by Jay J Carr
That Place
Jay J. Carr
© 2015 Jay J. Carr
Jay J. Carr asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this book. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
Published by Pink Gorilla Multimedia Publishers
London – Cape Town – Los Angeles
1st edition.
ISBN-13: 978-1522769859
ISBN-10: 1522769854
ASIN- B019JI18YU
Distributed through CreateSpace and digitally through Kindle.
“There is much about That Place that will leave the reader speechless and shocked, but the author’s intention isn’t as much about shocking his readers as it is about chronicling the deconstruction of one man’s life and this he does most effectively. If there’s anything to be gleaned about That Place, it would be that we all have one; that place, that incident, that special secret in our past which we may not necessarily want disclosed to anyone else. But no matter how careful we are, how closely we guard our secret, there’s always a risk that someone will find out.” – Readers’ Favorite
It’s not a secret if no one asks…
0.
Press Release: For Immediate Release-
Statement from the Peace Prize Committee:
The committee is privileged to award the annual Peace Prize to:
– Professor Barry Cunningham and the Institute for Mediation and Peace Studies from New Jersey, the United States of America –
Professor Cunningham has worked tirelessly for peace in his country and around the world. His inspiring work into truth commissions and utopian spaces has considered the element of dignity as a bridge to conflict.
He has documented how through an acknowledged engagement with others, through examining atrocities, that real healing can take place. This is best documented in his academic work of which ‘The Road to Dignity: Moving from acts of dignity to acts of giving dignity’ published in thirty-seven languages is his most significant contribution to peace studies.
In addition, he set up the Institute for Mediation and Peace Studies in New Jersey in order to provide an educational opportunity to students within New Jersey, the United States of America and abroad. The Institute has been a bastion of scholarly engagement and learning and has produced many graduates who have made very real changes in their communities and countries alike.
To use the words of Professor Cunningham:
What is dignity?
Is it a word, is it being humble, or is it an action?
It may be all of these things-
But we can choose to “give” dignity to someone, it is a direct act, it is the act of giving, the act of transferring.
When we do this we empower to make the difference and restore hope to all that come into contact with the act of dignity.
It is the hope that in our lifetime, we will be witness to this.
Part 1
New Jersey-
1.
He stands hidden behind a curtain trying to be inconspicuous. He looks out of his kitchen window - which frames a view of the university - the back of a mountain and a piece of controversial land which stands vacant and on which you can see people taking their dogs in the early morning or afternoon, which has been aptly called a community park.
Today however, it is different because coupled with all these things is a pack of reporters; not a quiet group of people gathered together awaiting a news conference; not a group of professionals acting in an appropriate manner; this is a pack of hungry rabid animals wanting to be the first to urinate on him and mark their territory. These reporters have taken over the community park and have set up camp on the land.
He peers out every now and then, wishing that the crowd would abate but it is the opposite, as more and more parasites come looking for something to feed on. He has had to disconnect the electronic doorbell. The rings had not stopped and came incessantly for almost an hour - until the chiming sound had driven him to near insanity. As he looks out he notices mobile lights set up so that the reporters are illuminated even though the sun is shining.
The phone call had punctuated his early morning sleep. He had taken it as a hoax at first. However, after the third call and confirmation from the television, he had been awarded the most prestigious prize in the world. He watched the screen as obscure photographs of himself flashed by for the world to see and as he clutched the remote control he pushed wildly until the television switched off. At this point his cellular phone and landline did not stop ringing. He watched as his hands ripped out the battery of his phone and yanked the telephone from its socket – trying to restore calm. If his partner would only answer his damn phone he could let him know what happened and ask him to please come home. He panicked. He was terrified and his throat and whole mouth had gone dry as he struggled to swallow.
Those ‘new age gurus’ always talk about those moments in life which are surreal. Ones in which you wander around like a somnambulist waiting to be woken from the trance. It was a lie, a big fat lie. This was not how he felt. He had energy pulsing through every vein in his body - he was having hot flushes - he had a deep sense of terror that would not find its denouement. And then there was a silence, one in which he could not hear anything. It was a scalding silence.
What had just happened, he kept thinking?
In order to try and distract himself, he switches on the television again and rather than sit, stands behind the sofa moving around like a caged animal. The two commentators on the television are debating the choice of the recipient – him.
One commentator named Lucy, with her Washington drawl, chuckles when the reason for the award and subsequent justification is ‘sound clipped’ in. The press statement from the committee says:
The Committee has awarded the prize to Professor Barry Cunningham for his groundbreaking research on dignity and negotiation as seen in utopian spaces. Adopting the power of truth commissions to overcome the spirals of ongoing violence is a fine example of the kind of work that should be produced by academics to contribute to Peace Studies. The Institute of Peace Studies is indeed a place that has helped young minds come to terms with dealing with violence and hatred within their communities …
Lucy’s face dominates the screen as the chuckles subside and is replaced by a guffaw, “And next the literature prize is going to go to a blogger. A science fiction or Harry Potter blogger.” More cackles. “The choice is ludicrous. It’s taken a prize, which has other recipients that read like a who’s who of amazing people, and made it insignificant.”
