by Anne Heltzel
I ride the glow of my talk with Adam right through dinnertime with my parents: burgers cooked on the grill medium rare with slices of dill pickles and potato chips under the bun instead of on the plate. It leaves me with a sweeping, contented form of happiness that’s both tingling and peaceful, so much so that I don’t notice until about seven p.m. that Charlie never called. For about two seconds, I think about breaking up with Charlie. But for what? For irrational feelings for a guy who lives on another continent and is wonderful and sweet and caring, sure, but who in all likelihood thinks of me as just a friend? Still, I think about it. And then I think about it more. And keep thinking about it.
About a week later, a battered package containing a signed copy of Maus arrives in the mail, with a printout of the photo Adam texted me. I put the photo in the frame of my mirror, where it lives for less than a day before I take it down out of (a) guilt and (b) worry that my mom will ask who Adam is. I return to work on my comic the same day and I don’t stop after the picture comes down.
I’m working on a new comic now, at an outdoor market of sorts in Bangkok. Lena’s gone in search of a bathroom and I’m eating a noodle bowl with fish balls floating around in its murky broth. Fish balls strike me as inherently weird and wrong and false—like if you tried to make goat squares or something—and yet they taste so right. They’re like the chicken nugget of Bangkok, I muse as I sketch, hoping they aren’t half nerve and bone the way actual chicken nuggets are. (Chicken nuggets, right up there with Cheez Whiz, are among my Worst Nightmare Foods. Lena is a foodie, and although her brand of picky barely exists in the Midwest, I’ve tried her kale chips on this trip, and I’m starting to think she’s on to something.) I’m sketching the outdoor food stalls, the ones meant for tourists with their fried bat wings and skewered tarantulas. I realized a few months ago that making comics keeps me calm and helps me understand what I’m seeing. It’s sort of like a natural filter when staring at everything directly feels overwhelming.
I feel a nudge to my chair and there’s Lena, looking impatient.
“Dude,” she says. “Let’s get going. Sukhumvit Road is in Nana Plaza. I think we should get over there right away, before Cara blows it and lets my parents know she booked the wrong flights.” I fight to suppress a wave of irritation. Lena’s desire to chase Charlie is borderline obsessive, and I’m wondering if it was a mistake to agree to it. We’ve been traveling for almost a week, and I’m starting to wonder what’s behind it besides grief and anger. Meanwhile, I’m tired and hungry and we have no place to stay. Yet a tiny part of me still wants to support Lena—a strange sentiment, given the circumstances—and another part, if I’m honest with myself, has enjoyed our adventure.
“Let’s find a hostel first,” I suggest, trying to remain patient. “We’ll want to put our bags down, right?”
“I just wonder how long we can expect this lead to last. My parents are going to know where we are soon, and yours probably will too, since we’re using your card for everything else. We’re going to run out of money in, like, two seconds, and this address Anand gave us could lead nowhere or Dane could be gone by the time we get there.”
“Lena,” I say, speaking slowly, “I know you like to make quick decisions, but I need to finish my food, take a shower, and put down my stuff. My shoulder is killing me. I can’t carry this bag forever.”
“We’re not on a shopping spree,” Lena snaps. “We’re close. So close. I can feel it. And tomorrow is eight-eighteen. Do you want to blow this?” Her voice rises the way I’ve learned it does when she’s getting anxious that things won’t go her way, when she thinks everything in the world hinges on this moment. And she believes that if this particular moment doesn’t work out, she won’t be okay.
“All right,” I tell her, though part of me thinks she’s this way from a lifetime of getting whatever she wants. “Let’s do it. How far?” As Lena spouts off directions I can barely comprehend and I gather my bag in a half haze and I stumble after her in the direction of the busy highway, flanked on all sides by people hawking illegal DVDs and foot massages and plastic helicopters, I realize that I’m not giving her enough credit. It’s purpose that drives Lena. We walk through the busy market and she sticks out her hand for a taxi and I see the way she squares her shoulders, where a minute ago they were slack. I see the way her eyes light up and the nod she gives the cab driver as she slips into the back seat and reaches to prop the door open for me. The thing Lena fears most is being without direction.
