the prisoner

The prisoner smiles like a fool

Embracing his eternity in a concrete home

The steel on the windows cuts the sky

Yesterday he was a free man

Soon he is a ghost

advanced

I bite my tongue

My bloody mouth spits the wrong words

I can’t think of anything to say

Anything I say sinks me deeper in the quicksand

All I can do is stare at my coffee

She sits across from me

The room is hot, but she is ice cold

She is uncaring and uninterested

She stares right past me

I should go on my own

She is not even listening to me

Just waiting for her turn to speak

It looks like rain

Black skies, punishing wind, diamond rain. Squinting so hard against the storm his eyes were closed. He was stopped in his footsteps. The weather reduced him to a huddled pile of person. He was a toddler and the storm was a drunk, abusive father. Any fighting back was a waste of energy. He knew he would just have to take it, and hope it didn’t kill him. He sat on his haunches under a tree, his arms wrapped around his folded legs. The tree gave no protection and was being torn apart and thrown at him. It was raining bullets sideways. The violence assaulted every sense. He could taste the abuse. He could smell the violence. The brutality was deafening. The Earth was unfurling retard strength.

The Border

     There were four of us in the town of Kampot. Two guys, two girls. In addition to myself, there was Max. A big slab of German. I’m pretty sure his father was a Panzer tank. He was huge. Hitler’s wet dream. He loved to cook, and loved to talk. The talking was always entertaining, as his English was good, but not perfect. His lisp was comical. His rants about food, specifically cheese, were cartoonish and hilarious.

     There was Mijke, the Dutch girl. A Dutch girl with a British accent. Manchester British. It was weird. She was a pretty girl; she looked like Nicole Kidman with dark hair. She was fun. She couldn’t get a tan to save her life.

     Then there was Aimee. French, bitchy Aimee. At first glance, she was cute. Sandy-blonde wavy hair framing a cute face and a nice smile. Athletic figure. Then her bad attitude started to show its face. Although her butt looked great in a bikini, her welcome was wearing thin.

     The morning of the border crossing, we rose early to eat in the shade of the garden of the hotel. I felt like shit, the cheap Asian whiskey from the night before was twisting my insides and stomping on my brain. At least everyone else looked as booze-fucked as me. The sun was out but it couldn’t touch us in the trees of the garden. I ate mostly-cooked eggs on toast and stirred my coffee. Max drank fresh juice and had eggs and commented on the tiny Asian portion size. He ordered a second breakfast. The girls ate fruit. Aimee bitched about the cost. $1 does seem pretty steep for a fresh fruit salad with yogurt.

After breakfast we walked through the arched, iron gate of the hotel and sat down on our packs on the side of the road in the shade of a palm tree. The pavement was broken and partly gravel. The road was empty except for two dogs digging in a pile of trash. The van was supposed to pick us up at 8 o’clock in the morning. That was on Southeast Asian time, so it could arrive anywhere between 7 and noon. That’s if it came at all.

While we sat we lit cigarettes and talked about Laotian pastries and their resemblance to footballs. We wondered if anyone found our rented bike that was stolen last week. Max was happy he was able to buy a giant block of cheese in Kampot. Aimee complained about how heavy her bag was.

A silver van turned down the street and drove past us kicking up dust and U-turned at the dead end. It was our van. As the van drove up, we all surveyed it. It was empty save for the driver. That makes just five of us in a Van for 10 people. That didn’t seem right.

     We stood up and handed the driver our paper tickets. Max opened the back and we tossed our packs in. The girls were chatting so we tossed their packs in as well. Mijke thanked us, and Aimee complained that it was already getting hot out. We asked the driver if that was the van we were taking all the way to Saigon.

     “Yeah yeah, Saigon.” He answered.

     “How many people are we to pick up?” Max asked with a grin.

     “Yeah yeah, Saigon. Seven hours.” The driver said.

     Clearly we were having a communication breakdown. That was standard for Asia. But for the time being we were being driven toward The Vietnamese city with a ton of elbow room in an air-conditioned van. It seemed too good. We drove up and down the streets of Kampot, watching life wake and stretch its legs.  We stopped at 2 more hotels, picking up a traveler at each one. A twenty-something guy from Russia, and a thirty-something guy from Holland. The Dutch guy was large. That brought our van total to 7 including the driver. We still had a lot of room. Even with the 2 European giants.

