointing at me. Upon my noticing of the extended finger pointed in my direction the man quickly retracts its but continues to stare at me.
The bus has reached its first stop and more people disembark than enter. Finally there is slight breathing room. If this were grade school there would have been at least four people in my “personal space bubble”. I can’t help but to continue looking towards the rear of the bus—each time noticing the stares of the men. I have yet to make eye-contact with them. I have been avoiding that confrontation at all costs. The bus seems to be completely full of Malay men. I search for a woman but cannot find one. Quickly I realize that I am the only white person on the entire bus.
There are certain predigests I cannot help to feel. Deep down I know that each and everyone of the people on this bus is a normal person just like me—‘normal’ being a culturally relative term. Each of us has friends and families. We all have favorite foods and entertainment choices. We all ride the bus, yet I cannot seem to overcome my prejudices, and it’s no wonder. Back home these people are “the enemy.” Cable news networks constantly report on terrorist activity and always at the center of the conflict are the Muslims—or so it appears. I don’t want to be prejudice, really, I don’t, but there’s something subconsciously, something fueled by the media, the journalistic reports, the newspapers, the American image of terror, that I cannot overcome—at least not yet.
A rash has formed on both my elbows—a byproduct of my nonstop sweating. I itch furiously, hoping it, along with my prejudices with go away.
I find myself wondering if they too feel a dislike for me. By their stares and their pointing it is obvious they feel something towards. I wonder if their nightly news shows images of American soldiers—terrorists to them—destroying their countries and killing their citizens. I fear it does, and I am aware that atrocities are committed at hands of our armed forces overseas. It’s happened before. The photos from Abu Ghraib were undeniably horrific and wrong. Sadly, I imagine incidents like that are not isolated.
My mind wondering, I have lost track of what station the bus is currently at. I remove my city mp from my pocket and ask the driver how far from my station we are. It doesn’t help that I can’t pronounce it. He glances at it quickly—not nearly long enough to read the station’s name. Already stopped in traffic the driver opens the door. “Bus 103, there,” he points, “station across street.” Granted there is a bus station on the other side of the street, but I know those buses are going away from my stop. I may not know where we are, but I am aware that is not my stop. Nor is it anywhere near it.
The door slides open. “There,” the bus driver says again pointing. The rain hasn’t died down at all and the last thing I want is to be outside in it. Unfortunately, by the look on the driver’s face, displease by my hesitation, I must get off. “Go,” he says sternly.
I glance back at the two Malay men, now laughing behind me. For the first time I make eye contact with the man who pointed at me. I have made it clear to him that I am aware of his disrespect. My look is angry and scornful. I have made it clear that I do not like him.
Stepping off the bus in frustration, I feel the rain begin to wet my hair. I curse under my breath as the bus drives away. I begin the task of locating which street I am on I begin to and walk back to my hostel in the rain—a trek of nearly a mile. The Petronas Towers in the distance beginning to light up in the early night’s sky. I can’t help but to stop in the pouring rain and gaze at their beauty.
Kicking my shoes off at the door and hanging my shirt up to dry, I flop down on the bottom bed of a pair of bunks and close my eyes. Only moments later comes a tap on my shoulder. It’s the Colombian girl from the bed next to mine returning the power adaptor I let her borrow hours before. I thank her and close my eyes again. Exhaling, I realize that I am that cat—unwanted and merely seeking coexistence forced from the bus to find its own way in the rain.
I itch again at the rash on my elbow.
Maybe it’s not their fault for holding a prejudice again me, much like it isn’t my fault for feeling the way I do towards them. It’s involuntary and against our wills.
I look over to the Colombian girl now sitting on her bed. She appears quite bored. I want to ask her out for a drink, even though I can’t afford it, but the idea of public transport discourages me from doing so. Maybe we would’ve hit it off. Maybe we would’ve discovered we had similar travel plans. Maybe we could’ve traveled together. Maybe we could’ve been each other’s escape.