Now I understand why she needs to find Charlie.
I haven’t allowed myself to think we might really find him here. Anand’s crumb might just lead us to Charlie’s estranged brother, who’ll confirm what we already know by now: Charlie was one messed-up guy who in all likelihood is dead. Anand has painted Charlie as a drug addict and maybe a dealer; Adam has painted him as a misfit; Charlie has painted himself as a liar. Maybe Dane will just illuminate one more side of the turmoil that was Charlie and lend a little more credence to his suicide.
I haven’t thought about what will happen if we actually find Charlie, because ever since Lena told me about the suicide note, it’s seemed impossible. But watching Lena in action has confirmed for me what makes her tick. She only went to Bangkok once as a kid, she claims, and yet she’s handling it like a pro. As I follow her around and watch her squint at the GPS device she’s activated on her phone while alternately squinting at street signs—looking wholly unflappable—I wonder what Lena and the way she is means for me and the way I am, and what it says about each of us that Charlie dated us both. It’s almost like together, we’re a weird, symbiotic entity that hinges around the common nucleus of Charlie.
I don’t want to be hinged anymore.
The recognition hits me in a rush. I’ve traveled to Paris, London, Mumbai, and now Bangkok only to realize that I don’t want my identity to depend on someone else’s idea of me, an idea that’s probably pretty inaccurate. I’ve been half removed from Charlie for the past four months, maybe longer. Now I want to cut myself off altogether, watch myself float and see what happens and where I wind up. Lena doesn’t want that, because she’s been a free spirit—alone in boarding school, after boarding school, and now in college—for way too long. Thinking about it makes me furious. It makes me angrier than ever with Charlie, the way he put us each into a box. The congested streets of the city whiz past us and the traffic carries us forward in a steady stream, each vehicle part of a greater, more purposeful path, each containing within itself the option to veer off at any time. I watch Lena as she watches the cars beside us, then urges our driver forward, faster, faster, her lips pressed together in a thin, grim line—and I determine to fix this thing before we crash.
19
Charlie
You’ll lead them right into it. Lambs to the slaughter; one lamb, anyway. It’s a phrase you’ve always liked, a phrase you’ve used more than once. Ironically, it’s a phrase you picked up from Aubrey long ago. Sometimes you don’t care which one suffers, knowing one of them will. You go back and forth about which one it should be, and it gives you a thrill. Lena, the untamable one. The one who’s always interfering, trying to get too close. Aubrey, the one who stabbed you in the back. It’s the sweet ones who are most dangerous; you know it now.
They’ll find Anand, and Dane—or is it Dana now?—because you want them to. And when they do, they’ll know the truth, and they’ll suffer. The truth—your plan for them—will destroy them. It’s not the destruction itself that thrills you the most—though you’re looking forward to it—it’s the exhilaration of watching them as they learn that you’re alive and in control. It’s their inevitable terror. It’s perfect.
You finish an email to Anand asking for twenty more ounces of hash. He’ll freak out on you; he’ll think you’re a dealer. They’ll all think, “This is why Charlie did it—he owed a guy some money and couldn’t unearth the funds.” Or they’ll think, “This is why: Charlie was an addict. Disturbed. Went off the deep end
.” It doesn’t matter what they think, you realize as you type. That’s just the cherry. What matters is that Anand will say the right thing. You know him.
At the bottom of your email, you mention to Anand that you’ll be seeing Dane in Bangkok soon. He’ll tell your girlfriends where Dane is, because he’ll want to destroy you. Lena will bite. Dane will play his role flawlessly, because he thinks you have the power to blackmail him. But the pictures you threatened him with? They were fakes.
He thinks you can ruin his life, but you can’t.
It’s all a lie.
But it doesn’t matter what’s true. It only matters what Dane believes to be true.
It hinges in part on Dane, on his ability to deceive.
And it hinges on Anand’s inability to keep his mouth shut, without even realizing it.
How much does it take to derail someone who trusts you?
It takes twenty extra ounces of hash. That’s the beauty of it. That’s all it takes.
