[itinerant seller of lottery tickets at 5:07AM in Vung Tau on 5/7/24]
Waiting for Sacombank to open, I’m sitting at a nearby cafe. There are three in this neighborhood I prefer. At the next table are three men and a woman, all past 50. Speaking in a low, conspiratorial voice, a man with a northern accent addressed the woman, “When young, you must have been terrifying!”
“I was evil,” she laughs. “There were eight men in my neighborhood. I tried six. The other two were too ugly.”
“If alive, they must have nightmares about you. You were terrifying!”
Drawing on her cigarette, she pauses as if to consider if she’s insulted or flattered. Then, “At fifteen, I already knew what to do. I hung out at a gambling den to do whatever that’s needed. I served drinks, food, shuffled cards.” She smiles. “I ate well.”
“You’re lucky the cops didn’t raid it.”
“If the girls were arrested, who would raise their children?!” Then, “I didn’t just do that. I could sell 300 lottery tickets in a day.”
“You never stood against a wall!”
“That, I never did.”
Second man, “At this age, I’ve tried everything. Dead, I’m daddy!”
Tiny ants have just bitten my toes. I pause to rub them out. Since the coffee here is true, I order a second glass.
Woman, “Today, I’ll have to put the Westerner in the hospital. His kids have stopped sending money. Oozing all over, he stinks up the house. He’s near death. Last time he stayed in the hospital for just over a month. It’s a hundred dollars a night. His kids can’t afford it any more.”
“So who will pay this time?”
“Maybe his embassy. I can’t change his diapers for free.”
“He’ll die soon anyway.”
“We’ve reached the end. I did all I could.”
Running into the street, she spits onto the asphalt then returns. Some people are hard, and it’s not just from what they’ve been through. My Scranton buddy, Chuck Orloski, was in the army, then got a job cleaning toxic spills or picking up bits of flesh from suicides hit by a train. On his hands and knees, Chuck had to pick out the least bloody bit a quarter mile away. After some lovely lady had decided to give this world her finger, Chuck had to make sure none of her brain splatters was stuck to a corner of the motel ceiling. Still, Chuck is soft as shit, man, and if you’re reading this, that’s a compliment.
Chuck’s buddy, Jack Reese, though, is lethal. You can tell from his voice alone. Most mortals are terrified to shake Jack’s hand. Though I would certainly want Jack on my side in any fight, he might just kill me afterwards, out of pity or disgust. Laughing off his twenty years locked up, Jack would rather talk about freezing Kensington whores after a slow night, when a sweet discount could be had. Keep in mind also people’s survival instinct. Those well fucked over are more likely to fuck you up.
It’s the next day. No, not after the bomb, just the earth’s rotation. I’m at a sidewalk cafe on Tú Xương, named after a poet. In Novi Sad, Serbia, I ran into statues of poets Đura Jakšić, Laza Kostić, Jaša Tomić, Mika Antić and Jovan Jovanović Zmaj. Granted, two of them were also politicians, but still. Corruption of language heralds implosion of society.
The 55-cent coffee here is excellent. When I asked the lady about her blend, she said vaguely four or five kinds, without naming any. She wouldn’t even divulge if they were domestic or foreign. Perhaps she’s fearful I would steal her secret to destroy her business. Tomorrow, she suspects, I’ll open my own cafe right across the street. Though smiling, my glaring eyes will tell her she’s been had. Charging 54 cents, I’ll toll her death knell.
At the next table, there’s a man with a meticulous tattoo of an anchor on his neck. Growing up in Saigon half a century ago, the only tatts I saw were crude, such as “SÁT CỘNG” [“KILL COMMIES”] on the arm of a South Vietnamese Marine at my uncle Bao’s funeral. Thumping, anxiety inducing music has also made it to these shores.
There’s much to worry about. On my block, a bakery and a bar have sunk. The owner of my homestay, Trọng, used to clear $4,000 a month, though much of it came from planning top notch weddings. With his income shrinking, Trọng will emigrate to the USA. He’s scored a visa. Once in paradise, Trọng will find ways to promote his Vung Tau businesses. It’s all very vague. When I asked where he intended to settle, Trọng couldn’t even name a state. Heaven is a concept and fable.
Desperate for guests, Trọng is allowing a methhead to rent long-term. Three days ago, this asshole went berserk and damaged a door. He also did something on the street which got him arrested. I have no idea if he’s released. His wife and kids are still in the room. Two kiddie bikes in candy colors are still there.
DC Homestay suits me fine. Before heading out each dawn, I now swim in its shallow pool for maybe twenty minutes. In the dark under a faint moon with only sporadic clicks from geckos, I heal. In the afternoon, I can soak in the ocean. There are no bikini babes at Front Beach, only those who are just grateful to still be bobbing. In conical hats, masks and pyjamas, hags giggle and splash. Wrinkly men with sunken chests don’t have to look at themselves.
Hard shells conceal sadness and fear. Even Jack Reese is essentially a melancholic boy. Most touchingly, children man up.
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