     We then pulled up to another hotel and the van doors were flung open. Our packs were pulled out and tossed in a pile on the street and we were ushered out of the van. The van pulled away. We were left standing in the dusty road with stupid looks on our faces in the morning sun. The only person standing there besides the foreigners was a man from the hotel. We all stood there confused, but no one was surprised. That is Asia; confusion is the norm. Aimee was visibly frustrated. I wondered where I could get a beer. I lit a cigarette.

“Hey guy, where did our van go?” I asked.

He informed me in broken English that they were getting a smaller vehicle for only 6 passengers. We didn’t think that was a big deal. We sat on plastic chairs in a circle around our pile of packs in the middle of the road. A white Honda Civic pulled up.

     “Your car. Saigon. Ho Chi Minh.” Said the hotel man.

     We looked at each other.

     “There is 6 of us!” Boomed Max, “Six plus driver!” His lisp made the whole statement funny. We tried to explain that we would not fit, but suddenly no one Asian spoke any English. We all laughed at the situation. Everyone except Aimee. She was about to lose it.

Instead of taking a van with an extra couple seats, we were being crammed into a miniature sedan. They stuffed our packs into the back with no hope of it closing. They lashed the hatch with rope and we all piled into the car. The suspension bottomed out. The driver had his driver’s seat, and Aimee and Mijke shared the other single seat in the front. Aimee was losing her shit, screaming at the driver in French and English, drifting between both languages at random not making a lot of sense. She was like a child losing their toy. The driver didn’t speak a word of English, or French, but he could clearly tell she was a brat. We pretended we didn’t know her.

     The backseat was no picnic either. Four guys, two of who were walrus sized. We were uncomfortable, but for $6, you can’t complain really. We laughed about it. Aimee did not think it was funny.    

     We drove for a half hour to Kep, in order to drop off the large Dutch fellow and pick up another passenger. We stopped at a restaurant with a few people eating at bamboo tables under umbrellas. We opened the doors and exploded out of the car onto the broken pavement.  

     “We’ll lose the big guy and probably gain a bigger, sweatier guy.,” said Mijke. Aimee said something angry in French. I wanted to smack her.

     I looked over at the restaurant and caught a glimpse of a beautiful brown-haired girl standing at the bar drinking a coffee, with a red pack at her feet. She wore a white tank top and a long pale-green skirt. Her skirt swayed in the tropical breeze highlighting her perfect curves. Great boobs. Bulletproof ass. I wondered if that was our new passenger. But I thought there was no way God, or Karma, or whatever was going to let me exchange a fat, sweaty Dutchman for this brown-eyed goddess. The world is not that kind.

     The driver approached her and asked, “Saigon? Ho Chi Minh?”

     The girl looked confused.

     “Yes,” she said, “but there are so many of us for that car.” Her voice was soft and bubbly like a mix between a whisper and a laugh.

     “Yeah yeah, Saigon. Ho Chi Minh.” He repeated.

     We explained to her that reasoning was useless, as he spoke no English at all, but Saigon was where we all were hoping to get to, despite getting no confirmation that was our actual destination. She shrugged, smiled, and gave him her pack. We all squished back into the Honda, but instead of being crushed between massive Max and Tantor, the clammy Dutchman, I was against the door with a lovely girl in my lap. She was American. Her name was Katie. Her smile was sweet. Her laugh was adorable.

After going through the standard, where-are-you-from, what-do-you-do questions in the car, we learned she was a Doctor from Texas, who just studied a month of traditional medicine in China. She was making her way through Cambodia into Vietnam to fly home. Well isn’t that nice.