20
Lena
This whole time, Aubrey has been morose and silent. The enthusiasm—or acceptance—that she had yesterday when I told her I’d yet again pulled the rug out from under her has failed to emerge today. She’s all scowly. We haven’t talked about what will happen if we find Charlie. A big “if.” I haven’t told her about where we’re going. A big shitty mistake.
Where we’re going is part of the reason I wanted to go now, like right now, during-the-daylight hours “now.” Aubrey thinks I’m just eager—I can tell by her patronizing looks and the way she rolls her eyes—but there’s more to it than that. Much as I would like to find a place to stay and shower and all that, I do not want to get to Nana Plaza too late. Partly because I’m afraid of what Aubrey will think. She’s so nice, so sheltered. It pains me to be the one to introduce her to the harsh realities of the world. Nana Plaza at night is a shitshow.
Unassuming in the daylight, it looms ahead of us now as the meter clicks its way up to 310 Thai bahts. Right now, you’d never guess Nana Plaza is a Bangkok nightlife gold mine. Club after club after club line streets that were developed in service of the sex trade industry. I know this because my mom is passionate about the human rights movement and donates major green to campaigns that fight violence against women, so guess what? Maybe it’s rubbed off a little. Music isn’t the only thing I care about.
We’ve arrived at one of the main streets where ladyboys work. I’m not sure what we’re going to find when we meet Dane, but I have my suspicions. It’s strange that Charlie never mentioned Dane, stranger still that he’s hanging out in a Thai nightlife strip known for being “fun” in a sketchy way. When the car lets us out in front of one of the prominent buildings on the street—a four-story concrete structure that’s open air and lined on each level with bars—I suppress a shudder for Aubrey’s sake. I’ve got to look in control; that’s what I do. Everywhere we go, it’s so obvious she’s never really traveled, and it brings out the protector in me. I mean, I guess this is scary if you’ve never done it before? I wouldn’t know, since I pretty much came out of the womb holding a passport.
It’s early—not yet eleven—and Western tourists are already hanging out at the bars. At other bars in other places, tourists sit in clumps, but here they’re mostly solitary. It’s the creepiest side of sexual tourism: men in their sixties with wedding bands on the same hands they use to clutch underage Thai girls’ waists. My gut clenches at the thought of Charlie in a place like this.
We approach the front of Darkside Bar on foot a couple of minutes later, me picking my way confidently down the cobblestone road and Aubrey trailing behind, barely concealing her growing irritation as she drags her bag behind her. I’m half expecting the bar’s exterior to be dark and shuttered, but its windows are flung wide open and people are already trickling from its entrance to neighboring venues. The crowd is varied: college kids around our age, older Western tourists, a few locals. I motion for Aubrey to follow me, and just as we near the entrance, a man stops us. He’s a local, short and wiry, and his eyes flash as he grins and extends a laminated menu our way. Aubrey leans over to see what’s on it but I slap the menu away, shaking my head sharply. I know what the list is. I’ve seen the same list in other countries, seen groups of drunk men laugh at its offerings and hand over money to be escorted into dingy, curtained rooms.
It’s not prostitution, this particular list. If it were, the man wouldn’t have offered it to us at all. In some ways it’s almost worse—“novelties” you can watch for an extra fee, if the dancers on the bar aren’t enough. I don’t want Aubrey to see it. I grab her hand and pull her inside the large complex, which isn’t just one bar but a long hall, as it turns out, with maybe a half dozen separate bars within. Some are decorated garishly with Scooby Doo figurines and papier-mâché Hello Kittys. Some have racecars suspended overhead. All have dancing women atop surfaces usually meant for beers and shot glasses, their Lucite, platform shoe–clad feet twisting and turning at eye level, where if you look up . . .
I don’t look up. Obviously.
“Classy establishment,” mutters Aubrey, and I smile a little. She’s learned something this past week, and I like to think it’s from traveling with me. The simple act of dragging your jaw up off the floor can get you far in this world. “Fake it till you make it” was always my dad’s favorite expression, and Aubrey’s show of bravado is almost convincing. Almost.
