"fuck us . . . "

(yeah, it's been a while. here's one that I finally dusted off and completed. be forewarned:

for the younger readers and the easily offended (the title might have given some indication) this story contains a flagrant abundance of the 'f' word (37 times. yeah, I counted). Gotta be some kind of a record somewhere. just sayin'. . . . enjoy!)

“Fuck us. Fuck us. Fuck us. Fuck us. Fuck us. Fuck us . . ."

It was a strange choice of words, but given the circumstance it seemed to be a fairly acceptable creative, emotional, verbal compromise.

I was grateful for his words, as nonsensical as they might have seemed, for they gave vocal expression to the searing tension that was escalating rapidly inside the cramped interior of that rented white Toyota Vios Compact (Trust me . . . you don't wanna know why we’re in a rental, my friend whispered to me just before we left) hurling head-long -- once again, into oncoming traffic as we were attempting to overcome yet another slow-moving vehicle on that steep Northern Thailand mountain pass.

The rest of us chose silence as our refuge; haphazardly vacillating between not-so-convincingly feigned indifference and flagrant wide-eyed panic.

Don’t ever get in the car with a Thai girl behind the wheel.

Ever.

Still, I had -- dare I say -- almost grown comfortable by that point; almost confident in her ability to seemingly render the impossible possible. I had -- we all had -- sweated our way through one close call after the other for the last couple of hours -- all with what could be described as 'favorable' results (i.e., we were all still alive).

We had, in fact, narrowly passed so many vehicles by that time; survived so many should-have-been-fatalities that even the most apprehensive verbal challenges raised by fellow passengers (a fairly common feature during the earlier stages of the trip) had de-escalated to little more than an occasional barely-audible gasp. Up until this point I had actually come to believe that she might have possessed some order of a superhero-like power that enveloped our car in a Star Trek-like force-field.

Even this belief, however, was not enough to hold my, or anybody else’s confidence this time 'round.

No, this was not good.  

And we all knew it.

This time she had indeed over-committed.

"Fuck us. Fuck us. Fuck us. Fuck us. Fuck us. Fuck us . . ." he echoed heedlessly.

The driver from the on-coming vehicle began flashing his high-beams erratically in our direction. No, this was not a good sign. Until this point it hadn't even registered that this might be a utilized practice on these windy Thai mountain roads. With the numerous close-calls that we had perspired and endured our way through over the last couple of hours, this was the first time that I had seen this reaction. This flashing of the high-beams only seemed to confirm what we were all already aware of . . .

This time she had no doubt pushed her luck -- our luck -- a little too far.

The tiny 4-cylinder engine whined and screamed in an agonizing, eerie high pitch as she -- as she had done time and time again -- dropped the automatic transmission into a gear that she had long-before deemed a 'passing gear'. Judging by the 'dentist-drill'-like frequencies being emitted by the Japanese transmission as it was forced to endure RPM levels generally reserved for Formula One Race Cars, untold years of life were being sucked and drained from the tortured cylinders every time that they had to endure that near-lethal dose of adrenaline mainlined into the fuel system.

I stole a quick glance upward, reluctantly surrendering the temporary sanctuary of my lowered gaze in the backseat of that tiny, little Japanese hatchback. Horror twisted and contorted its way in into the expressions of each and every face in that stuffy box on wheels as the distance between our vehicles closed to seriously-concerning proportions.

"Fuck us. Fuck us. Fuck us. Fuck us. Fuck us. Fuck us. Fuck us. . .” he repeated in a rhythmic, almost sing-song pattern.

He was the fifth passenger in the vehicle that day -- a friend of a friend -- a last minute addition; and as such, regardless of the fact that he was more than likely one of the largest bodies in the vehicle at that time, was reduced to the dreaded, cramped middle position of the rear seat; his neck craning slightly as his melon bounced intermittently on the fabric-covered ceiling above. It was here -- here in this space generally reserved for a much smaller physique that he had unwittingly become the voice -- the mouthpiece -- for a car full of now panic-stricken strangers collectively, mentally preparing to be splintered and fragmented into tiny little pieces.

"Fuck us. Fuck us. Fuck us . . . "

He could have been a monk chanting his way into his next life.

"Fuck us!  Fuck us! Fuck us . . . ! "

Chanting us into our next lives . . . 

Fear boiled to a whole new level as the on-coming driver began to honk his horn incessantly in-between the flashes from his high-beams. I watched her knuckles getting whiter and whiter as her hands bit deeper and deeper into the fake leather covering the steering wheel -- the gas pedal still pinned to the floor; the engine ever-strained to capacity as it screamed it's dreadful, shrill monotone wheeze.

