Sadism Sated
[writing station at a hotel cafe on Phahonyothin in Bangkok, 10/12/22]
The more time a writer spends outside, looking, snooping and overhearing, the less he has for fussing over each sentence, that is, over his craft. Often running if not fleeing, I may trip over a word or comma, so again, I apologize. I’ll try to not sound like Sun Ra after four Jack Daniel’s. All things except one are always hard.
To my left is a chubby masked woman gingerly pecking her phone. On the short sleeve of her dark blue shirt is “SIAMESE ASSET” in white. She wears three bracelets, one of metal and two of plastic. Perhaps they’re amulets to ward off assholes and nosy writers, but since I can’t speak one word of Thai, she’s safe.
In any foreign country, you can order coffee by saying cappuccino, latte or Americano, with the last most ample though nearly flavorless. If I were to linger here, I’d pick up words, almost despite myself, but it’s just five nights in Bangkok.
Having overstayed my six-month allowance, I had to leave Vietnam. At Immigration in Bà Rịa, I was assured I could pay a reasonable fine at the Cambodian border, hop over then come back, but in Saigon, I was told by a van service this was not possible, so I went to Immigration at 5:30AM on Monday.
After waiting for over an hour on the sidewalk, all the meek supplicants were herded into a holding area, then finally allowed inside, where we sat staring at this message over a row of windows, “PROACTIVE-BE A MODEL-ADHERE TO LAWS-RESPONSIBLE-RESULTS.”
Behind me, a Filipina murmured to a Vietnamese she had just met, “I’m scared.”
“Don’t be scared. If you have all your papers, you need not worry.” Then, “Outside, everyone is like everyone else, but inside here, everyone’s different.”
When it was finally my turn to have an audience with a surprisingly pleasant apparatchik, I was succinctly instructed to fly the hell out, so I bought a ticket for Bangkok that very evening.
With bahts procured in Saigon, I then grabbed a taxi for Phaya Thai within minutes of clearing customs at Suvarnabhumi Airport. Though the driver had almost no English, he tried to make conversation, so I just nodded and grinned at everything he said. Dude grinned and laughed back with feelings. We covered many topics and resolved much.
Dirty, smelly and hungry, I straggled into my budget hotel like some refugee or fugitive, but my room is nice, man. That night, I bought two sandwiches from a 7-11 nearby and ate them with such relish, I could have sung, in Thai.
In South Africa, all the bills feature Nelson Mandela. In Vietnam, it’s Ho Chi Minh. In Thailand, it’s King Vajiralongkorn, though older bills are graced by his dad’s face.
Occasionally paired with Queen Suthida, King Vajiralongkorn’s likeness can also be found all over this country, inside and outside buildings. Often, he’s huge inside an elaborate frame.
I had spent some time in Chanthaburi and Thep Nimit, but Bangkok was new. On my first full day here, I just walked around. Compared to Vietnam, Thailand is cleaner and a lot less chaotic, and there’s an elegance here, in architecture, dress and demeanor, few countries can match.
On Phahonyothin, I saw a small sign, “Death Cafe.” What the hell?! Wandering into its dark entrance, I was greeted by a message in English, “Is there anyone waiting for you?” Then further, “What do you want to do but still have not done?”
I wasn’t sure, but visiting the Death Cafe wasn’t on my list, especially since it cost $13.07 just to enter. If this was some tourist trap, a silly Thai haunted house, it failed miserably, since there was no one there but me, undecided in darkness surrounded by goofy images of death.
Inside the ticket window, some old broad showed me her ghostly face, “Please come in!”
“What is this?”
“Death Cafe, to make you think about death!”
Though I didn’t need to pay 13 bucks to chew toothlessly over my incipient descent into maggotdom, I pulled out my wallet. It was destiny.
Though I had merely expected a themed cafe, with me left alone to stare at scary photos, plastic skeletons or a real skull even, with bad morbid jokes scattered about, I had actually paid for a guided tour, with the old broad my oddly cheerful Virgil.
Careening through this bitching course halfway, I found myself steered through Bangkok’s Death Cafe by some nonna who, fortunamente, took pity on il mio culo.
“Are you Buddha?”
“Me?! No.”
“Thailand, Buddhism. Most Thais are Buddha.”
“OK.”
“We born, we suffer, so we must not be born again.”
“OK.”
“First, we born. We born because of sperm from papa.”
“Of course.”
“But we must go into mama’s womb. This way!” Leading me into a luridly red room with walls like the inside of a giant pussy, she said, “Now we imagine we are sperm.” Pointing to one of two red chairs suspended from the ceiling, she suggested, “You can sit.”
“It looks scary.”
“
It’s OK. You scare, you don’t sit. You can take pictures. Now, we are born!”
Following her, I wiggled through an impressively tight vagina into another room, this one painted green. The clitoris was a store-bought football, I noticed. I could see its seams. The lips were fluffy and buoyant enough to keep the fattest woman afloat.
[Bangkok, 10/11/22]
I had no time to muse much further, for my Virgil immediately had me wearing a wig, shades, weighted vest and ankle weights. Since there was a mirror there, I could admire my absurd transformation. Handing me a cane, she told me to walk up 12 steps, then down 12. I did as told.
"That's your life," she concluded. "We all suffer. Did you like it?"
"Not really, but it wasn't that bad. Still, I was just born a few seconds ago!"
"That's life. Now, we go here."
After the briefest life, I suddenly found myself in an emergency room. To drive the point home, “PAIN” was painted on a wall. She tucked me in. Lying on that hard bed with my eyes closed, I desired nothing.
“This is actually very comfortable. I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“You are a very happy man. You laugh all the time!”
“I do. Maybe I’m crazy. I guess I’m happy.”
“How did you find Death Cafe?”
“I just walked by. I’m glad I walked in. Buddha led me here!”
“That’s right. Buddha help you, you are happy.”
Back onto the bright, cheerful street I walked, as if nothing had changed. All around me were slim kinsmen with reassuring faces. Buses, new cars and an ambulance rolled by. Still a happy, unbutchered animal, I looked for something to eat. At the end of all this, there are so many options.
No one thinks about pain when he’s not feeling it. As for death, it’s often a deeply satisfying entertainment, for each man underground means we’re still alive. With others’ homes pulverized and entrails or brains splattered onto mud, nothing is more thrilling than a war.
Seeing flames on screens, eyes gleam.
[Bangkok, 10/11/22]
Source: Postcards from the End
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