by Cleo Odzer
Could it be?
I stretched out a hand to touch his back. He turned to me, surprised.
"You're not going to believe this," I said. "I don't believe this."
"What?"
I studied his face. "My goodness."
"What? What is it?" he asked.
"I can't understand."
"What?"
"I think I love you again."
He shook his bangs and smiled. "Oh."
I touched his hair. "Does this mean I always loved you?"
"I knew that." He giggled.
I wrapped an arm around his neck. "Was Serge right, then? I don't understand anything."
The rest of that day, plus the two following clays, were wonderful. Neel and I were together again. When he went out, I couldn't wait for him to return. I jumped on his skinny body every chance I had.
One day, walking hand in hand past a traffic circle called the Fountain, we suddenly remembered our old scam.
"AUNT SATHE!" I wailed. "We never found out what happened to Aunt Sathe!"
We rushed down the block to American Express to check for mail. We found a telegram from Aunt Sathe. A very distressed telegram. It had been lying there a long time. "Oh, shit."
"What does she say?"
"It's from Bermuda. She doesn't know what's going on. Lila didn't show up at the airport. She's going nuts thinking something happened to me. Oh, no. Didn't we send a telegram to Bermuda?"
"Didn't we? I don't remember. We should have."
"Oh, poor Aunt Sathe. I feel terrible."
"We sent one to Wilkes-Barre. I remember that."
"She wasn't sure who was coming, me or Lila. She must have thought I'd been arrested."
"I wonder what happened to Lila, then. Do you think she ran away with our suitcases?"
"What a mess. I have to write Aunt Sathe right away. What do I tell her?"
He put his arm around my shoulder to comfort me, and we kissed in the lobby of American Express. Then we returned to the hotel to kiss, snort, and shoot our vitamin B cocktail.
The next day we fought.
How had happened? We were finally alone together and in love—we shouldn't have been fighting. Why was he doing little things to make me angry? With no Eve, no baby, and no paddy field to trudge across, he now found other ways to provoke me. And when he'd have me furious, with a great gulf between us, he would, as usual, seem satisfied.
He giggled and pulled at his beard. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK.
This time there was no making up. The passing hours only made things worse. Inevitably, when I'd soften, he'd manage to say something to renew my wrath.
It was not going to work. It was not possible.
By midnight I couldn't stand it anymore.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Away. I can't bear this another minute."
"Don't go. I'll be good. I promise. I won't say another word, okay?"
But I knew him better than that. I left.
I went to Bentley's Hotel.
"Tee hee, you're crying," commented Mental when he opened the door.
I told him my sad tale and slept a bit in his armchair. Staying at the scruffy Bentley signified hard times. Mental's finances had been dwindling in Bombay as he attempted to organize a trip to buy smack in Thailand and sell it in the West.
"Smack's safer to carry than hash, tee hee," he told me the next afternoon. "Powder is smaller in quantity and lighter. You make more money. If you're looking for a run, look for someone with powder. Try the Birmingham Boys."
"The Birmingham Boys! No, gross! They drink alcohol. About carrying heroin . . . I don't know. You think I could do that?"
"The Birminghams aren't into booze anymore. Now they're doing smack. They're nicer than before. Really, tee hee, the Birmingham Boys are mellowing."
The phone rang.
"Hi there cutie," said Neal when I answered it. "You weren't easy to track down." I didn't respond. "CleeeeeeeeOOOOO?"
"What do you want?" I asked coldly.
"Are you coming back?"
"Never."
"Don't be like that." He giggled. I didn't answer. "Then meet me somewhere. We can work this out."
"It’s over."
"No, it's not. Come meet me. We have to talk." But I knew that's not what would happen if we met. Knowing he couldn't see them, I let two tears run down my face. "I love you," he continued despite my silence. "I want to be with you. If I can't have you, though, I'll go back to Eve and the baby and devote myself to them."
My tears immediately dried up. I hung up on him.
Within moments the phone rang again. I answered it: "I don't want to speak to you."
He laughed over the phone. "You don't like my mentioning Eve. I don't love her. It's you I want to be with. But they need—a baby needs me. I love the baby. It's the only child I've ever had, probably will ever have. I'm her father, and maybe at least I can do that right. I'll Stop the dope and clean up. If I can't have you, go back to them. It's your choice."