The space between our two vehicles began to close to a horrifying, obscene distance. If the two cars had been stopped at that same distance (a minor fantasy at that point, I'll admit), I’m sure -- sure -- that I could have easily hurled a stone and hit the other car.

"Fuck us! Fuck uS! Fuck US! FucK US!  FuCK US!  FUCK US! FUCK US! FUCK US!! FUCK US!!!"

I glued my eyes shut and braced for impact.

FUCK US!!!! FUCK . . . .

WhooOOOOOOOMMmppp!

I opened my eyes quickly, sure that we'd evaporated into dust. Sure that I was about to have my first taste of the afterlife . . .

Nope. Not this time.

The force-field theory now the only viable, accepted explanation for what had just taken place . . .

Don’t ever get in the car with a Thai girl behind the wheel.

E-V-E-R .

                                   *             *            *            *            *            *            *

                                            I openly welcome and request your comments! 

                   (you can post below or email directly to me at: ronkleinsmith@hotmail.com)

                         

wherefore art thou . . . ?

(introduction)

Okay, so I haven't written anything for quite some time.

That's just how it goes, I guess.

But what the hell do I know, really?

A far better, much more experienced writer than I once replied when asked what he planned on writing just after his first novel made the bestsellers list. He said:

"I answered then that I didn’t have to write anything next, not a word, and that all my books together said everything that I had asked them to say. I do not enjoy writing at all. If I can turn my back on an idea, out there in the dark, if I can avoid opening the door to it, I won’t even reach for a pencil. I guess that that is the place that I have come to. But once in a while there’s a great dynamite-burst of flying glass and brick and splinters through the front wall and somebody stalks over the rubble, seizes me by the throat and gently says, “I will not let you go until you set me, in words, on paper"."

Unfortunately that same writer went on to, quite a few years later, churn out more than a couple of second-rate, disappointingly bad novels that needn't really, in my very humble opinion, be " . . . set in words, on paper"; that all his previous books had, in fact, said everything that he had asked them to say and that he was only cheapening those words by trying to regurgitate them over and over again.

That being said, he still remains one of my favorite authors.

Past work does count for something.

A lot, actually.

Perspective. Use it or lose it.

Those are his words.

I guess that we can all lose our perspective from time to time.

Perspective is everything . . .

BEAT DOWN

"You can beat my kid if he gives you any more trouble."

Yeah.

This was the translation from Akha to English.

We all stared at each other blankly--each one of us secretly wondering--hoping that there was some kind of translation error.

The words came from the student's mother. He had apparently been asked to leave the school temporarily a few days prior for continually interrupting class. She was appealing to the head of our school and to us, his teachers, on her son's behalf in the only way that she knew . . .

STOLEN (a.k.a. Army Crawling Towards Enlightenment)

How is one supposed to feel after all of their important possessions have been stolen right from under their feet?

Ummm ...

Angry as fuck?

Confused? Disoriented? Vulnerable?

Yes, I would say.

All of these things.

Stupid? Foolish? Embarrassed?

Yes. All of these things, too ...

Oh, and little crazy, for sure ...

Yes. I have felt them all.

DIRTY LAUNDRY

So, here's the deal:

I have a maid.

I didn't plan to have one, didn't ask for one, and certainly don't need one. She just kinda came with the little one room apartment that I am temporarily renting here in Saigon (a place that my sister has dubbed the "heroin shack" after seeing it in the background during a recent "video chat". Yeah, oddly-placed, distorted background lighting (they LOVE fluorescent bulbs here in Southeast Asia) has a way of making any place seem seedier and creepier than it actually is...).

It's kind of the "norm" here in Saigon: the maid thing.

HARMONICA "SHORTS"

BANGKOK, THAILAND

As I made my way through the various stages of security throughout the Bangkok Airport, I walked straight through the Metal Detector ...

No problem.

Smooth sailing. 

You see, I feel that I have become somewhat of an expert at "preparing" at this point.

The belt has been removed. Pockets emptied. Any and all jewelry safely tucked away in my backpack which was rolling through the x-ray scan at that very moment...

I've also got this one nailed. The X-ray machine/carry-on routine.

BICYCLE "SHORTS"

VIENTIANE, LAOS

Yeah. It's another "sketchy" rental. At least this one has gears (4 of 'em!).

HERE is a friendly recommendation for anyone traveling anywhere:

RENT

A

BICYCLE

Renting a bicycle serves many purposes:

FIRST and foremost: Any traveler that is, or has been gone for any length of time is in danger of becoming, or has already become, a slovenly, formless, outta-shape slug....