Ex-Pat

It's midnight. I have arrived late and I want a beer, just something to knock me out before I go to bed. My body still thinks it's noon. I am sitting at the bar in the basement of my Holiday Inn in downtown Bangkok. It's called Jameson, like the whiskey. It looks like every other imitation Irish pub around the world: Bad carpet, dark wood, a pool table and guiness on tap. I learn it's owned by an Indian.

I sit at the bar.Shakira is playing. I order a beer and look around. There are two guys both in baseball caps, black t-shirts. They are talking loudly and I hear an American accent. They overhear my asking where I can get some food.


"We're going out, you can come with us," says one guy. "Or you can have some of our pizza." He points to an open Pizza Hut box.

His name is Brandon, the other Joe. Both are from Boston. These are ex-pats. They are type that are hiding. Within the first five minutes he has told me he is rich. That he is very right wing. That he doesn't like to talk to people. He tells me he gets into trouble here when he gets drunk. He doesn't care much for Thailand and has never left ten square blocks and was proud of it. He persuades peple to do things for him by threatening to cut their throats. Blah blah blah.

"I like this bar because I can come watch TV and not talk to anyone." Ironic, since he bought me a beer and wants to tell me all about himself. His friend Joe nods his head and laughs. Joe pays for a beer and a condom drops out on the table. He tells me the hooker he was with, cried.

"She said I was too big, dude." He laughs.

I take a swig of beer. Under any other circumstance I would chat to anyone else. But they are the only ones here... and I just need to have a conversation and a beer before I go to sleep. It's now 2am. I am off to bed. They are just getting started.

"Time for the whiskey!" he shouts.