by Jay J Carr
“Guess, I am … well you know. Um …”
He sips his coffee and feels the warm liquid go down his throat.
“You do need to say something, though.”
“Like what?”
“As I said, thank the committee and say what you hope to do with the money. You know you can’t spend it?”
“Shit, I completely forgot about the money?”
“Oh come on! There is a fuck load of money.”
“I am serious. I didn’t think about it.”
“Think about who you are going to donate it to. At least say that the Institute will be the beneficiary.”
“Okay.” How come he didn’t remember the prize money? There were so many other things to think about. How could this have slipped his mind?
“Why don’t you call Susan? She is your right hand man, um ... woman … person. Forgot we have to be politically correct now that, you know … Ask her to inform the Press Association that there will be a news conference tomorrow at the Institute and the time it will be.”
He is now on autopilot and says, “That’s a good idea.”
His partner takes out his phone and pushes it over to him. Messages are constantly coming through, but unlike him, he has put his phone on silent. He dials Susan’s number.
It doesn’t even ring, “Hi Charles. This is megacrazy. I have been trying to get hold of Barry since this morning.”
“Hi, it’s Barry.”
“Oh my God! Jesus, Mary and all the angels! Barry, I have been so worried. It is out of control here. We had to hire a temp just to answer the phone.”
“Sorry, about that.”
“You won the peace prize … Hello! OMG! You are amazing. Congratulations!”
“Thanks, Susan. I don’t know why?”
“OMG! Oh my my … GGGG!”
“I need a favor, please.”
“Duh! Anything.”
“Can you call the Press Association and let them know that there will be a formal press statement, or news conference, or whatever the hell it is called at the Institute tomorrow at 10.”
“OMG! How freaking exciting.”
“Can you do it?”
“Hello! Of course Mr Peace Prize winner. Or should I say Professor Peace Prize winner.”
He can’t respond.
She goes into Susan mode, “Thinking about it, this is going to be quite a logistical issue. I will have to ensure we have enough chairs and think which lecture theatre to use, and …”
He zones out of the rambling. The loathing feeling creeps up again as well as the fear which has haunted him throughout the day.
“ … and ensure that only a few people attend. So, we will need to have an invite. Okay, will get onto it. Don’t think I am going to sleep. Oh, my God. Okay, so I will get off the phone so you can take other calls … anything else you need?
He has to ask her, “Can you write something for me to say?”
There is a hesitant pause. “Are you sure about that?
“Please.”
“Okay, well sure. Will get on it right away. See you tomorrow. Leave it all to me.”
Autopilot again, “Thank you Susan. You are the amazing one, not me.” He hangs up.
“Do you want me there?” It sounds like an afterthought. He slides the phone over the table.
“No, don’t worry. I know how busy you are.”
“Come on! It’s like a big deal right.”
“I guess so.” He looks at the empty coffee cups and collects them and places them in the sink. “Let’s go and sit down.”
“Good idea.”
He retrieves the poodle from his lap, kisses it and stands up. They walk through to the den and take up their usual spots on separate sofas. In no time both dogs are all over him and he carefully positions each one.
His partner picks up the remote control and switches on the television. He sees himself staring back.
This year’s winner of the Peace Prize has been announced in Oslo and has been awarded to American academic and Head of the Institute of Peace Studies - Professor Barry Cunningham.
He feels his body cringe as he hears this.
Now over to our reporter on the ground … Megan … Megan can you hear me? … What’s the latest?
Hello Robyn, nothing new to report. Professor Cunningham has still not made a press statement. He has remained inside his home for most of the day. We did notice some activity earlier in the evening when, what has now been confirmed; Charles Sinclair his life partner was seen driving into the grounds. We were able to see the silhouette of what we are assuming as being that of Professor Cunningham, through the glass partitions of the front door.
“Seriously!” he exclaims, and is shocked at what he sees next. A clip showing Charles driving in and walking to the front door, which could only have been shot through the slats of the wooden gate. The next image is of his silhouette caught briefly when he must have been pacing the passageway.
Back to you Robyn.
Well thank you Megan for that. Wait … this just in … There will be a press conference tomorrow at the Institute where Professor Cunningham will make a formal statement about the award. There you have it … A confirmed press conference. And that the official press conference will be at … they have just confirmed the time … at … ten, ten tomorrow morning.
Why did they have to repeat themselves so may times? The same idea- different words. It’s so strange as he listens and looks at himself in the third person.
Charles, on the other hand, is smiling and does not seem to be worried. “These guys are hysterical!”
He feels nauseous.
“They will do anything to show they have the unique angle on the story. Susan would have invited the world by now. Sorry, people,” he points at the television, “you are not special.” This is followed by a laugh.
It is then that he finds his voice, “But you got home like thirty minutes ago. How could they already be broadcasting this to the world?”
“Duh, it’s called technology!”
“Well I don’t like having my face smeared all over.”