I hung up.
I was miserable yet at the same time relieved. Fuck them both—Neal and Serge. I was better off without them. I'd have a great monsoon on my own. Maybe I would do a heroin trip. Make a packet of money. I'd show them all.
"Sure, love," said Birmingham Bobby when I bravely knocked on his door and asked for a job. "We can always use another runner." Gold jewellery circled his neck, wrists, and fingers. He wore a gold Rolex watch and lit my business-deal-sealing bhong with a gold Dupont lighter. Not a drop of liquor could he seen anywhere. While far from being a Freak, this Birmingham Boy did indeed seem to have mellowed.
Associating with the Birmingham was not my idea of success, but at least I was taking a positive step toward something and, most important, removing myself from Neal. The thought of transporting powder worried me less than the thought of returning to him.
Later, while Neal ate ice cream at Dipti's, I put my bags out of his room at the Ritz and into the Sea View Hotel with the Birmingham Boys—two Birmingham Boys, Birmingham Timmy and Birmingham Bobby and their two English girlfriends. I stayed in Bobby's room.
"Over there, love," said Bobby. "Park your body in the bed by the window. Me and my bird sleep in this one."
Being with the Boys, I shared their stash and joined in their visiting; and the dope and coke flowed nonstop from all directions. If the flow slowed, we visited someone else. Crowds came to our room, too.
"Here, mate," Timmy would say, opening his gold cigarette case and offering hash joints to his guests. "You won't get better shit than this from nobody."
But, of course, what had happened to everyone else had also happened to Timmy and Bobby—in the bustle of Bombay they had forgotten about business.
When two weeks went by, I started to have doubts about the scam. I heard no mention of plans. No business conferences. No tickets or reservations. The Boys played poker, socialized, and got high. Period. Yup, it was the old Bombay Syndrome. When another week went by, I doubted anything would ever go down.
Sometimes I met with Neal on neutral territory, such as the hotel rooms of Mental or Giuliano, one of the Italians at the Nataraj. I still loved Neal but refused to return to the torture of being with him.
"When are you sending for Eve and the baby?" I asked him once in Giuliano's room, where we were the only two speaking English.
"I'm waiting to hear from my connection in California," Neal answered. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. "I have to do business before I do anything else. And I'm quitting the dope. Maybe I'll stop next month."
Neal hated the idea of my running for someone, especially the Birmingham Boys. "I wish I could fund you in your own scam," he said, "but I have money troubles myself at the moment." He giggled and our eyes met. I wanted to touch his purple satin leg. I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck, but I didn't. "Are you sure those Birmingham characters are okay?" he asked.
I nodded yes, lying. I didn't tell Neal the truth because I was afraid h
e'd convince me to move back with him. No, I no longer felt the Birmingham Boys were okay. Along with their Bombay Syndrome, they were developing Coke Amuck.
Since the time I’d moved in with the Boys, I'd be taking my up-and-coming business venture seriously, but they hadn't. After the Taj salon had creme-rinsed the knots out of my hair and I'd washed off the Goan red dirt, I'd been sleeping every day and keeping reasonably sane. I realized that coke-bingeing for long periods without sleep caused hallucinations and paranoia. While I'd geared my brain for the scam at hand, though, the Birmingham Boys strove only for pleasure. They seemed to have erased the financial endeavour from their memories; but worse than that, as weeks went by, they seemed to have also forgotten my role in their fives. They looked at me as if wondering what I was doing in their rooms and why they were keeping me in food and drugs. A thorn in their side—not a rosy situation for me.
Then one day, Birmingham Bobby scored an ounce of smack and was so coked-out he had trouble weighing it. He and Birmingham Timmy must have weighed the bag six times, and they came up with a different measure all the time. They eventually decided that half of it was missing and that Bobby's girlfriend and I had stolen it.
Oh, dear. One should never be suspected of ripping off a Birmingham Boy. Especially not a Coke Amuck Birmingham Boy.
Finally, after weighing it a few more times, they decided they'd been mistaken—none had been stolen after all.