“They’re not women,” I casually let her know, pulling out a bar stool. Aubrey leans against the bar next to me.
“Excuse me?” She looks at me like I’m crazy and I signal over the waiter. While I didn’t want Aubrey to see the menu—like I said, I’ve been feeling protective—ladyboys are something different.
“We’ll have two Amstel Lights, please,” I tell the waiter, and Aubrey doesn’t even balk at my consistent compulsion to order on her behalf. Either she’s used to being bossed around or she’s still processing what I’ve told her. “They’re ladyboys,” I say. “Boys who look like girls.” I watch Aubrey’s eyes move from where we’re sitting up the long-legged figures of the three sultry dancers in front of us. She mentally traces the curves of their hips; the roundness of their chests, made rounder still by boob jobs and pushup bras, undoubtedly; their delicate facial features; and their long, wavy hair. Aubrey lets out a short laugh.
“Shut up,” she says, a note of doubt creeping into her voice.
“I’m serious,” I tell her. “Some of them really are girls now, I guess. The ones who have already had sex change operations. The rest are transgendered. Hence ‘ladyboys.’ They’re actually kind of considered a third gender around here.”
“But . . . some of them are gorgeous,” Aubrey whispers. “I would literally never be able to tell.”
“Totally,” I agree. “They’re hot. That’s part of the allure. There’s a huge ladyboy component to tourism over here.” It’s a topic that’s fascinated me ever since I came here as a kid. Which maybe would be weird for most kids, but no topic was taboo in our house. It’s not exactly why we’re here, but I suddenly feel compelled to tell her all about it. “My mom does a lot of campaigning against sexual tourism,” I go on, “so I’ve grown up hearing all about this stuff. She donates but also travels internationally and speaks out against exploitation and such. She’s also really into sexual identity in general, LGBT rights, gender rights . . . it extends in all these other directions. She’s not a career woman exactly, but she’s also not a trophy wife taking it on as a trophy cause. She cares a lot about it, and I guess I kind of do too.” I blush a little, only because I don’t usually admit that to anyone. Not that I’m ashamed; it’s just that it’s never come up, not really, not outside the sphere of my parents’ dinner table. The couple of times I mentioned it to Charlie, he laughed like he thought I was being cute and said something like “Stick to music, babe.” Like this is an interest on a par with records or concerts. I search Aubrey’s eyes for similar derision but she looks interested. Even transf
ixed.
“You never mentioned it,” she says.
“Why would I?” I shift awkwardly on my stool, sipping the beer the bartender has placed in front of me. I get emotional talking about it. I don’t know why.
“It sounds pretty fascinating.” Aubrey looks thoughtful. She grips the side of her own glass, and condensation decorates her fingers and drips down the side of the glass onto the countertop. “It’s funny—I feel like none of that stuff ever comes up, where I’m from. I’m picturing you and your family around the dinner table and it sounds a lot more interesting than our tuna-noodle-casserole convos.”
I laugh. “What does the food have to do with it?”
“Not the food . . . I mean, yeah, the food. But, like, tuna noodle casserole is the metaphor. Our dinners are pretty much, ‘How was school, how’s your essay, what’s the latest blockbuster at the local theater, how did cheer tryouts go, what’s the football team ranked?’ There’s none of this . . . exoticism.” Aubrey gestures at the room we’re in. “I kind of wish there were. I wish I hadn’t had to be eighteen, here with you on this random trip I never would have taken without you, to hear about it.”
“You should watch the movie Beautiful Boxer,” I say, getting braver in response to her enthusiasm. “It’s about this famous ladyboy, Nong Toom. She’s, like, gorgeous. She’s a model and an actress and she was a boxer. And a monk.”
“A monk?” Aubrey nearly chokes on her beer, giggling a little.
“Yeah. Probably, you know, to suppress her nature or whatever. Religion. It sucks for that. Everyone’s always turning to religion when there’s something to squash down that they’re ashamed of.” Aubrey’s quiet. Shit. For a second I’m worried I’ve offended her. I don’t even know if Aubrey’s religious. Sometimes I just assume everyone’s atheist, like my family.
