CHRISTMAS EVE IN BANGKOK 

The notice in the Bangkok Post stated quite simply, “Free room at the Peninsula Hotel on Christmas Eve. If interested, please call the following number and ask for Henry”.

            As it was, my plans for Christmas Eve were fairly similar to the plans I have for any other eve I spend while in Bangkok…mosey over to The Hog’s Breath Saloon on the second floor of Nana Plaza around six o’clock, sit outside along the rail, drink a few ‘Happy Hour’ bottles of beer, talk with a buddy or two, watch the go-go girls filter in and then, I’m back in my room drinking scotch for the next couple of hours or so. I find myself spending less and less time in Bangkok lately but, when I am there the aforementioned routine is standard. When you’re a fifty-five year old maverick who’s spent the last umpteen years living alone half way around the world from where he was born and raised it’s the kind of routine that anchors an otherwise rather disengaged existence. Christmas Eve or not, there was no compelling reason to weigh that anchor. (To ‘weigh’ an anchor means to raise it, right? Odd as it may seem, I love the sea and yet I know virtually nothing about boats. Some people might argue that that explains why I’m a character who seems to be so aimlessly adrift in this world. No rudder, so to speak. A rudder is the steering gizmo…I’m pretty sure about that.) The notice in the paper provided a reason to consider altering my standard evening routine.

            The Peninsula Hotel opened for business six or seven years ago. During its first year a promotional room rate was offered to attract clients in a city known for quite a number of excellent five-star hotels. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, many of the top ten rated hotels of the world are located in Bangkok. Some travel magazines now rank the Peninsula in Bangkok at the head of that list. It was my pleasure to stay there on two occasions back in the days when I had the money to do so. The rooms are exquisitely appointed; each with a view of the Chao Phrae river. From the moment you walk into the joint it becomes increasingly obvious that no expense was spared in its construction. Beautiful crystal chandeliers, Italian marble everywhere, lush carpeting, teak wood paneling and floors, delightful Asian artifacts and so on and so forth. The staff was, of course, extremely gracious and professional but, that’s rather de rigueur at all five-star hotels and even most of the three and four star hotels in Thailand. What’s also de rigueur these days is that the staff is generally far more elegantly attired than the clientele. I’m not sure when that began to happen or why it was allowed to happen. Stylish travelers are a rare phenomenon now. The savoir-vivre exemplified by generations not so long past might just as well have never existed as far as recent generations are concerned. One of the unfortunate aspects of the emphasis placed upon creating classless societies is that we too often find ourselves in the midst of societies that exude no class whatsoever. The lowest common denominator prevails across the board. What a pity.

            Five days before Christmas I called the number and asked for Henry. After holding for a moment a voice came on the line and said, “Henry here. How may I help you?”

            When I had indicated why I was calling he said, “Oh, good for you. I’ll bet that a free room at the Peninsula Hotel must sound like a damn good deal.”

            I agreed that it did.

            “It should be explained that there are a few strings attached. First of all, you won’t be staying in the room by yourself.”

            “Oh?”

            “No. You will be sharing the room with several other people.”

            “I see. Several other people, you say. Beautiful young women, by any chance?”

            “Possibly.”

            “Well, that would be an even better deal. Sign me up.”

            “Not so fast, sir. I’ll need some information about you first.”

            Name, age, nationality and level of formal education were simple enough.

            “Social status?” he asked.

            “None. I’m a pariah.”

            “What I meant was, are you married, single or divorced?”

            “Single.”

            “Never been married?”

            “Once.”

            “So, you’re divorced.”

            “Not exactly. The marriage was annulled.”

            “Meaning?”

            “Meaning that I was married by the Catholic Church which some years later ruled that the marriage was fraudulent and so, in fact, I was never really married to begin with.”

            “The Catholic Church can do that?”

            “Yes, they’re miracle workers. There is definitely a rather enchanting allure with regard to being raised as a Catholic.”

            “Yes, I’ve heard that before. Okay, then. So, single, white, university degree/philosophy major, middle-aged American male currently residing in Thailand…profession?”

            “I’m a bum; self-employed.”

            “I see. Only self-employed bums I know of in Thailand, or any where else for that matter, are writers.”

            “Fine. Add me to the list. Now, about those beautiful young women with whom I’ll be sharing the room.”

            “I’m not at liberty to discuss the other participants at this time, sir. There will, however, be men involved, as well.”

            “Henry, please, call me Mac. This isn’t some kind of a porno movie project is it, Henry?”

            “Most certainly not. Why, have you been in a porno movie before?”

            “No, not that I’m aware of, anyway.”

            “Have you ever suffered from depression?”

            “Of course. You know somebody who hasn’t?”

