The Other Guy (3 page)

European, I guessed. He was about my age, and lean, draped in a loose, white linen shirt and matching shorts. He clearly did not have the curse of a Scandinavian complexion on his head; he was one of those dark-haired, kissed-by-thesun types, who swan around the continent on vintage Vespas, giving women the vapors.

I gave him a cursory nod in greeting as he sat down a couple of tables away with coffee and a bowl of fruit, and set my attention to eating my breakfast sampler in a spiral. Sausage, good. Eggs, so-so. Noodles, not bad.

Startled, I glanced around, but there were still only the two of us out there, which meant he was talking to me. I must have given him a look of total confusion, not least because his accent was incongruously American, and he nodded meaningfully toward my chest.

"Oh," I said, catching a downward glimpse of my faded blue T-shirt with the large C logo in the middle. "Oh, yeah. Um, yeah. Since I was a kid."

He smiled with understanding. "I was raised on the Sox myself. I guess this means we're legally obligated to hate each other."

"Boo hiss boo," I said mildly to my new baseball-themed nemesis.
Despite the dire proclamation, he cradled his cup of coffee in one hand and came over to my table. "Mind if I...?" he asked, his hand on the chair opposite mine.
I gestured a go-ahead, as it didn't seem as though I really had any other choice. I mean, what was I supposed to say?
No, go away. Stranger danger!
Besides, he was already sitting down.
He stuck out his hand. "Nate Harris."
I briefly flirted with the thought of giving him a fake name but couldn't come up with a reasonable one in time. I mean, true, there are lots of names for the taking, but you have to consider the fact that some people just don't make very convincing Tonys or Steves or Enriques.
On the momentous occasion of my birth, I was christened and thus doomed with an old man name, and my whole personality has molded itself around that name -- I am fussy and inflexible, I think today's children don't know the value of a dollar, the designated hitter rule is baseball's greatest travesty, and butterscotch candies are actually quite tasty.
"Emory James," I said, taking his proffered hand.
He had a nice, firm grip, of which I approved. There's nothing more deflating than meeting someone whose hand collapses in yours as if mustering the wherewithal to contract a few muscles for two seconds is just too much to bear.
"That's an interesting name," Nate said.
"Mm, my grandpa's."
"Do you take after him?"
I shrugged. "Old and crotchety? Absolutely."
Nate had an easy laugh, as though his face was made for it. "I don't know; you don't seem so bad," he said, with what could only be described, alarmingly, as a twinkle in his eye.
Oh my god, was I being flirted at?
No, of course not. Nobody flirts at me. It just isn't the done thing.
I thought I had been winked at once, across the high school gym masquerading as a crowded dance floor, but it turned out she had a mild tic. What a relief that had turned out to be.
It was then that I remembered I wasn't Emory, but New Emory, and New Emory was, as yet, a blank slate. Maybe New Emory
was
the kind of guy people casually threw pickup lines at; maybe New Emory -- hereafter referred to as just Emory, because the more I say 'New Emory' the more it sounds like an East Coast town populated by crabby old Dutch puritans -- maybe Emory was the kind of guy who didn't seize up in flattered terror when anyone gave him a second glance that lasted longer than a glance.
Maybe Emory had it in him somewhere, deep down, to be a Good-Looking Bastard. Or at least a Not Unattractive Bastard. Ooh, or a Not Unattractive Bastard with Actual Heart of Gold!
Although, seems like if the Heart of Gold was actually Actual, that would negate the whole Bastard part.
Well, Emory probably wasn't the kind of guy who troubled himself with labels and technicalities; just went about his manly, enigmatic business of being a bastard, or not.
And also maybe Emory needed to stop referring to himself in the third person. I don't know how Caesar did it all the time; it's really weird. Maybe when you're emperor of Rome you're afforded a pretentiousness allowance. That might also explain why everybody was so eager to stab him, though.
"Maybe," I said smoothly. "But Aristotle once said that people with curly hair can't be trusted, so..."
Nate tilted his head, amused, or possibly befuddled. "Hm," he said, choosing to play along and scrutinizing me with narrowed eyes, "I'd ask you to confirm or deny it, but then I wouldn't be able to take your word for it, would I?"
"And therein lies the conundrum," I said, steepling my fingers.
"Well, you're a regular international man of mystery, then."
I glanced down at my ancient T-shirt again, and the black rubber flip-flops I'd bought for under three dollars decorating my feet. "Hm, between the two of us you seem the more likely candidate."
"Nah, it's always the ones you least suspect," Nate said, leaning back in his chair, casually resting one ankle over the opposite knee. "So I guess it would be pointless to ask you what you're doing in Thailand, huh?"
Was he fishing? He was fishing. Or making polite conversation. Or about to attempt to sell me a timeshare, the fiend.
"Is it too predictable to say that if I told you I'd have to kill you?"
"Little bit," he chuckled.
"In that case," I said, "I am a normal person on a normal vacation."
It wasn't too far from the truth; on good days I could pass for normal, and if you conveniently forgot, as I intended to for at least the next week, the circumstances that had landed me here, I was on a perfectly acceptable version of a vacation.
"Did you see the night market yet?" he asked. At my head shake, he added, "Oh, you should; it's fantastic. The food here is amazing."
"Duly noted," I said.
I was afraid for a small moment that he was going to ask me to come along with him, possibly so he could hustle me down a dark alley and divest me of my kidneys -- who knew with these friendly, Europeanly handsome types -- but instead he glanced at his watch and rose from the chair.
"Hey, man, thanks for indulging me with the small talk," he said, sticking his hand out again, and I had no choice but to take it again. We shook. "I've got to be somewhere. I'll see you around, maybe."
"Yeah," I said. "See you around."
Departing with a smile, Nate disappeared around the corner. Alone again, I pushed the cold remains of my breakfast around the plate with my fork, wondering what to do with myself.
I had come without any advanced planning. Michelle's the trip planner -- she has lists and top tens and maps; I just go along, driving if it needs to be done, taking pictures if she wants to be in them, occasionally deciding where to go for dinner to fulfill my quota of usefulness.
Now, left to my own devices, I was at loose ends. Maybe it was time to get that couples massage sorted out.