“You have no choice, now … You are a celebrity. Like one of those, can’t remember their names … the ones that don’t actually do anything but are famous … Hmm … oh whatever.”
Charles is now talking to the dogs, which have changed places and now want his attention. He picks up the brush as they look at him unimpressed. They should have stayed with him. The television continues to flash image after image of him. His life is flashing before him but he is not dead.
Charles is finished brushing the dogs and goes into the kitchen to warm up the leftovers from the day before. While he sits on his own, for the first time since the infamous ‘arrival’ of his ‘life partner’, he looks over the room and its poorly maintained contents. The sofa with the old cushions which cannot even be plumped into place. The throws which have holes in them. If only people had this insight. What would the news clips sound like then?
A plate with steaming pasta is handed to him. He takes it with both hands. “Thank you, that is very kind of you.” Autopilot has returned.
“You are welcome.”
“Was there enough for both of us?” he asks, looking at the mass of food on his plate.
There is no answer and the channel gets changed. Clearly Charles has seen enough. A crime scene investigator, peering over a dead body, has replaced his face and the details of the news conference. They are watching the latest murder in Miami - a mind numbing television fictional series - where there are more murders than in the listed crime capital of the world. It’s why he would never move to Florida.
Bangkok-
8.
Hurtle insisted on a meeting, as they needed to plan the evening. They would have to be discrete and this required logistical consideration. The owner of the bar would not allow filming inside. After some careful negotiation from Hurtle and some pressure from the Police Commissioner, they had relented in the end. Ther
e were very strict rules and the Police Commissioner had overseen the negotiation, insisting that it become a legal contract that all parties sign. It wasn’t that the contract would be enforced through the formal legal system but through the ‘underworld court’ of the Police Commissioner. Hurtle had not notified legal as there was no time, so he had made an 'executive' decision and had insisted that the shoot go ahead and thus signed.
The meeting was in the lobby of the hotel at six in the evening. Hurtle had them hunch over the contract that had been laid out on the coffee table. "I can't stress enough how careful we need to be. I mean zero mistakes."
He looked nervous and worried and Tod realised that there must be some serious undocumented consequences to this contract. "We have to take a hand cam. Not the big one.” This was said to the cameraman, who nodded in understanding. “We can only film the back of the bar. We can’t film any of the ‘boys’ or any of the customers. In addition to this, we need to make sure that there is nothing that identifies the owner of the bar.” Another pause as he waited for a sign of acknowledgement from them. “The place will probably be packed. They have a show at about ten-thirty which we will stay for. I will be at the back with the camera, Tod you are going to be out front.”
“ I am not sure what you mean about this back and front stuff.” Tod asked. “You mean I need to stand outside in the alleyway in front of the bar? Surely that will blow our cover?”
“Jesus, Matey, we will be backstage, you will be seated inside the bar as a ‘customer’! Back, front. Get it?”
“I see.”
“After the show, you will come backstage and we will then do the wrap up based on your experience, as well as what we know to date. Not looking for too much of the kinky details. Just matter of fact of what you see.” He pointed at Tod while he said this. “This needs to be wrapped by tonight. We are breaking the story tomorrow. Any questions?” There were none. “Let’s not fuck this up, okay!”
Hurtle got them into a taxi. They were going to arrive together so as to look like friends visiting the bars. Once more, they made their way into the crazy traffic of Bangkok. This place was buzzing like no other city he had visited. This visit, Tod had not connected with it and could not wait to leave.
Hurtle was on his phone throughout the ride. "It's almost in the can ... No don't worry, it will be ready by tomorrow. I will be working on it until it’s finished ... Look, there has been no time to locate the ‘boy’ that we originally wanted to interview. The one that he supposedly hired ... Yup ... Yup ... No don't worry, if we can get it ... Yes, the follow up story. Hmmm ... no, I agree we need to get the story out there ... Yup ... Okay ... Later." He did not turn but said to them, "I think this is going to be big. Really big."
"It’s going to be interesting to see what the story does to public sentiment." Tod said. And then as an afterthought, “This confirms, or indirectly confirms he did it.”
"The public is going to fucking love it. Nothing sells better than a nun who is a hooker." This was followed by that cackle laugh, which cut through the car.
There was silence for the rest of the ride until they were nearing the Soi. Hurtle's fingers started to point to the right and left, as they made their way down the road. "That Matey is Patpong market. Where the 'innocent' public collides with the sex industry.”
Tod looked to where Hurtle’s fingers were pointing and saw the makeshift tents, sidewalks packed with people and in the distance a sign in bright pink was flashing, ‘Pussy Palace’.
"No one even bats an eyelid anymore. Well, the locals don't," he said, and then pointing to the left, "And on this side the gays."
Hurtle got out first, as the taxi pulled up to the side of the street. The cameraman was out thereafter, looking a little bit more conspicuous with the backpack, in which the camera was placed. He was the last out preparing himself for the night ahead.