            “Have you ever sought the counsel of a psychologist or psychiatrist?”

            “No.”

            This line of questioning was getting a wee bit too invasive for my liking.

            “Ever been on anti-depressant medication?”

            “Yeah…scotch. It really lifts my spirits.”

            “Would you describe yourself as an alcoholic?”

            “You know any alcoholics that would?”

            “You’re not drunk now, are you Mac?”

            “It’s 9:30 in the morning, Henry. Drunk? Are you kidding? I’ve only been drinking for hour, now.”

            Well, at least, he laughed at that.

            “Alright Mac. I appreciate your sense of humor. That’s a plus. I still have a few more people to interview. Give me a number and I’ll call you back in the next couple of days. Oh, by the way, do you speak any languages other than English?”

            “No. I have enough trouble with that one.”

            Clearly there were a lot of strings attached to this free room at the Peninsula Hotel on Christmas Eve gig and I hung up the phone reminding myself that when something sounds too good to be true , nine times out of ten, it is.  

            That evening I was on my usual perch outside the Hog’s Breath Saloon talking with a buddy of mine named Johnny Q who has been in Thailand nearly as long as I have. We get along very well and there are a number of reasons for that. First of all, he’s not a writer. Most writers I’ve met, not all mind you, but most of them, exasperate the hell out of me. People with ambitions to become published authors invariably have rather oversized egos. I mean, let’s be honest, grand ambitions would never get off the ground if they weren’t fueled by flaming egos. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that. Flaming egos have been responsible for many wonderful achievements which have proven to be of enormous benefit to Mankind. Nevertheless, I try to avoid people of that ilk. Perhaps it’s because I have enough trouble dealing with my own ego.

            Johnny Q is about as easy going a guy as one could hope to come across. He’s a charming, highly educated, handsome ol’ southern boy who left the U.S. ten years ago to live in Thailand. Following four years of traveling throughout the country in rather grand style he finally ran out of money. Since then he’s settled down with a very nice young Thai woman and supports their modest standard of living by teaching English; the English language, not English literature. Unlike most ex-pat residents who support themselves in this manner, however, Johnny Q would be just as qualified to teach English literature if there was an opportunity to do so here. Frankly, I would not have thought that during the initial stage of our relationship. He’s an avid baseball fan and for the first couple of months after we met Johnny Q was a ‘Johnny one-note’…baseball, baseball, baseball. He’s an absolute font of information about the game and my guess is that there isn’t one stinking statistic, regardless of however inane, that he can’t recite. Now, I used to consider myself to be as interested in America’s so-called pastime as the next guy but, that was before the next guy turned out to be Johnny Q

            I’m a Cub fan from Chicago. There, I admit it. No team in all of American professional sports has gone as long as the Chicago Cubs without winning a championship. Yet, they have a huge fan base of relentlessly suffering and frustrated devotees who, more often than not, can think of nothing they’d rather do than forfeit half a day’s wages to spend an afternoon in the beautiful confines of Wrigley Field drinking beer, eating hotdogs and watching their beloved bumbling, fumbling Cubbies stumble through to another defeat. For years, I was one of those devotees. Never regretted one moment. Johnny Q’s team, the Atlanta Braves, have had a lengthy record of successful seasons including a World Championship not so long ago. Naturally, he’s quite proud of all that and enjoys regaling people with his teams continued successful campaigns. Cub fans grow a little weary of that sort of chatter after a while. There simply isn’t anything we can offer to contend with it. We’re a bunch of hopeless losers. We know that. I mean, the Titanic hadn’t even been built the last time the Cubs won a championship. Hell, the iceberg that sunk it probably didn’t amount to more at the time than what you’d need to put together a decent scotch on the rocks.

            So, one evening on the rail outside the saloon, just as the subject of baseball was hitting the airwaves once again I said, “Hey Q, suppose we switch the channel and talk about something else for a change. That alright with you?”

            He said it was perfectly alright with him and asked if I had a particular subject in mind. I said, “Yeah, anything but baseball.”

            “Well, you’re a writer, correct? A humorist, as I understand people to say.”

            “That’s correct.”

            “So, who are your favorite authors of humor?”

            “Oh boy. Let me think…okay. Can I answer that in three parts?”

            “Answer it in as many parts as you like.”

            “Okay. In my opinion, for overall body of work during a lifetime, the greatest writer of humor was P.G. Wodehouse. The greatest single piece of humor ever written was The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde. And, the greatest group or school of humorists was the gang that wrote for the New Yorker magazine during its early years…namely, Robert Benchley, S.J. Perelman, James Thurber, Dorothy Parker and Ring Lardner, etcetera. You familiar with any of them besides Ring Lardner?”

