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I was sitting at the desk in my Bangkok apartment working on a novel, trying not to remember that just minutes away in any direction were beautiful, available Thai women. But whenever I feel tempted (every night) I always try to keep in mind the apt warning Bukowski had given writers:



Bukowski knew exactly what he was talking about. And so I was determined to work, not to play.

It was after 11 p.m. Outside was pretty quiet: a dog barked, motorcycles roared past, the bell of some vendor sounded as he pushed his cart under my window. Probably the squid seller. Or is that the one with the Clarabelle the Clown horn? Anyway, by Bangkok standards it was a quiet night. I had downed a couple of Wild Turkey on the rocks and was writing pretty well.

My cell phone rang. I don’t get many calls which is why I leave it open even when I write. That and the fact that aging parents in the States have the number in case of emergency. I didn’t recognize the number.


“Hi. You remember me?”

A girl’s voice. Sounds of music and laughter somewhere in the background. I didn’t recognize the voice either.

“You didn’t tell me your name yet.”

“You want me to come up now?”

“Come here?”

“Yes, my girlfriend want to meet you.”

“Hey, sweetie, I don’t even know who you are. How did you get this number?”

“You joking right?”

“Look, I’m kind of busy right now. I’ll call you back when I can, OK?”

“My friend have big breasts. I think for sure you like her.”

“Actually, I’m a cute face man, and then a leg man. Not a breast man. So I think you may have the wrong number. So like two ships passing in the night, we’ll just have to-“

“OK, never mind. But I think maybe my husband he find out where you live.”

I took a looong hit on my Wild Turkey. “Your husband?”

“Yes, he police colonel, remember?”

“What did you say your name was?”


“Dao – star?”

“Yes. Now you remember?”

“Oh, sure. Let me guess: You’ve got black hair and dark eyes and brown skin, right?”


And we met where?”

“You know. After disco close we go get somtam. You eat somtam get sick. I take you home in taxi. ”

“Oh! We met in that Siam Square place, right?”


“OK, I remember you. But what’s this about your husband?”

“He think maybe you do something with me.”

“Why he think that?”

“He find your card.”

“My namecard?”


“How did he get that?”

“He find in my purse.”

“How did my namecard get in your purse?”

“When you throw up in bathroom, I take one.”


“Silly. How I can call you if no have your number. Have to make sure you OK.”

Great. But now he has the card.”

“Yes. But I tell him you too sick. We do nothing. No make love. I tell him you no can get it up.”

“Great. Does he believe you?”

“Not sure. But you sound OK now.”

Sure. Real Okey Dokey. I love to try to write wondering if at any moment some well-armed and pissed-off Thai policeman will be pounding at the door. “I’m OK now, Dao. Thanks for everything.”

“So you want me to come up now?”

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