Viet-Nightmares
This is the story of a man I met in Phuket, Thailand.
I will recount the story in exactly the way he told it to me.
Before that — a little background.
I was traveling while studying at a reputed university in Thailand.
When I drink, especially at live music places on the beach, I find my singing voice and will often join bands performing, loving the adoring praises and the free drinks that follow, from the crowd.
On such a night, while belting it out like Rob Thomas to the house band on the stage playing Carlos Santana’s Smooth, I noticed a man thick-set white man, early 50’s, days worth of stubble and a fisherman hat, in the front row, singing along. ‘He knows all the words’ crossed my mind.
Later, after I’d hopped off stage to applause, he walked up to me. “Great singing mate — fancy a Chang?”
“Sure.”
I love meeting strangers.
So he took me to a nearby bar, a bit further in from the hustle and bustle of the techno-ravers gearing up as the moon rose high.
I sat down, and a woman approached, kissing the man lightly on the forehead, before popping two beers in front of us, and settling lightly on my lap, lighting a cigarette as she settled.
I settled in too…it wasn’t too unusual for women in the bar to sit on your lap in Thailand…but this time, I could tell she didn’t want shit from me.
We swigged beers and got to talking.
He was a Vietnam Vet — almost 65 now that I could see him from up close. He was built short and stocky, and still has wisps of white hair between a shining bald head. He pressed the sweat back into them, as he slid a pack of cigarettes from his pockets, opened it, popped one in his mouth and motioned them towards me.
“No thanks,” I said, taking my own pack out.
He smiled, and winked.
He settled back. He asked me what I was doing in Thailand, and was super-surprised when he heard I’m from Bangladesh. Hey, I was just surprised he even knew Bangladesh at all, and didn’t mistake it for India like so many white-tourists I’d encountered in Thailand.
I asked him what he was doing here.
“My home is here” he replied, and looked at the woman in the face.
The following story in true, and I’ll tell it in the form I heard it — direct dialogue:
“When the war ended, we were all starting to fall apart. Our platoon had lost nearly all of the men, when I was sent off to fight with another platoon that got blown up in the forest by the Vietnamese.”
“People often underestimate how much it really took for them to win that war — and they absolutely did, in my opinion. Anyway, all my friends by that time were either dead, but the ones that remained stuck together, moving in bands, back from the barracks, into the hospitals, into the helicopters, back to base in Thailand and we were supposed to be headed home.
But, before we left, a bunch of us went out to party, and I went a little bit all out blowing off my stream.
We found ourselves in an alleyway when she started smirking at me, not letting me touch her, even though we both knew why were there. She was a tiny thing, and I gripped her hair hard, and slapped her in the face. In the darkness, there was nobody to see my actions, and I just hated it, but I hated the smirk on her face even more.
We departed, and one by one, all my army friends started having the craziest nightmares…and I mean ALL of them. They kept hearing screams for help in their sleep, all of them heard loud noises and gunshots and bombs exploding in their heads, till they either numbed themselves with drugs and alcohol, which was plenty available in the famous Drug-Triangle.
Then they started killing themselves. First one, then the second. When my third buddy died, I cried so hard my ribs seem to break. I just broke down when I heard the news — right there in the middle of the street, bawling like a little baby with machine guns tattooed on his arms.
I decided to head back to the east. The moment my feet landed on Southern-Asia, I felt a peaceful calm. Life was good. It was sunnier, and slower here.
But soon, I found myself in dark alleyways once again, preying upon the weak and thin women. I would charm them, lead them into a hotel some way away, and as soon as things got heated, I’d start beating them with my fist, kicking them onto beds, tearing out their hair, abusing them in the most horrible of ways. I was living like a monster, waiting for it to get dark, so I could forget my old nightmares in some new ones.
About three months into this, I had gotten more confident. You have to understand, Bangkok in the 80’s wasn’t flashy like you see it now — it was dark and dreary, truly a gathering place for those with the most extreme thirsts.
So I found this little thing, this cute, short haired Thai girl, who spoke English quite well. She did more charming than I had to, and I was in the room with her in no time. I remember the bed-spreads were dark green — as soon as she locked the door, I grabbed her by the hair and yanked her to the bed.
I put my hand over her mouth, and used the other one to put a choke-hold on her, so she would slump into the bed, with me on top of her. But this bitch — she kicked upwards, hitting me square in the jaw. She was on top of me in no time.
I grabbed her throat with both hands, wanting to choke the life out of her, and she bobbed her head, and sank her tiny sharp teeth into the flesh of my bicep. She sank deeper, causing me to wince in pain, and momentarily stop the struggle. As soon as I let loose, she bit deep into my arm and tore away a whole chunk of flesh in her mouth.
I stared at her, snarling, my heart pounding, my head not knowing what the hell was happening? What was she doing? Was she insane?
She jumped up and ran to the door. But I stayed on the floor. She didn’t leave — she turned back, with a look on her face that said she was going to kill me.
I stood up and put my hands together to ask her forgiveness. She stared at me, till I fell to my knees. I was crying, mumbling, asking for it to stop. Just STOP!
She heard me. She knelt beside me, and pulled my head up by my hair — ‘Never again’ she said.
And so, I married her, brought out her whole family from Isan to Bangkok. I’ve been married to this beautiful lady for 23 years since.
He looked at the slim, scantily clad bohemian spirit, still perched between my lap and the bar-table, watching the Thai Soaps on the tv behind the counter.
She looked at me, and smiled sweetly. As if, this story had been told to many strangers, and yet, she didn’t mind playing a part in it. In face, she smiled like she was proud of the story.
I looked at the man, deep in his eyes, and saw only happiness staring back. I looked back at the woman. I never asked him his name, but he had bought 14 beers by this time, 7 for each of us.
“I’ll get the next round” — I stood up and walked to the bar.
I don’t remember what else we talked about, but come morning, I was on a chair on the beach, having slept there, unable to find my hotel the previous night.
The couple were gone, but he had left his hand on the bar counter. I went back to look and saw it there, as if it were waiting for me.
I still have the hat.