Bangkok Filth Read online

  The fact that I never asked him about his change while the oaf had no doubt informed him of my knowing, probably led Lem to have some suspicions about me. Likely he had faced his share of horseshit in his life and run into more than a few lowlifes willing to judge and degrade him based on his choices.

  The image of those who have had gender reassignment operations as benign, noble people seems to be a popular one in western culture. A handful of Hollywood movies have reinforced this perception. But I’m guessing that much more realistic is a person seething with pent-up anger and a multitude of bizarre neuroses built on being jilted at birth.

  I just wish I’d never known. Without being told, would the post-op penny have ever dropped?

  Having been a natural shit disturber from birth, I have deviated and developed a whole multitude of my own warped idiosyncrasies. One of them is a desire to initiate social experiments. I just don’t care for people in the usual way. I know that it is far too easy to provoke unjust behaviour from people and use that as rationale for pushing the experiment to the final stages. Maybe I’m not even aware of this as it’s happening. That I may subconsciously want this reaction from others so as to free my mind of guilt and provide more fodder is another possibility.

  I had to restrain myself with a monumental effort when I saw Lem sporting an attempt at a moustache that would embarrass a 12 year-old child. On a few occasions I gratuitously pushed minor disagreements with Mr. Overcompensation to a point where I could brace him and see how he handled confrontation.

  Over time, circumstances changed and I rarely saw him or the oaf. The whole situation was relegated to the pile of surreal experiences that are part of an expat’s life in Thailand.

  The Meditation Retreat

  This tale highlights the danger of entering into conflict with other expats or tourists in a foreign country. A strange sense of disconnect afflicts many tourists while outside the familiar restrictions and standards of their home countries. For the average person, this may result in nothing more than a not-unpleasant feeling of anomie. For other, less stable individuals, the consequences can be more severe.

  The beginning of the running rage video. People I pass momentarily on the road can quickly become part of a violent rage movie in my mind. It usually takes the form of the exact scenario which has just occurred in real-time, but then the person who walked into my line of vision in that instant does something in the rage movie. They slight me in some way. Insult me, mock me or throw some food in my face. To demonstrate how insane and out of control this tendency can be let me recount a recent episode.

  I was walking in the supermarket recently when a small, shrieking child ran past me and almost collided with my legs. My annoyance flared and as the child and his father scurrying after him moved out of my line of vision and I carried on into another part of the store, I saw, in my mind’s eye, the child slamming into my legs. The father then confronted me, angry that I hadn’t moved out of the way in time. As this played out in my mind, adrenaline cut loose in me and I felt my upper body tense. The physical response, I should add, is not unpleasant. Then I was driving the emaciated little fuck into the concrete of the supermarket floor and hammering him into unconsciousness.

  This type of thinking is extremely dangerous and ratchets up when there is stress in my life. For example, when I am not getting enough sleep, there is some friction in the workplace, or maybe some looming deadlines. I find myself focusing in one person in my life who I know doesn’t like me. Perhaps they are conniving to fuck me over. Or maybe that is the paranoia that goes along with this damaging mindset. But like the old saying goes, “just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean people aren’t out to get you.” It becomes a very difficult situation to handle.

  Just being aware of this reality is the first step to realizing that you have to do something about it or it will eat you alive.

  In my last stay in Thailand, this thinking had taken over my mind almost completely. Violent rages would play out in my mind for a good portion of the day. How would I sink my mental fangs into an appropriate victim? Someone who would be slaughtered countless times in my mind in the most bloody and visceral way possible. I believe that the choice was based on real slights, and a real sense that the person in question did not like me.

  One fat repugnant turd of a student came into my sights and announced loud and clear that he was worthy of destruction. Something about a fat, loathsome, arrogant individual turns my stomach like no other.

  He taunted me over a period of a few weeks, taking the usual bad behaviour of students to a new level. Openly mocking me in class. Telling me to fuck off. The sneer on his face that said, “I know I can get away with this,” is what really enraged me.

  I ended up throwing his backpack against the back wall of the classroom. The unusual heaviness of the bag and the dull thud as it hammered against the back wall a good eight metres away told me that I had fucked up in a real way. When I came back to myself and looked at his bag, it had come open to reveal a destroyed laptop computer.

  The sneering little oaf had openly mocked me in class. Something that I had never experienced before. On the day in question, he gave me the finger, just like that. For no reason other than I told the class to quiet down just as we were getting ready to start. The sheer audacity of it. I calmly told him to leave. He sneered.

  I told him more firmly to leave. Again, no movement. I barreled toward him, knocking desks out of the way (he was sitting in the sixth row). As I reached him, I took his bag and flung it with one hand. The adrenaline surging through me added a heaping of force I wouldn’t have used otherwise. The sheer joy at seeing stark raving terror on the fat puke’s face would provide some solace later on. But not now. As I looked at the wreckage, I instinctively knew that it was all over. At least at that private language centre.

  He walked up to his shattered computer in a daze, disbelieving what had happened. He picked up the pieces and walked out of the classroom. He must have considered what happened in the hall after the surreal quality of the situation had worn off. He opened the door holding the cracked laptop, and told me that I would have to pay for the damage.