     We drove for about 20 minutes before we reached a Cambodian construction zone. A construction zone that consisted of random piles of gravel dumped all over the road with machines working all over. There was barely a lane to drive on, but we were sharing it with dump trucks, construction workers, cars, and motorcycles. No one had the right-of-way, but everyone was going first. Arguments between drivers were frequent. The traffic delay didn’t bother me much, we made jokes about construction in Cambodia, and Katie had an honest laugh.  We made our way in the crammed Honda until we reached the border between Cambodia and Vietnam. Thankfully that was as far as we had to take that clown car.

     We shuffled through customs, got the necessary stamps by uniformed men, and they raised the red bar to allow us to cross.

On the other side was our ride. It was a typical Vietnamese bargain-bus. Old and busted, but cheap and entertaining. Full of locals, and the occasional dead animal. The driver approached us and took our tickets. He spoke a little bit of English and explained that we would only be on this bus for 2 hours until we got to Ha Tien. Then we would switch vehicles. We assumed that meant this local bus was as good as it was going to get.

     Our packs were tossed on the roof and we piled on the bus with the locals. At first there were a few empty seats. But as the journey went on, we picked up more and more locals. It was getting more and more crowded. It was entertaining watching Max attempt to fit in a seat meant for an Asian. His knees were next to the ears of the passenger in front of him. When he shifted in his seat he upset four people and cursed in German. I sat in one of the four seats in the back. Katie on one side, and Mijke on the other. Aimee was on the other side of Mijke, complaining about our packs being on the roof. Once we settled into the journey, a few books and iPods came out. I peaked at Katie’s iPod; The Black Keys. I thought to myself; she’s beautiful, successful, and has good taste in music. I figured she was probably a lesbian or something.

     We stopped an hour into the journey at what seemed like the middle of nowhere. There was a small shack selling drinks and snacks. No one got off the bus, but if we were stopped I wanted off. I asked Katie if she wanted to attempt to climb out the window. She laughed and said she didn’t want to show her ass to the bus, but it was ok if I wanted to try. I reached my upper half out the window and grabbed hold of the roof rack, pulled my legs out and dropped to the ground. I bought 2 beers and 2 packs of what I think were crackers. Max awkwardly stumbled off the bus, followed by Mijke. I handed Max a beer and we lit cigarettes and sat in the shade.  The driver then shouted something in Vietnamese and we climbed back on the bus. I took my place next to the American beauty. I offered her a bag of Asian crackers, she smiled and took them. We both agreed they tasted like shit, but it was food. After 10 minutes on the road, the heavy rains hit. Our bags on the roof were exposed. The bus stopped and the driver tarped the roof, but it was too late, and Aimee was losing her godamn mind. No one else was too worried that their dirty laundry was damp. Aimee was coming unglued. 

     After another lazy hour in a humid bus we stopped at a bus station in Ha Tien. The bus station was a partly paved lot with a few tour companies occupying space. A few modern vans around and a few junky old busses, but basically deserted. We spilled off the crowded bus as they dumped our soggy packs from the roof. There was a pay toilet across the parking lot. Everyone needed to pee. We peed. Max and I bought beers and we lit cigarettes. We walked around stretching our legs. Everyone went through their bags to see what got wet. Only Aimee complained.

     We sat on plastic chairs. We wondered what kind of vehicle they had in store for us. Then our chariot rolled up. It was a brand new Mercedes-Benz van. Leather seats, air-conditioned, and only 6 passengers for 12 seats. We wondered what the catch was. We tossed our packs in the back, and the doors actually closed.

     “So we will drive in this for probably a half hour and then get stuffed into a Honda.” laughed Mijke. Aimee complained in French about a situation that hadn’t even happened yet. I wanted to smack her. At least her butt looked good.

     I climbed into the very back. Katie joined me. We had a large bench seat between the two of us. We took off our flip-flops stretched out across the seat, our backs to the windows. If I was going to be spending the next 7 hours in a van, at least I was sharing it with a beautiful girl. They played Vietnamese karaoke on the drop down TV, repeating the same song over and over, until we could all sing the words. Aimee and Mijke were 2 seats up, and Max was in front of Katie and myself. I was curious about Katie. She was the epitome of lovely. She smiled a lot, and spoke sweetly. Even without looking at her, it sounded as though she were smiling. We talked about the madness that is China. She was a vegetarian. She liked sports. She liked beer. She liked the odd doobie. She had a brother. She was half Mexican. She amazed me.

