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.