He finds it difficult not to disengage from what is being said, as this is about him. It had only been four hours since the announcement and yet they had images of the Institute flashing everywhere - his picture profile on LinkedIn; pictures of him from different stages of his life, which must have been produced by getting one of his Facebook friends to share them. His life, which had largely been nondescript, had exploded into a microscopic dissection by the media.
Then it happens, his energy starts to slowly drain. He feels his body losing power. He stops hearing the noise on the television. Is this what a stroke feels like he wonders? All he can do is lie down on the sofa, while his two dogs, his two fluffy poodles, snuggle in with him sensing something is wrong and he goes into a deep sleep.
Bangkok-
2.
Tod Hanson loved and hated his job. He was scouring the streets of Bangkok looking for the meeting place where the senior producer of the network has instructed him to meet.
Trailing behind him was the local cameraman who did not even demonstrate one sign of being hot, just to highlight the Britishness of Tod. His ‘kin’ was dragging a camera as well as the equipment for the shoot.
This wasn’t Tod’s first time in Bangkok, having enjoyed a wicked period backpacking through Thailand with three of his best university mates. He hadn’t noticed the heat then as they were focused on other things. But that was over ten years ago and clearly things had changed.
He remembered the first time staying in Khao San Road and thinking that the whole of Thailand was geared towards drunken degenerates like himself, only to be rudely awakened when he visited the centre of Bangkok and saw a fully functional first world city. It was this kind of contradiction that made him so confused and yet aware of the hidden charms of the land of smiles.
The cameraman motioned towards the Starbucks at the end of Sala Daeng Station. He was so relieved that they had arrived and that he would soon be in the comfort of air-conditioning. He hurriedly pushed open the doors and the waft of cool air swept over him - at last.
Inside cocooned behind a laptop, an iPad, an iPhone and a frozen drink of some sort sat Hurtle Jones, the senior producer and possibly the slimiest geezer on the bureau. Jones will without doubt tell anyone, who is willing to listen, how he is named after the Patrick White character (not that anyone knows who the hell Patrick White is) and that his mother was a fan and wrote her Masters thesis on the figurative whappedee doo da whatever. Hurtle was in charge of all news stories of the upper South East Asian countries from Thailand to Myanmar. Tod had the unfortunate experience of working with him on a story in Laos during the uprisings there; as well as in Myanmar during the religious skirmishes between the Muslims and the Buddhists. Due to those experiences with Hurtle he dreaded this assignment.
When he had been assigned the peace prizewinner story he was elated, as he would be going to New Jersey in the good old USA, a rare opportunity for a field reporter. Good food and wine next door in New York City, a quick shoot focusing on an overview of the winner’s life and then later the ceremony in Oslo. He had no idea he would be coming to Thailand but then no one did, as he would have turned down the assignment for sure. Tod hated Hurtle that much and made no qualms about it. Similarly, Hurtle couldn’t have cared less and openly said Tod was insignificant and did not matter.
Hurtle motioned with his free hand that was not clutching the iPad and moved his face slightly to ensure the continued balance of the phone which was tucked under his chin, while he pointed to the open chairs as if to give Tod permission to sit. He decided to ignore the action and instead went ahead and ordered himself a drink from the counter.
The cameraman on the other hand, sat dutifully and awaited further instructions from his boss.
Tod retrieved his drink taking extra long to locate a straw and some sugar. The fact that the drink was an iced coffee further helped his cause as the sugar took a long time to dissolve. Even with the whole charade when he finally sat down at the table Hurtle was still jabbing his finger on the iPad screen and yelling orders into the phone.
“Cunt,” Hurtle yelled, as he threw the phone onto the table, his thick Australian accent cutting through the quiet coffee shop.
Tod decided not to take the cue and simply ignored him. “So any biters?”
“Hello to you too, Tod,” Hurtle guffawed out, expelling a burp. “Well, I think I have found the first credible source - not that the caretaker of hookers is one - but anyway this bloke says he remembers Cunningham coming to the bar and going off with one of the rentboys.”
“How many customers go through one of these places a night?” he asked cautiously.
“Who cares? Every queer and his dog. Can’t say I am there counting them in and out, Matey. But you can ask all the questions you want to the Mama-san.”
“What the hell is a Mama-san?” Tod enquired.
“It’s a person in Thailand who is in charge of entertaining the guests and ensuring that they leave with a hooker.” Hurtle winked at Tod, while the cameraman looked down and then he let out another burp stifled with a laugh.
