my pocket, peeled off some 100-baht bills, and dropped them on the table.
“Ratri swasdi, Siskit (Goodnight, Siskit).”
“That’s too much for two teas,” Prija said in Thai. “You have change coming.”
“Keep it.” I stared at her for a moment, then turned to leave. “You need it more than I do.”
I smiled as I walked away.
That’s what I’m talking about.
Chapter Two
Most of the girls take Sunday off, so I didn’t bother going to Ladprao.
In the early afternoon, I took a tuc-tuc to Rattanakosin, the Old City. It lies in the center of Bangkok, on the banks of the Chao Phraya River. The area is filled with beautiful old buildings from Thailand’s rich past, when the country was called Siam.
I boarded an excursion boat to cruise down the river. At a table on the fantail, I ordered a bottle of red wine and light meal of phat kaphrao, stir-fried chicken with basil and chili.
While I enjoyed the leisurely meal and lazy cruise, I typed notes on my iPad. It was impossible to write anything meaningful, but I recorded my thoughts as they were brought out by the passing scenery.
There’s something evocative about drifting through a landscape; your imagination latches onto visions and turns them into flights of adventure.
A colorful ninth-century palace brings to mind a captive princess longing for the freedom of my passing boat.
An old man in a skiff, tossing a net into the murky water. I imagined him to be a spy, keeping watch on the palace.
A young man and girl strolling along the river-walk, hand in hand, reminded me of another couple, fifty years gone.
So easy to slip back into that fantasy world, where all things were possible. It would be only a short separation, I told her, then we’d be together for the rest of our lives. We spent many evenings strolling and building the dreamy framework of our future.
But the war had different plans for us. A sea of sorrows awaited.
A blast on the ship’s whistle brought me back to the harsh present as the boat nosed into the dock.
* * * * *
Wednesday night, 1 a.m., I was back on the street.
I saw Prija leaning against a wall, chatting with one of the other girls. They wore tight micro-skirts and tube tops. As they talked, they glanced at their phones, occasionally clicking out a message, but always keeping an eye on the passing men.
I crossed the street, wanting to avoid her. Actually, I didn’t want to avoid her; just avoid talking to her.
As I watched from a doorway, she pushed herself away from the wall and hurried to cut a man from the heard. I don’t know what she saw, but she definitely wanted him. He was a well-dressed Thai, of middle age. Maybe a businessman.
The negotiations took only a minute. He gave her some money, then she took his hand to pull him toward a door leading to a series of small, dingy rooms.
I turned away. I don’t know why that tiny drama bothered me. I knew before I left the hotel what she’d be doing.
So why come to watch?
Three blocks away, I crossed the street and started back. At the little sidewalk café where Siskit and I had talked last Saturday night, I ordered tea, then turned on my iPad.
As I began to write, I was surprised by the flow-groove that opened before me.
Sometimes when I work, all I do is type. Most of it is trashed the next day when I edit the story, but other times I fall into a trance where the typing becomes writing. It might last a few minutes, or it might go on for hours. When I’m in that channel, with my imagination carrying me along, I think of it as a flow-groove, a narrow channel twisting before me, leading I know not where. I so enjoyed the ride and opening of new vistas along the way.
The waitress came to ask if I needed anything else. I ordered a meal so I could continue to occupy the table without being bothered.
These writing channels open to me only rarely, and they usually occur after some emotional event. When I’m in that groove, I have to stay there until it runs its course to that inevitable burnout of the flame, because it might be days or even weeks before it ignites again. The intervening time between these episodes, I spend on editing what I’ve written.
I had no idea of the passing time until someone spoke to me in English.
“What are you doing?”
I knew it was Prija without looking up. “I was writing.”
“Writing what?” She sat at the table without being invited and took a piece of baked pork with her fingers.
“Why don’t you have a seat and eat my dinner?” I said in Thai.
“You dinner is cold.”
“I like it cold.” I’d forgotten all about it. “What the hell?” I glanced around at the street vendors starting their daily routines.
“This happens every day at sunrise.”
“Sunrise?”
“Yeah.” She leaned her elbows on the table, watching me. “Are you senile as well as stupid?”
“Those two might be the same thing.”
“What are you writing?” She craned her neck to see the screen of my iPad.
“Nothing you could understand.” I turned it toward her.
She read the page, then flipped to the previous page. She read and flipped again. “This makes no sense.”
“Well, if you’re going to read it backward, it might be hard for your pea brain to comprehend.”
“Pea brain? You talking about the vegetable or piss?” She drank from my glass.
“In your case, piss.”
“Your tea’s warm as piss.” She held up the glass for the waitress to see.
“I guess you know a lot about urine temperature.”
“I know a lot about a lot.”
“You come into my world uninvited, eat my food, insult my writing, drink my tea, and now I guess you expect me to pay for your drink as well.”
“Why not? You got money to burn. What are you doing here, stalking me?”
The waitress brought her a fresh glass of tea.
“I was waiting for Siskit so I could have an intelligent conversation, but I got you instead.”
“You’re