I was not reassured. By this time, my good sense told me that the scene with the Birmingham Boys had soured beyond hope. If I were to do a heroin run, I wanted to be certain there'd be no stupid problems somewhere. Heroin could land you in jail for a long time. The Boys seemed so wired that even if they put the scam in motion right away, I no longer had faith in them.
I made a decision. I had to escape the Birmingham Boys—but without going back to Neal. Where could I go? Giuliano had mentioned he needed a runner for his powder trip. Maybe I could work for him.
Coke Amuck had everyone watching everyone else suspiciously. Even the Boys side-stepped around each other.
I waited till everyone was away from the hotel, then dragged my suitcase across the corridor and plopped it down the stairs one step at a time. BUMP, BUMP, BUMP. What a racket. I didn't want to take the elevator for fear of running into a Boy. Meanwhile, heads popped out of doors at every launcher I clattered passed. In the lobby I concealed the suitcase behind a potted philodendron while I went to hail a cab. When I ran back to get the case, the doorman looked askance at me as I accidentally broke a leaf from a plant, maybe I had a touch of Coke Amuck myself? I leapt into the cab and hid on the floor.
"Nataraj Hotel," I told the driver, who twisted back to peer down at me. "Go. Go." I shook my hands feverishly at him. "Go!"
Fortunately, Giuliano still needed someone, and he welcomed me to the spare bed in his double room. Whew! Safe from the Birmingham Boys and from Neal.
Giuliano was in the process of reconstructing a suitcase. His plan entailed building the secret compartment to hold the smack, then going to Thailand together to buy dope. Hiding the dope in the suitcase would be a simple procedure, after which we'd fly to Europe. Meanwhile, the case sat on a chair in the centre of the bathroom, occupying the entire space. Giuliano kept it there so it wouldn't be spotted by the room-service waiters whom he called constantly to the room. Tubes of glue formed stacks of the toilet seat, lining material draped the bathtub, and tools lay scattered on the sink and floor. Using the toilet required acrobatic feats, and baths had to be taken in another room.
When friends came to the door in the continuous stream typical of Bombay, Giuliano gave them a tour of the bathroom so they could admire his craftsmanship.
"Shambo, man, how're you doing?" said Kadir when Giuliano opened to his knock.
"Ciao, Kadir. Have you seen my suitcase yet? Come this way, I will show you."
"Mm, very nice."
"Thank you."
When Kadir heard I was headed west, he suggested I take some of his silver jewellery to sell for him. I would receive a percentage of the profit. I agreed, and he returned later with five pounds of silver and ivory trinkets.
Giuliano worked on the suitcase every day. During periods of glue drying, we partied. Though I made an effort to sleep every now and then, this activity didn't interest Giuliano in the least. The flow of visitors continued nonstop, twenty-four hours a day. When I felt I should no longer stay awake, I'd swallow my magic dose of Valium and Mandrax and come into bed. Needless to say, the bright lights never ceased glaring down at him, and no fewer than two people sat on the edge of my bed at all times, In spite of everything, I somehow managed to snooze a few hours a day.
"Morning, cutie," said Neal one evening as I awake from ti Tour-hour nap. CLICK, CLICK, SCRAPE, SQUEAK, SQUEAK. I le headed me the glass block. "Here's breakfast. Are you taking your vitamins?"
"Yeah, but in tablets," I answered. "Can't go through airports with needles and a syringe. I'm gaining weight. Look at this arm. It doesn't look like it came from Biafra anymore. Must be the Peach Melba from room service. How are you?"
Neal shook his hangs in the manner I found adorable. "Dandy," he said, "but I'd be happier with you."
I knew I wouldn't be happier with him.
After another week in Bombay, Giuliano actually did buy tickets to Thailand. Hallelujah! I'd begun to doubt any of us would get out of India that year. Giuliano and I were more-or-less clean, and after I took the nose pin out of my nose, we left together and sat together on the plane. How exhilarating to land in Bangkok. I was actually doing something! And I'd broken away from Neal!
I missed him terribly.