     As the miles rolled on, our stretched out positions were growing uncomfortable. I invited Katie to lie down on the seat. She did. Her wavy brown hair spilled across the seat. A short piece of hair fell in her face and she swept it behind her ear. She looked up at me and smiled. The van was making stops and taking on locals. After a couple stops, Katie no longer had the seat space to stretch out. We squished together in the back next to 2 Vietnamese men who clearly liked her busty American chest. I sat between them and her. I put my arm around her shoulders and she put her head on my chest. We watched a film on my iPod. I took a moment to absorb the irony that I was watching a film about the Vietnam War while in Vietnam with a beautiful American girl in my arms. Suddenly life kicked a lot of ass.

     We drove in the dark for 2 hours and the van pulled into a parking lot. Directly in front of the van was a large building with 3 walls. The roof was very high like a warehouse, and the lighting bright like a hospital. Inside there were hundreds of tables to eat at, and several stands selling food. There were only about five people eating in the sea of tables, but there were over 20 staff in blue shirts running around. Our driver made the motion to eat. I ordered rice and something from an old woman, she said it was chicken. After picking out the chicken’s feet, the rest was good. Max ordered the same and wondered if he could find cheese anywhere. Mijke drank a bottle of water and smoked a cigarette. Aimee bitched that we were still not in Ho Chi Minh City. Katie sat down with rice and hopefully only vegetables. I bought two beers and offered one to Katie. She thanked me and opened it. She finished hers before I did mine.

     We arrived in Saigon at midnight and took a cab from the bus to the city center. The road was still busy even though it was late. We stood turning circles on the spot wondering which way to go. I asked Katie if she would like to share a room.

     “Won’t your friends want to share with you?” she asked.

     “They’ll be fine. Plus, Max snores.” I said.

     She smiled sweetly and took my hand and we walked to a hotel. We decided to spring for the fancy room. $21 in Canadian funds. Split two ways. Air-conditioned, high thread count linens, beer in the fridge, and a giant window behind fancy curtains. Easily the nicest room I had used in 3 months on the road.

     We spent the next 4 days fucking and exploring Ho Chi Mhin City. We saw sights, and wandered aimlessly. We dove into the Asian chaos. We broke flip-flops taking chances crossing the street. We got lost and drank good coffee.

     On our last day we changed hotel rooms because the hotel was overbooked, but the new room was no different than the last. Crisp white sheets, cool climate, a big window behind fancy curtains. We tossed our packs in the new room and went exploring. We walked through the busy streets, enjoying each other’s company. 

As the sun set on the evening before Katie was to leave, we strolled slowly along a busy Saigon street. I spotted a place to get my hair cut. I told Katie my unkempt hair was bugging me, and I’d like to get it cut. She squeezed my hand and said she’d get her nails done.

     We walked into the salon and were immediately mobbed by 12 hands and half a dozen conversations.

     “Hellooo!! Sir, haircut!? Shave!? Beautiful lady! Wax!? Massage!?”

     Katie’s eyes closed as she laughed at our celebrity status. They loved her waves of brown hair. They wanted to shave my beard. They pulled us inside before we had a chance to say no.

As the ladies of the salon painted Katie’s nails, a tallish, skinny boy cut my curls off. Some staff gathered around my chair to point and laugh at the bended clumps of hair on the floor. After a decent haircut, I was then approached by a young girl who asked through hand gestures and a couple English words if I wanted a facial massage. I was fairly confident none of the gestures or words she used meant “happy ending”, so I nodded and agreed. I was then lead into a different room. I was not entirely sure what I agreed to, and as I left Katie had a big smile and wide eyes that said ‘I’m pretty sure you just signed up for an inappropriate blowjob.’ I was then urged to lay face up on a massage table. A towel was placed across my crotch. I wondered if facial massages resulted in a lot of boners. And seriously, if you want to hide my erection, don’t drape a cloth over it. That’s what we call pitching a tent.

