Post Number Thirty Eight

“The Sobbin’ Guy”

Try as I may (and I very nearly did) I just could not–

Oh, hang on.

ITEM: Try as I may (and I very nearly did) I just could not perform the superhuman task of budgeting within this fast-growing Asian TIGER of an economy nowadays known as “Thailand” (though in slower times answering to “Siam”). Indeed, so fast is the Thai-ger blossoming that I have– in the short period I’ve been here– watched it grow from a place where some tourists (not me, though) snidely refer to the local money as (quote) “cute little Bahty-wahties”, into a place where other, more smarter travellers (like me) manage to spend all their now-MIGHTY Bahty-wahties on just the bare-arsed essentials. Like a new bucket bong (because I accidentally smoked a hole in the last one). Oh, and smokin’ fodder. Lots… ‘n’ LOTS… of smokin’ fodder.

Someone say… “smokin’ fodder”? Bah! The Speed of Change is a much more fast-acting pharmaceutical. The type o’ pharmaceutical you might pick up on STREET CORNERS. The types of street corners that ageing fuddy-duddies afraid of change refer to as DANGEROUS. The type of danger that falls from the air in big, fat, beefy CHUNKS. The type of chunks that you sometimes find in your vomit when you’re extremely WASTED. The type of wasted you get when you’ve been injecting (or snorting) too much SPEED. The type of speed we have in a world… where things… constantly… ummm…

Sorry, lost my train of thought, there. But that’s how it goes when life is always fluxing. One minute your thoughts are standing over Here, then all of a sudden they FLUX OFF over There– and you’ll never capture those thoughts again. Because “Here” is now “There” and “There” is now “Here”. Although… if you left Here, and went back to There, then the Wheels of Change would be just, like, spinning in the mud of Nowhere, kind’a bogged ‘n’ stuff, while you stand There (or Here) cursing and kicking the tyres and maybe “choking back a few tears” like… someone… did at the reception desk of the Australian Embassy in Bangkok. (NOTE: By “someone” I mean someone with no resemblance whatsoever to me.) (Apart from us both being farangs who spent every last one of the mighty Bahty-wahties we kept in a roll bag– a DIFFERENT… roll bag. Is what each of us had. He had a red one with blue stripes, and I have a blue roll bag. With red stripes. Which is the only resemblance me an’ that guy had. You’d realize this, too, if you saw him losing his battle to “choke back the tears”, and {as a result} blubbing his eyes out as he stood at the embassy desk. While I waited nearby, like, fully in control.)

Yes, I stood calmly in that queue, patiently waiting my turn as that other guy (disgraceful scene, it was) that SOBBIN’ GUY (let me add) squealed and blubbered and made strings of mucous dangle from all his face-holes (eye sockets included), simply sookin’ and a-beggin’ for (boo-hoo) “money” so he could (waaah!) “go home”(snivel, snivel)  to “Mummy” (his, not mine). It was a TERRIBLY undignified spectacle, and he is just damn’d lucky there was nobody else there in that queue to see it. Apart from Your Correspondent, of course… Although, I didn’t see it visually because… y’know… I had something in my own eye, some deadly tropical thing I picked up which made said eye water. Wasn’t “crying”, though. Or begging. I just firmly– but politely– shrieked at the top of my lungs for money.

Of course, when I say “shrieked” I mean in this deep, manly voice of mine, a voice that looks nothing like the Sobbin’ Guy’s voice. That voice could shatter a window sill. I was truly embarrassed for him, and the absolute fool he made of himself. Bet he’s glad he’ll never see those embassy people again! WOOOO!! Blimey! Because he, like, totally disgraced himself standing alone in the queue and– BY “ALONE”, I mean there was nobody else with him. In the queue. Nobody like a, a, a, a companion. Or anything. There was another… NON-companion… in that queue. And it was me. I “shared” the queue– from a healthy distance, because I didn’t want anyone to mistake us for the same person– PARTY. The same party. Of two. Which I was no part of. We were two separate parties. Of one each. One sobbing one (him) and one cool, calm and queue-lected one (me).

Although, in fairness… if we stop ‘n’ think about the Sobbin’ Guy’s predicament… show the poor soul a bit of compassion… we might begin to understand all his glass-shattering, table-thumping hysterics as perfectly “normal” behaviour  (for him, that is. Not us, Bold Reader). I mean, he (the Sobbin’ Guy) was– after all– stranded in a strange land, having accidentally spent all his money just like you’d expect a feckless youth of nineteen to– NINETY. Feckless youth of… y’know… ninety. Not “nineteen” like mmmmmost of… my peers. But a surprisingly sprightly lad… Of ninety.

Anyway, in order to be heard over the Sobbin’ Guy, let me confess I did “shriek” (manfully) until I got what I was politely “shrieking” for: a loan from the Australian Embassy. And with my newfound economic nouse (which I briefly lost again when I spent half that loan on a fistful o’ Narco Drops) I shrewdly invested the rest of that loan in an airline ticket back home. A ticket for a leisurely flight on a D.C 11, because– just like… some other guy in front of me, in the queue at the Airline Bookings Desk– I did not enjoy the notion of travelling home on a mere D.C 10, or (worst of all) a “9”. The prospect of which made me… errr… do nothing as bad… as “throw a tanty” or anything.

Unlike that guy– GIRL. That girl. In front of me. WOO!! What an embarrassment HE was!