  “Do what you gotta do!” I yelled as loud as I could.

  Amazingly, the incident didn’t get me fired. And if I had played my cards differently, I could have weathered the storm and continued teaching at the language centre beyond the current contract. But I had no appetite for the arse-kissing and prostration that was being asked of me as a result of the explosion. I was ready to move on anyway.

  Still, the incident scared me. Mainly because I had been aware of how much I was raging in my mind against the corpulent little hog. I saw myself throttling him that very morning as I walked to work. But even that self-awareness hadn’t been enough to control my rage.

  I comforted myself with the thought that my subconscious mind always stepped in to save me. It knew that my time in Thailand was finished, and while I wasn’t consciously able to pull the plug and move on, my subconscious stepped in and did the work for me. The end result was that I returned to Chicago.

  Unfortunately, things didn’t work out exactly as planned. Despite going back to school and acquiring some very practical skills, few employers were willing to take a chance on me. This was compounded by my time in Thailand. Not only did few employers attach any value to EFL teaching in Thailand, but a huge number of jobs required a security clearance. Because I was unaware of this, I failed to secure the necessary documents from Thailand before leaving. Hence, no security clearance for me. A bleak winter of no money coming in and a desperate search for work, left the old paranoid violent thoughts thrumming through my mind.

  One night as I was crossing the street in front of my apartment building, a pickup truck turning left into the street I was crossing, revved his engine and drove straight toward me, even though I had a walk signal. I snapped and launched a wad of spit through the open window and into the face of the piece of white trash behind the wheel. What
is it with gutless wonders who think that pedestrians are some kind of easy mark? I ran alongside the creep and hurled abuse at him. Strangely, he didn’t speed off but absorbed the verbal thrashing I was laying on him. I found out why he was holding back; he threw his cup of hot coffee at me, hitting my arm. Because I was wearing a heavy jacket, there was no damage. Then, he finally did speed off.

  However, I had the sense that this was not finished. I crossed the road and as I reached the other side, I bent down and picked up a heavy rock from a rock garden that was on the lawn of the Burger King that was on the corner. I kept walking.

  As if on cue, the pickup truck rounded the corner and screeched to a halt in front of me. A sawed off little piece of white trash came flying out the driver’s door and came rushing toward me. About 5 foot 3, with a permed mullet, tight jeans and white high topped trainers, the 40-something year-old freak was a walking cliché straight out of 1983. If it weren’t for the circumstances, I would have burst out laughing at this unintentionally farcical individual.

  However, this wasn’t a laughing matter. I was scared, and acted appropriately. I wound up and drove the rock into the guts of mullet-head at close range. A dull thud stopped the puke in his tracks and I ran back a few yards to observe the damage. The little freak now had the rock in his hand and was contemplating what to do. He momentarily wound up as if to return the missile. But I was standing in front of a row of cars that were waiting in line at the drive-thru window at the side of the Burger King.

  We yelled at each other though surprisingly few people took any notice of our surreal little drama. The walking definition of retro-white trash reconsidered the situation, got in his truck and sped off. It’s a good bet that he had a criminal record and started considering the optics of what had just played out. It didn’t look too good for him and I had a pretty good shot at putting forth a self-defense narrative if the police got involved. Later I would get a great deal of satisfaction at having spat in the face of the little turd who thought he was going to get a laugh out of putting a fright into me. Then I had dropped the shithead with a rock to his guts.

  But for the time being, I was scared. If I had hit him a few feet higher, I could easily have killed him. It wasn’t a small rock—it probably weighed a good three pounds. Yet, through all the explosive adrenaline rush and ensuing action, there was a conscious part of me orchestrating the whole thing. Yes, the narrative would have favoured me. Likely, I would have gotten away with killing him, though I would have damaged any prospect of a good job for the duration of the legal machinations and would have burned the last of my savings to the ground as I fought the charges.

  Sure, I may have been somewhat justified. But the lack of any thoughts of self-preservation at that crucial moment when it all kicked off truly frightened me. The demons were still there ready to sabotage my attempts at reintegrating back into normal society. The videos were playing in my mind all day long as I was holed up in my dingy apartment searching for jobs online and trudging to the supermarket for supplies every day.

  The wake-up call of the confrontation with the white-trash lunatic forced me to start thinking of ways to deal with this problem. It was clear that I was losing control of my mind. I had known for many years that the mind never rests. Not even when we are sleeping. The mind is still raging, running non-stop clips, turning our fears and neuroses into nightmares.

  Meditation was the only way forward. I had practiced meditation for a few months many years previous, and I knew there was something to it. Daily practice is the only way to sustain benefits from meditation and so I determined to make it a part of my life. I downloaded every book imaginable on the topic and promptly started meditating for 30 minutes every day. No revelation came down on me, and no shocking effects made themselves apparent. But I kept at it and soon it was a routine that I rarely missed.

  Seven months later, I decided that I would return to Thailand. The lack of job prospects and the sterile, depressing atmosphere of most of the major cities in my country were what did it for me. As soon as I was back in Bangkok, I started researching meditation retreats.