To start, the young lady proceeded to pour warm water on my face and soap up her hands. She began gently massaging my forehead, jaw, and chin. It was very pleasant. I let out a deep breath and relaxed. And that’s when she brought the thunder. She slapped my cheeks and pounded on my forehead. She pulled on my jaw and squeezed my nose. She dropped fists on my face. She was beating the shit out of me. My response was mix of laughter and yelps of agony. Soap filled cries. I was voluntarily getting my face pummeled by a 90-pound Asian teenager. In between hammer-fists to the skull, I could hear Katie in the next room laughing at me. I was glad someone was enjoying this massage.

We left the salon with my hair short, my face numb, and Katie’s nails painted red. This was our last night together. Neither of us mentioned it.

We stopped at a small restaurant and we each ordered a beer. We sat beside each other at a table that faced the street, watching people go by. Katie hooked her foot around my leg and grabbed my hand. She kissed me and smiled that sweet smile. It was our last night together. We both knew it. Neither of us said it.

She was to leave the hotel at 4 o’clock in the morning for the airport.

We spent the night in our hotel room laughing. We drank beer and smoked joints. There was a baseball game on TV. We had sex and didn’t watch it. She fell asleep on my chest.

I awoke to the shower running. Just as I sat up in bed, the water stopped. Katie walked out of the bathroom with a towel around her fun parts, combing her long hair. She smiled but didn’t say anything. She kneeled on the bed and kissed me.

“You’re leaving.” I said.

“Yes.”

“Any chance you’ll stay longer?”

“I can’t.”

“I know.”

She kissed me and walked back into the bathroom. She came out wearing the pale-green skirt and white tank top. She looked at me with a half-smile and sadness in her coffee-coloured eyes. My heart ached. Her bag was packed. I stood up into a pair of shorts and pulled my blue t-shirt over my head. I walked over to her and she sank into my arms. My arms wrapped around her five times. I didn’t want to let her go. Our hearts were in line. She said it was time to go, and the cab would be waiting. We kissed like two people who would never see each other again. She smiled that sweet smile on her way down the stairs. I shut the door and sat on the end of the bed, my head in my hands. I lit a cigarette. Her shape still lingered in the sheets. I thought about sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come for me. I sat staring at the floor with the cigarette in my lips, my elbows resting on my knees. Smoke curled in front of my face toward the ceiling. I stood up, went to the window and flung the curtains open wide. Behind them was only a brick wall. There was no window. 

Crutches Vs. The Cane

With crutches it’s a funny story. With a cane, it’s a sad story.

                              -George Costanza

26 years of playing sports will take its toll on a body. I am 26 years old, and yes, I came out of the womb throwing a mean spiral. I could skate before I could walk. I was the homerun champion of tee ball. But my athletic ability would lead to my share of injuries. As a youngster most injuries would heal overnight and I would be back out as reckless as ever the next day. As I got a bit older injuries would heal with a bit of rest, and maybe a beer. But at age 25 I dislocated my kneecap. It is exactly as painful as it sounds. I did it three times in nine months to be exact. Once playing hockey, once playing soccer, once playing baseball. There are few things I have experienced as painful and terrifying as looking down and seeing my kneecap on the outside of my leg. These injuries would lead me to a necessary decision. I had to endure the three words and eight syllables any athlete fears; reconstructive knee surgery. The recovery would be six months of boredom and daytime television, only made more interesting by ingesting Tylenol 3’s.

The first devices I was given during recovery was a pair of aluminum crutches and a knee immobilizer. Immobilizing, as in cannot move. The device was so long it felt like my leg was strapped to a canoe paddle. I was forced to crutch myself along with an unbent left leg. It is not the easiest action to coordinate. Sitting was no easy task either, since my leg would stick straight out.