            “I’m familiar with all of them and I tend to agree with you. I’d add Mark Twain to the list, as well, though. Why did you ask if I was familiar with any of them besides Ring Lardner?”

            “Ring Lardner wrote a lot about baseball. I simply assumed you would be familiar with him.”

            “But we’re not talking about baseball now, are we?”

            “No.”

            “You read Fitzgerald’s collection of pieces in a book called The Crack-Up?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Remember the piece on Lardner? It was Fitzgerald’s eulogy on the man.”

            “I remember it as being a very poignant tribute to someone Fitzgerald was obviously enormously fond of.”

            “Yes. But, a portion of that poignancy was with regard to Fitzgerald’s critical judgment upon the way Lardner viewed the world and, more particularly, the way Lardner considered the various human dilemmas in the context of that world. He was consumed by the game of baseball. It colored everything. Fitzgerald saw that as part of Lardner’s charm but, also, as part of his tragedy.”

            “What…the tragedy being that he tried to reduce everything into baseball terms or some such thing?”

            “Yes, more or less. I nearly fell into the same trap as a young man.”

            “What snapped you out of it?”

            “The blood and guts of war.”

            Johnny Q was a grunt in Vietnam. He could have received a student deferment but refused it…not so much because he believed in the war but because he didn’t like the idea of some other poor son-of-a-bitch taking his place. Like many vets, he doesn’t talk about it much. Still, on occasion, one can catch a glimpse of the blood and guts in his brilliant blue eyes.

            Anyway, once it was agreed to forego the subject of baseball for a while it soon became apparent that the man was equally conversant on a whole range of other issues. John Steinbeck is his favorite writer. Hard to argue with that. There sure as hell weren’t any politics involved in awarding that guy the Nobel Prize for Literature. He earned solely on the quality of his work. Otherwise, we’ve talked about food and music, travel and various cultures, religion, philosophy and movies…oh, and women, too. Sure, we still talk about baseball but, not exclusively, thank God.

            I mentioned the notice in the paper regarding the Peninsula Hotel deal. He’d not only seen it, he’d also called.

            “This guy Henry tell you what it was all about?” he asked.

            “No. Sounds a bit fishy to me. You know what the scoop is, Q?”

            “Yeah. It’s a suicide hot-line for despondent souls on Christmas Eve.”

            “You’re joking.”

            “Nope. That’s what it’s all about. They’re trying to recruit volunteers to work the phones.”

            “I’ll be damned. Don’t you need some sort of special qualifications to do that kind of work?”

            “Well, they’re not exactly calling it a suicide prevention service. Henry never specifically referred to it as that. Just a slight embellishment on my part. But, people do tend towards depression at this time of year…especially if they’re far away from home and family in a foreign culture like Thailand.”

            “It’s never bothered me, Q. I don’t see any special reason to get depressed at Christmas time. I prefer to spread my depression throughout the entire year. One day’s as good as any other to feel totally at sea in this god-forsaken world.”

            “Good healthy attitude, Mac. Probably best not to mention it to Henry, though. He going to call you back?”

            “So he said. I’m glad you told me what the gig is all about. Not exactly what I was hoping for. He offer you the job?”

            “Yeah.”

            “And?”

            “Told him I’d let him know tomorrow. There actually are some perks involved.”

            “Yeah, like what?”

            “Free food and beverages.”

            “Booze?”

            “No. No alcohol. I mean, if you were really feeling depressed and needed to talk with someone I don’t suppose you’d want that someone to be drunk…now would you? Also, each chosen volunteer will receive a voucher good for two nights at the hotel when a room is available. That includes buffet dinners, as well. I understand the food is excellent at The Peninsula.”

            “Everything is excellent at The Peninsula. Trust me, I’ve stayed there twice. Henry tell you what the routine is?”

            “Yeah. Get to the hotel by 7:30 Christmas Eve. Catered buffet in the room during which time Henry will brief people on how to deal with the call-ins…he’s a clinical psychologist, by the way…and the phones open for business at eight o’clock.”

            “Until when?”

            “Until seven the next morning. Then we go down to the riverside restaurant for a great breakfast which I’ve been assured will include imported Norwegian smoked salmon. There’s nothing like smoked salmon for breakfast.”

            “Capers?”

            “I would certainly assume so.”

            “What about those people who don’t get lonely and depressed until after seven o’clock Christmas morning?”

            “Well, they’ll be just shit out of luck, won’t they? Or, as you loveable, diehard Cub fans would say, ‘Wait till next year’.”  

   Excerpt from 'Christmas Eve in Bangkok' which is FREE thru18 Dec. via Amazon.