“Right,” Tod said, and also felt himself averting his eyes in solidarity with the cameraman.
“Matey, you are going to have to familiarize yourself with all of this go-go bar talk if you are going to cover this story. And even more so gay-for-pay talk.” Hurtle was imitating a limp wrist as he said this, and then chuckled again.
“I guess I will,” Tod said.
"So have you ever been into a go-go bar?" Hurtle asked him condescendingly.
"Well," said Tod, not sure how to answer, "went to a ping pong show when I was a backpacker here."
"Oh, please!" Hurtle shot back. "They are not the real thing … I mean have you paid for sex?"
"Oi Hurtle!" he shot back, the sarcasm evident. "I am not the person who was awarded the peace prize and who has a double life."
"Touchy, touchy, Matey. Just asking so that you can know what the scoop is on the story." Hurtle spat.
"I don't think I have to pay for sex to get the scoop on the story."
Hurtle looked at him and laughed that stupid laugh. "All right, don't get your knickers in a tangle. I won't say anymore in case you feel I am offending you." With this he roared and then quickly fluttered his eyelids and muttered, "Mister, I give you good time."
Tod wondered what was wrong with this guy. "Well hot shot have you paid for sex?"
Hurtle shot back with a voice like a juvenile, "I am not the person who was awarded the peace prize and has a sordid past."
"Funny one," Tod said, before pulling out his phone and pretending to answer a text.
Hurtle wasn't finished. "I don't have to pay for it. There are plenty of loose women roaming this city wanting foreign dick."
Tod ignored the statement and looked through all his applications on his phone but there were no messages.
Hurtle went quiet and stopped after that. There was an awkward silence and tension that lasted for a few minutes as each man interfaced with their technology pretending that the other one was not there.
"I have written your opening and we are going to shoot now. But tonight you are going to have to come back and do the primary shots as well as get the low down on this place. Tomorrow, I have lined up an interview with the Mama-san. The Mama-san is trying to get hold of the rentboy that Cunningham screwed to come down to Bangkok for an interview. Says he has gone back to his home village. I have offered a lot of cash to get him here as quickly as possible. Imagine that exclusive and breaking it before the other networks even know what is happening. I had to be very discreet about it. I noticed some activity here and have seen other producers doing the rounds ever since the story broke in the tabloids yesterday. You will notice the odd sound bite and story being broadcast from the Soi. Oh fuck it you won’t know that word either. The street, alley … whatever, where the bars are. No one wants to speculate too much until a source is confirmed. Luckily, with a little but of wheeling and dealing, as well as knowing the Commissioner of Police who happens to be the biggest ladyboy fan around, I was able to get the information. When we shoot we are going to do them from the front like everyone else not to draw attention to ourselves. I have organized for you to meet the Mama-san at a hotel round the corner. Rooms are rented by the hour!” Another guffaw, wink and choke. Followed by, “Going to have to put that one through the expense account as ‘courier services’ like any of these are.”
While finishing off the ‘lecture’ he was at it with the multitasking and everything was packed away swiftly. “Any questions?”
Tod had a hundred but now was not the time to ask. He got to his feet and threw his
half finished drink into the trashcan, ready to take on the heat once more.
That Place-
3.
The rain is falling in the late afternoon. A ray of sunlight has broken through the clouds and is reflected as it catches the river that weaves through the city below. He sits in the window of his room in the hotel. It is a huge ledge that you can easily lie on top of and look out of the window. Below him lies the city of Bangkok - the lights, fumes, movement and people carrying on with their daily business. He is detached from the heat and humidity that threatened to suffocate him earlier in the day when he went walking through the streets. The room is icy cold - thanks to the air conditioning - and he lies peacefully.
He thinks back to yesterday - the agreed meeting; the man looking him over to see whether he would suffice; the sex that ensued; the time that went by as the guy took forever to come. He had enjoyed himself but he now realises he was the only one. No return call and all the messages he had sent were unread. It was the only person on the website who had been interested in meeting up and the rejection was obvious.
He has hit an all time low, as he can no longer take being judged for his looks. The time spent trawling through the websites looking for possible meets. Being rejected in the first instance if you did not look good enough. Then the actual meetings where comments like, ‘you look different to the photo,’ have started to erode his confidence in what he looks like. Maybe he is ugly – he is starting to believe it. So much for all that shit about beauty being in the eye of the beholder. It was more like your body was the in the dick of the beholder.
He is transported back to his university days. Spending weekends in the bar and not one taker. Not even someone noticing him. It all added up and he knew if he was honest with himself, a reason for his low self-esteem and constant thoughts of suicide had to be linked to it. Thinking about this he lets out a laugh as he considers what his suicide note would look like. It would contain five simple words – ‘Because I was not beautiful’. He can joke even with himself but then the reality returns and he no longer smiles.