For the three weeks I was using crutches, I tried to go about normal every day activities, like getting on the bus, and going to the grocery store. While waiting for the bus people at the stop would eye me up and down, whisper something to their friend, then laugh. They would all hustle to get on the bus before me, even though I was clearly not very graceful with crutches. While boarding the bus, the driver would lower the front, a feature usually reserved for the elderly and the handicapped, but fuck you, that is not the point. This inconvenience would inevitably start the bitchy sideways glances. People on the bus would look at me as if to say, ‘Oh look at this jackass who probably hurt himself doing keg stands while 4x4ing in the back of a pickup.’ If the seats were full, my useless ass was going to stand. Basically since I was a biped using crutches, I had four means of supporting myself. Everyone else had only two legs, therefore they got the seats and I would stand. And you better believe the bus driver was not waiting for me to find a seat or to get a good handhold, he was on the gas, and I was left clanking around like a drunk hobo with a shopping cart trying to get my shit together. I would wind up with my limbs spread out like Bambi learning to walk trying to keep myself upright.

As for my appearance, my attire was that of comfort, so I wore mesh basketball shorts, a hooded sweatshirt and running shoes. I am in decent physical condition (minus the knee injury), so seeing an athlete pathetically limping around is what all the nerds on the bus have been waiting to see since they first realized they throw like a little girl. They would look at me with their smug satisfied look, as if their prayers of a crippling knee injury had been answered. Once I got to my stop I would hobble my way to the door and there was no way the driver was dropping the bus twice for me. He would roll his eyes and look at his watch and look at me as if the crippled wonder is messing up the entire bus schedule. I would say, “Thank you” as I walked off, but the bus door was already closing and the driver was pulling away from the curb. I would stumble out onto the sidewalk and do the aluminum spread eagle to maintain my balance.

Once in the grocery store, I would have to limp myself along with 2 crutches under one arm, and hold a basket with the other hand. This was not only annoying and awkward, it was also noisy. I would hobble my way down the isles trying to be as unnoticeable as I could, but it was impossible. People would hear the sound of clanking aluminum and shuffling feet, see me, roll their eyes and give me just enough room to squeak through. Then if I would bump their cart, they would grumble something under their breath at me, grab their kid by the arm and hustle away.

Going through the checkout I would get spurts and huffs of angry conversation from the clerk, as if I had totally ruined her day. I would be lucky if she put my stuff into bags for me. I would thank her as I collected my change, but she was already helping the person in line behind me with a nice welcome and smile. Good thing she makes as much as a good paper route. I would get dirty looks and hear the whispers on my way out of the store. Then it was back on the bus for another aluminum rodeo.

Fast forward 3 weeks, and I had upgraded from crutches to a cane. Well fuck me running. This was a whole new world. I had a free hand. The massive immobilizer could be taken off. While I was not about to set any high jump records, I was more mobile. The bus and grocery store would be tackled in a new way.

While at the bus stop the people waiting would look at me, see my cane and give me one of those tight lipped, tilted head smiles. A smile like the ones you give at funerals, the kind that say, “How unfortunate, but nice to see you.” Everyone would move out of the way to the side when the bus pulled up, allowing me to be first to get on. While boarding the bus, the front would drop precisely to curbside, and the driver would open the doors and throw a cautionary arm out to anyone exiting or boarding, “Hold it! Wait please...Wait!” Then I would limp onto the bus. The general population would board after all was clear, and the cane was safely aboard. Once on the bus, if the seats were full, the front half of the bus would scatter to the back, freeing up about eight seats. Some people got off just to make more room even though it wasn’t their stop. The driver would wait until I was seated and comfortable, basically waiting for me to give him the thumbs up.  Once the bus was underway I had about five seats to myself, and there were 23 people sitting in the ten seats in the back. My style of recovery clothing had not changed, but now instead of being perceived as a beer-chugging frat-boy jock, I was the athletic hero, whose promising young career was cut short by an injury.

When we arrived at my stop, the driver would do his stop-in-the-name-of-the-bus-driver voice, and direct everyone to wait. He would lower the front of the bus and thank me as I shuffled off. 

Once in the grocery store, I would grab a basket, and sometimes a nice young lady would approach me and tilt her head at a 45-degree angle and ask me if I needed any help with my shopping. I’d say, “No thank you, I am able.” But I would be thinking, ‘Here is the list, get to it. And don’t forget my cheddar goldfish. I’ll be waiting at Starbucks.’ But I was not looking for a handout, so I would do my own shopping.