Upon our arrival, Giuliano and I split and went to different hotels. It would be better if we weren't connected. The Malaysia Hotel was definitely out—too hot to do business from that place. Nevertheless, Bangkok was so full of Freaks that it soon became another party scene.
Thailand at that moment had political problems and was under martial law. Anyone found on the streets between midnight and 6 A.M. would be shot. At first I thought it would dampen the nightlife. But instead of everyone going home early, we stayed out all night. A Goa Freak rented an apartment, and it was packed with friends during curfew. Martial law's taboo time was electric. In the hour before midnight, we'd scramble to dress, leave, then dash back to the hotel room at the last second for a forgotten object. In the apartment we'd bump, shuffle, and bop while occasionally peering through the curtain at the deserted street and the patrolling soldiers. Hey, martial law was fun!
"Who has the mirror?" someone would ask.
"Over here. What's the soldier doing now?"
"Standing in the same spot. Picking his nose."
"Close the window! You're letting out the air conditioning."
In the afternoon, I'd visit Giuliano. Time was passing, and again I seemed to be stuck. No longer doing coke, Giuliano now spent his days smacked-out and nodding off. He worried me. One had to be careful in Thailand. This was not India. Thais were strict about drugs. Serious penalties existed. Thailand was one of those countries where, if they arrested you, you disappeared. They were especially concerned with smack trafficking. If you were caught with any quantity, you were executed within five days. No embassy could help. There was no time to write a Senator.
However, by following basic guidelines, it was relatively easy to avoid hassle. You had to act like a tourist. Simple. Carry a camera. Dive in the Pool once a day. No problem. Then there were situations to be staunchly avoided. Most important: DO NOT HANG OUT ALONE IN YOUR HOTEL ROOM ALL DAY AND ALL NIGHT. Only junkies did that. It was common knowledge that Thai hotel employees received bonuses for reporting drug suspects. Loose tobacco in an ashtray, a cigarette filter lying around, or, worst of all, a piece of cotton or a bent room-service spoon—forget it. Next thing, you knew, there'd be a knock on the door. These little things could be watched out for, though. All it took was a quick inspection of the room before leaving and the barest awareness of a
ppearances.
But Giuliano was not concerned with precautions. He never left his room. Every time I went there it seemed I'd just woken him up. Often, he ordered room service and let the waiter into a room that was so dark, the waiter could hardly find a table on which to set the tray. In the middle of the afternoon! And Giuliano never went to the pool. With his skin so pale, he looked albino next to everybody's tans. He was skinny. He looked like a junky. No question. Someone seeing him for the first time would never mistake him for a tourist.
I, meanwhile, had gamed enough weight to look like a normal person. My period even returned. I must have been too debilitated in Goa to menstruate. I also had enough sense to realize that the arrangement with Giuliano was another bad one. Oh, no—would I have to make another getaway?
Yes. Heroin—I'd decided to carry heroin! I could not do that with a nut case. Better to be adrift penniless in Bangkok than in jail. To continue to associate with Giuliano was suicide. I had to disengage from him too.
I wondered how these nutty people succeeded in the Goa life when theyseemed disarrayed. Though periodically scatter beamed, they reunited from the monsoon to five like fat cats. How did they manage it? I didn't ponder the question too deeply. I accepted the paradox as validating the superiority of our chosen path. That's what I cherished most about the Goa Freaks—their abstract extremism. We were interesting, tolerant, exotic, and lucky. We were the Goa Freaks.
But I knew I had to be careful and not be too wacky. I'd allowed myself to go Coke Amuck in the monsoon with Neal and Serge. Now I had to consolidate my wits to protect my future. I had to take care of myself and watch my step.
I moved to another hotel, a cheap guest house, and sent Giuliano a message that I was out of his scam.
My third escape of the season: first from Neal, then the Birmingham Boys, and now Giuliano. Terrific—a free person, but bankrupt in Bangkok. What would I do for food?
Could I sell Kadir's silver?
I took to the streets with it. Alas, Thailand had its own hill-tribe handicrafts, and nobody cared much for my wares. One sidewalk vendor bought two rings. Another made a lengthy examination of every item before deciding he wasn't interested. When I returned to the guest house, I discovered three earrings and an ivory Ganesh had been stolen.
