Helge and I spotted the quarry approaching. We froze in our tracks which was no mean feat considering the temperature that evening was in the mid-80s.
Around midnight on Christmas Eve three months earlier, I’d been in the same place with a very pretty date whom I met at the notorious Reggae Pub & Disco. The babe wore a pair of short, sexy pants which perfectly showcased her dazzling, long brown legs. They were like the legs of a prancing deer. Of course, I’ve rarely seen a deer and have no idea if they actually prance but, I’m a sucker for metaphor. (A note to you pendantic nuisances: All similes are metaphors but, not all metaphors are similes.) Be that as it may, it seemed like a good idea, at the time, to head off to a nearby room and unwrap my present before I imbibed any more Yuletide cheer. We hopped on my motorbike to cross the wooden bridge that traversed a small lake. Unfortunately, just as we started up the ramp, my companion grabbed the throttle and we shot forward at great speed. My helmetless head grazed a cement pillar and we crashed upon the wooden planks of the bridge. Rather, I crashed upon the wooden planks of the bridge and my date crashed on top of me. When I regained consciousness, half a dozen Thais stood around clearly amused at the sight of my bloody & distorted scaffolding. For better or worse, Thais have a genuine penchant for finding amusement in the misfortune of others…especially Westerners. Eventually, a few of them were kind enough to lift me and the motorbike into a pick-up truck and drive to the hospital in town. My date ambled away relatively unharmed.
My bike and I were deposited in the hospital parking lot next to another pick-up truck which contained three dead bodies of young White guys. My first thought was that their parents would soon be receiving a phone call on Christmas morning.
It took a couple of hours to stitch the gash on my left temple, bandage my cracked ribs and clean a variety of other wounds. Round about dawn I was back on the verandah of my palm-thatched bungalow where I spent most of the next two months convalescing. Upon hearing of my accident, a number of well-wishers stopped by to…to wish me well. The rascals among them relished telling me jokes just to see me cringe in pain with the laughter. Laughter is definitely not the best medicine for somebody with cracked ribs.
During the two months of convalescing, I frequently pondered about my beautiful companion on Christmas Eve...especially those legs. So, Helge, a German friend, agreed to ferry me back to the scene. I was hoping to be remembered and resume the dalliance. At a hundred yards, the prospect looked very encouraging and a big smile on the babe’s face settled any doubts I had about being remembered. It was at fifty yards that more disturbing doubts of another nature began to percolate. Helge and I stopped abruptly. He looked at me with a mischievous grin and I looked at him totally dumbfounded.
I learned a lesson that night which I never forgot. And, the lesson I learned was that some of the most beautiful looking women in Thailand…are men.
I'm so glad you survived to write and post your experience and live to see the Cubbies win the World Series. Perhaps it was a good thing that you had the accident and not the other kind of revelation. And yes, I have seen deer prance, so it was a very good metaphor (simile?).
During my 20 day stay in Thailand, my host went all out to keep me away from the sin that was still very robust two years after all the G.I.s had left. Otherwise, I might have encountered some of the things you have become accustomed to.
It's a good thing you didn't have that accident in India. My Indian friends tell me that if you have a accident involving an Indian in any way, especially hitting a pedestrian, the mob will surround you, not to laugh, but to beat you to a pulp.
Finally, only recently (although I visited Finocchio's (closed in 1999) in San Francisco a few times in 1967-68) have I realized the number of transgendered people that have come out of the woodwork.
When you find yourself in the domain of Katoeys-Я-Us, the rest is better left unsaid. All explanations sound a little suspicious. Of course, never having been there myself, I could be wrong...
This is not a drill. The attack on Pearl. They were the ghost planes of the night, deadly, illusive, sharp-clawed Black Cats. The Memoirs of ARM H.P. Lawrence, a Pearl Harbor survivor, Black Cat, and decorated war veteran.