Since I had one free hand, and just the cane, I did not sound like a car accident when I walked. Now it was just the sound of off-time shuffling and my cane. People would see me limping down the isle and see the cane and give me a sympathetic smile and plaster themselves to the shelves to give me all kinds of space. Some people would climb straight over the shelving to the other side to get out of the way.

While going through the checkout I would take 25 items through the express line and act like I didn’t know any better, you know, on account of the cane. The clerk would just tilt her head and say, "Is plastic ok?" I would tell her plastic is fine. And then I would recklessly stare at her rack because I didn’t know any better. You know, cane and all. I would get a polite conversation on my way through the line, usually followed by a nice, “Take care sir.”

While leaving the store, I would get several nice goodbyes and the sympathetic head tilted smiles. I always wondered where these nice compassionate people were when I was on crutches. Maybe it was their day off.  Thankfully, I was able to stop using the cane after another month. After that, I was just another regular biped. There was no hilarious drunken story to go along with the crutches. There was no daring tale of last-second heroics to go with my cane. I was just regular Joe Athlete again. People no longer rolled their eyes and whispered when I walked by. Nor were they tilting their heads in an overly sympathetic manner. They were indifferent.

Robbed

My pack was waiting for me on the sidewalk as I stepped off the bus in the little Australian surf town. It was around lunchtime. I looked up the street and saw colourful storefronts selling surfboards and bright clothing. Dotted in between were restaurants with people eating under bright umbrellas.

     I reached into my pack to grab the remainder of my cash. I stuffed my arm to the bottom of the bag to feel around for the beaten, folded envelope. I put it in the bottom because clearly thieves would never think to look there. I felt around. I felt a water bottle, some shoes and dirty clothes. I felt around some more. Nothing resembling an envelope.

No problem, it’s in there somewhere. I put it in the bottom after all.

I upended my pack’s contents on the sidewalk. I spread everything out. Nothing. Someone stole my money. The last of my money. I felt like I had just been kicked in the balls. I was going to puke. My eyes were wide. I began sweating and my stomach was lodged in my throat. I could hear my heart beating in my ears.

Adam, you careless fuck! How could you be so stupid!? 

Home was on the other side of the planet. I was totally alone. People buzzed by on the sidewalk completely unaware of my crisis. No one was going to help me. They just thought I was another hippie who dumped out his pack to find some rolling papers.

     I scraped together the change I had in random pockets in my pack. I had $2.80 to my name. With this I ran to a computer to email home. I delicately worded an email to my parents that I had been robbed, and needed some money. With the time difference, I would receive some money in my account the following morning at 6 o’clock.

     I can spend one night without food or a place to sleep. No problem. I’m a survivor, and it’s just one night.

     I figured I would just sleep on the beautiful white sand on the beach. I walked down to the shore just as the sun was going down. As I searched for a place lay out my sheet, the heavens opened and it began pouring rain. Big, fat raindrops. I was immediately soaked. It was obvious the beach was not a suitable place to sleep. I searched for a place to cram my pack in an effort to keep my stuff dry. I spotted a children’s playground. I looked at the blue plastic tunnel in the jungle gym. It wasn’t long enough for me to sleep in, but it would keep my pack dry. I stuffed my bag in the tunnel. I pulled out my yellow raincoat and a small bottle of whiskey the thief must have missed. I dug around and found a small can of tuna and my cigarettes. I put my cigarettes in the inside pocket of my jacket and the tuna in the side pocket. I pulled up my hood and lit a smoke. I walked over and sat down on the bottom of the red slide. I unscrewed the cap on the whiskey and took a drink. I smoked and drank, and for a minute I felt sorry for myself.

     Are you kidding me!? You fucking baby, why don’t you go cry about it? You got to travel across the world and get drunk and meet random girls and basically fuck around for 6 months, and now you have a minor setback? Poor you. Does your vagina hurt too?