  My criteria for selecting a meditation retreat were simple. I wanted as few other foreigners around as possible, and I didn’t want any hand-holding from the owners of the retreat or any resident monks. I wanted a peaceful location where I could spend most of the day meditating for a week or two. Ascetic conditions? Sure. I could handle sleeping on a mat on the floor for that amount of time. And I wanted at least some of the meals included in the price.

  And hopefully the owners would allow me to have a chair in my room. I never could manage the lotus position with any degree of comfort and I wasn’t going to start trying now. But I wasn’t up for a series of strict lectures telling me exactly how I was supposed to meditate. I have no doubt that many more experienced meditators than myself could teach me a lot about technique. But I just wasn’t looking for that kind of experience. Perhaps a few wise old sages on hand who could answer my questions if I had any.

  I had another important qualification for a meditation retreat—no insistence on a particular method, and no adherence to a certain philosophy or branch of Buddhism. In my brief research, I had noted that there were places that did make these demands upon their attendees. They held absolutely no appeal for me.

  I settled on what sounded like a nice, inoppressive little hideout in the south of Thailand. I phoned the retreat using a number that appeared on the internet. The website did not belong to the retreat, but to some hipster who had gone to the trouble of posting details about a number of similar places. It was a good sign. Lack of desire to commercialize and spread the good word via the internet told me that they were about the speed I was looking for.

  I hopped on a bus and five hours later landed in the dusty southern town near the retreat. I had a quick look around and a bite to eat. Then, following the instructions that appeared on the meditation retreat review website, I walked out of town, made a few turns onto dirt roads, and 20 minutes later arrived at the retreat. I liked it.

  For someone who had always sought out dirty, inner-city nastiness as a way to feel real about life, this basic, Spartan looking set-up was appealing. A low-slung building in the semi-open architecture design that was common in this part of the world was in the middle of the compound. Around the central building were a number of basic looking bungalows. High grass and trees surrounded the retreat. In the distance was a lake and some hills. Serene shit.

  I walked into the central structure and saw someone in a robe sitting at a chair drinking a beer. He was slugging it from the bottle. He turned and saw me watching him and motioned for me to sit down.

  “I’d like to get a room for about four days.”

  “Sure, what kind of set-up do you want? Air-conditioning or just a fan?”

  “Ah, might as well give me a place with an air-conditioner.”

  He reached inside his robes and pulled out a key. He tossed it to me across the table.

  “You can run a tab and pay when you leave. You can get food from the kitchen over there,” he said as he motioned to a waist-high counter that opened into the kitchen. A handful of wooden tables were placed around the room. I saw an open room with mats on the floor. Must be for group sessions.

  “OK, thanks.” I walked out toward the bungalows and checked the key fob for a number. I heard him belch as I walked away.

  I found the bungalow and inserted the key. The door creaked open to reveal the interior. A bed with a mosquito net, a small wooden desk, a wooden chair, and a threadbare looking mat on the floor. The floor was pitted concrete. It was about what I expected. It would work. I put down my bag and lay down on the bed. Time for a nice nap to recover from the journey. I fastened the mosquito net to the clasps on the wall and was out before I could go over my reflections of this place.

  I don’t know how long I slept, but it was dark when I was stirred out of my slumber by a din of voices. I had that queer feeling of disorientation and anticipat
ion that you get when you are in a new place. I lay there and tried to discern the voices. They were young, I could tell from the timbre and pitch. Perhaps they were in the bungalow next to mine. I heard a few snatches of words: ”...the robed bastard...gonna do some meditating...hahahaha!” I detected an English accent.

  I undid the mosquito net and swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat there coming to my senses. I felt that I should get the meditation practice going, but the voices would be a distraction. Perhaps they had just arrived and were getting settled into their bungalow. I slipped into my sandals and went outside to check out the new arrivals.

  Indeed, they were in the bungalow next to mine. Three young men were sitting on the small veranda, the same as the one that fronted every bungalow. They went silent when they saw me. I noticed them throw quick glances at each other and exchange knowing looks. They sneered in unison as they once again turned their gazes toward me.

  “How long have you been here?” one of the men from the group asked.

  “I just arrived today. And you?” I asked.

  He was bald—a shaved head—and wore a t-shirt with the union jack on it. He had some nasty looking white trash tattoos covering both his arms. While his words weren’t offensive, his tone of voice and the way he was glaring at me was off-putting. His accent and shirt told me that they were, of course, from the UK.

  “Suppose you’re here for the meditation then, are you?” Shaved Head asked me. It sounded like a challenge more than a question. He turned and sneered at his “mates.”

  “Well, yes. This is a meditation retreat. Isn’t that why everyone comes to stay here?”

  “This is the cheapest place to stay in the area. That’s why we’re here. Not to do no meditating,” Shaved Head said and laughed. His mates joined him. One, a gaunt, sneering wretch looked like he was a recovering heroin addict. The other was a doughy, pasty white oaf with a head of lank, black hair. How he maintained his jailhouse pallor in this climate was a mystery.