The experience at night was nothing like the afternoon. Tod was glad there was no camera following him around. If it had been filming his face he would have had to remind himself to close his mouth. The Soi was not only unidentifiable but also surreal. At one point he felt he had snorted the wickedest cocaine as everything was in super-heightened mode. The lights were ablaze all over - blinking, shining and reflecting. Where there had been no people in the afternoon it was now packed with bodies. The noise of the music made him stop. ‘Please don't stop the music’ blared from the speakers of one of the bars and the place was pumping with the bass bouncing of the walls causing the whole Soi to vibrate. He came out of the trance and saw that Hurtle and the cameraman were in the distance and so he would need to quickly catch up.
As Tod made his way down the alley, he worked hard to avoid the touts that were trying to pull him into the bars. He reached 'Boys World' and quickly made his way up the stairs. As he ascended, he tried not to make too much eye contact in case those climbing up with them got the wrong idea.
When they entered the bar, Tod found himself looking around in disbelief. They were ushered to a couch right at the back. On the stage were men only in underwear. This was not normal. Like the music outside, the music in the bar was also blaring. Hurtle made a sign to the cameraman to follow him and for Tod to stay behind and move closer to the stage. Hurtle chortled as he took his index and middle finger and lifted them to his eyes mimicking, ‘I am watching you.’
"Where is Sak?" he asked nervously.
"Don't worry he will be back with us. Talking us through what typically happens throughout the course of an evening."
Tod seated himself closer to the stage but behind a pillar so that he only had a partial view. He felt relieved that he was a bit safer. It wasn't long before another Mama-san arrived to take his drink order and at the same time try to cajole him into taking a ‘boy’ for some ‘good time’. He smiled and did not engage. "A beer. I am only here for the show," he heard himself say.
The evening was uncomfortable. He endured the stares of ‘boys’, who peered past the pillar so that he could fully see them. Then there was the behavior of the Mama-sans, not to mention the other customers. It was like he had a huge sign on his forehead screaming out ‘I like gay hookers.’
The show was even more painful with transvestite men showing penises and the ‘ladyboys’, according to Hurtle or whatever they were, badly lip-synching songs. Then came the ‘fucking show’ in which three men sucked each other off and then fucked each other up the ass. He was physically repulsed.
The worst was to sit and watch what was taking place in the bar itself. Old men, fat men, weird looking men - sometimes they pointed, sometimes got the Mama-sans running – as they showed who they wanted, selected their meat and watched it being brought over. The ‘boys’ were in their underwear and nothing else as they sat next to the fully clothed men. The men touched, tickled, fondled the ‘boys’ genitals and kissed them in front of everyone. The ‘boys’ mostly sat and looked bored, or just sat.
Tod would have liked to interview one of these ‘boys’ to hear how they felt as these perverts touched them. He hoped Hurtle could find the ‘boy’ that Cunningham had used so he could do just that. It was one interview he wanted to do.
After the show he was escorted to the back of the stage by one of the ‘boys’ who pointed to the back and said, “Sak.” Tod understood that he should follow as the ‘boy’ quietly walked him there, not saying a further thing.
He found Hurtle huddled with the cameraman and Sak sitting on a stool clearly the center of attention. Hurtle turned towards him and said, "What do you have for us? Let’s start the intro and sound bite. Ready … ?"
Tod nodded at him, as the cameraman took his position and Hurtle counted him in:
It’s an ordinary street, an alleyway with no vehicles but lots of human traffic. The sides lined with bar after bar and touts beckoning passersby to come inside. Once inside, sex workers or ‘boys’ as they are called, only dressed in underwear ply their trade - standing and selling themselves. The way they do this is with their
bodies, with their smiles, with a number attached to their underwear. The customers are varied – men who are middle aged, elderly, large and small. They engage in the act of voyeurism on the ‘boys’ with lustful eyes. Are the customers who frequent these bars sexual deviants? Or is this a system which benefits both parties? A transaction takes place; the exchange of money for the possibility of sex. The bars are filled with loneliness and discarded men, trying hard to retrieve their lives. And in return the bars entertain these discarded souls. The sex workers also sit discarded, placed next to those that have selected them. This is the world that Cunningham was part of.
“Stop! What the fuck was that?” Hurtle yelled. “Fucking souls and all that shit about being discarded. I am not looking for poetry. One more time …”
That Place-
9.
The ‘boy’ and him are standing on the sidewalk outside the hotel. The ‘boy’ raises his hands and says, “Hope see you again, Krub.”
He raises his hands in response. All the time he looks around thinking someone is going to take his picture, or the police are going to jump out from behind a building, ready to arrest him for engaging in prostitution. But there is no one. The street is deserted.
“Thank you, Joe,” he says.
The ‘boy’ turns around. He stands for a while watching him walk down the street and disappear around the corner.
He cannot help smiling all the way back to his hotel - the ‘official one’. The streets are still busy and alive with frenetic activity, even though it is close to 2 am in the morning.
He is in love. Not with a person but a place. This could be his home. That Place.