     I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I stood up and flicked my cigarette. The rain extinguished it before it hit the ground. I took a pull from my bottle of whiskey. I walked through town. Shops were closed, but people were eating dinner and drinking. I heard laughter coming from inside a pub. I decided to go in to escape the rain. I sat down at the bar without two nickels to rub together. I wondered how long before I was kicked out. I was a soaking wet wanderer with a fuzzy face and no money. The bartender asked what I would like to drink. I asked him for some water with a lemon, as long as the lemon was free, and also a fork. He looked at me with an eyebrow raised. He gave me a glass of ice water with a lemon. He asked if I was going to eat anything. I said no. He gave me an odd look. I knew the fork was pushing it. He was already thinking in his head what to say to me to get me to leave without a fuss. As he turned to help another patron, I pulled out my whiskey and took a drink. I pulled out my can of tuna and opened it. I reached into the pile of dirty dishes beside me and grabbed a fork. I began inhaling the canned fish. I took another drink of whiskey. Just as I pulled the bottle from my lips the barkeep turned my direction. We locked eyes. There I was, sitting at the bar with zero dollars in a bright yellow rain jacket drinking a bottle of whiskey holding an empty can of tuna and a dirty fork. He told me to leave. I left.

     The rain had not let up. I sat down on a bench outside the pub and lit a cigarette. Halfway through it was so wet it wasn’t smokable. I let it fall at my feet.

    

     Well if there’s nowhere to sleep, I will just walk around town all night until 6am. Shouldn’t be too hard. That’s only 7 hours from now. I’m in good shape. It’s just walking.

     I walked up and down, and up and down the streets. I passed the same stores and restaurants dozens of times. By 2am the streets were empty, except for me. Just the stupid foreign kid with no money in the rain. By this point I was freezing cold from the rain. I needed to warm up somehow. Walking along I spotted a hostel. The office was closed, and it looked dark and sleepy. The building was a big square with doors facing inward to a courtyard in the middle. A patio wrapped around the outside of the 2^nd floor. I thought if I could get up to the patio, I could get into the courtyard and maybe into a bathroom, and warm up in the shower. There was a large, white van parked outside the office, just below the patio. I climbed on the hood and onto the roof. From the van I jumped to grab the railing of the patio. I then swung my legs up and over the railing. I walked along the patio and saw stairs leading down into the courtyard. I walked down. There was no one. Lights were all off. It was silent. I thought about what an intruder I looked like, wandering through a hostel courtyard in the rain in the middle of the night. I then spotted a bathroom. I checked the door; it was locked. I pulled out my pocketknife and jammed it in between the door and the frame above the latch and pushed down. The door popped open. I let myself in and closed the door behind me.

     That was very James Bond, Adam. Nice work.

I flicked on the light. The brightness hurt my eyes. Across the room I spotted a shower. I walked over and turned the red tap wide open. Hot water poured out. I adjusted the temperature and quickly stripped out of my wet clothes. I jumped in. I let the hot water pour over me. I could feel my feet again. I could feel my fingers. My balls emerged. I stood in the shower for a half hour drinking the remainder of my whiskey. I then thought I should get out to avoid getting caught. I put on my cold, wet clothes. I was immediately shivering. I walked up the stairs to the 2^nd floor patio. I sat on the railing and jumped down to the roof of the van and climbed down.

     You have got to be the most fucked up criminal in history. You just broke into a hostel to take a shower. 

     It was now 4am. I was exhausted. I was hungry. I was soaking wet. There was no longer a connection between my brain and my body. I was just walking along, probably not in a straight line. A zombie. It was still raining. I spotted a covered bus stop. I laid down on the ground under the bench. Although I was mentally and physically drained, I could not sleep. I had a new admiration for homeless people. But then, a homeless man came walking by and asked me if I had any change. I just looked at him.

     No you stupid fuck, would I be sleeping under a bench if I had money? Give your fucking head a shake.

     I told him no. I drifted between sleep and awake, never really committing to either until a sliver of light appeared on the horizon. I checked my watch. It was 6:10am. I stood up. It was still raining. I staggered to a bank machine and inserted my card. I followed the instructions until I heard the whirring of the cash inside. That sound almost made me cry. I was saved. I couldn’t believe what a huddled pile of useless mammal I had become after being detached from creature comforts for 18 hours. I promised myself never to take things for granted again. I also promised myself to stop being such a fucking pussy.