With Alak's assistance, I managed to flag down a local bus to take in some of the scenery -- a couple of temples, a street market and, after some Oscar-worthy miming on both my and the bus driver's parts, a postcard-grade beautiful waterfall a little bit off the beaten path.

The waterfall was tall and loud, but the white noise kind of loud people play at night so they can fall asleep. Things chirruped in the distance, invisible and bright. A small rainbow hovered amidst the spray of the waterfall as it cascaded onto the worn rocks at its base, a forty-foot drop from where I was standing.

A smallish tour group that had arrived before me left in a drove, happily packing their cameras, herded back to their van by an enthusiastic guide clutching an oversized plastic sunflower, and for the moment I was alone, presumably before the next tour group descended.

I stood precariously on one of the wet rocks to the side of the falls, peering over into its depths. A fine mist of water fleeted past my skin, and I felt as ancient as the ground it had staunchly etched away for millennia, and twice as weary.

A deep stretch of space stared up at me, and I wondered, for the briefest of moments, who would miss me if I simply disappeared over the edge.
It was a maudlin thought, and I stepped away. For the sake of posterity, and to provide physical proof

I trekked back out to the main road, and by some miracle, got on another bus that eventually dropped me off within walking distance of my hotel, by which time the sky was descending into an Impressionist's dream of muted orange and violet smears.

Back in my room, I took a quick shower; there was one indoors and one out, and I chose the latter, for its sense of adventure. It was the kind of thing the new me would do, I thought, even though I spent the entire time anxiously trying to discover chinks in the tall shrubbery that edged the shower stall, in case anybody was doing the same from the outer perimeter.

I guess the new me isn't cool with public nudity either. Subsisting on the contents of the fruit basket for the night didn't appeal, and I didn't particularly want to spend ten million baht on room service or the hotel restaurant either, so I threw clothes on and went back out to brave more uncharted territory.
I was doing all sorts of new, un-Emory-like things today. It felt, if not good, then at least necessary.
Left to my own devices, I'd be content kicking around my usual few haunts for years, no matter what exciting new things sprang up around me. It had taken me two years to even go and see the Bean at Millennium Park after it was installed, and then only because a couple of old college friends were in town on holiday and I'd been appointed to show them around.
Out of nowhere, I thought about how proud Michelle would be of me for going out of my way to try something new, only belatedly remembering that she wouldn't even know it, that she wasn't even in my life anymore, except for what ties I couldn't cut in my head.
In one fell swoop she had cut all of hers with me, and it was hard to decide which was more upsetting -- that, for all the kindness and compassion she had made me love, she could do this so easily and quickly with no regard to my say in the matter, or that I still wasn't angry enough to want to let go. If she came back to me now, by some miracle, I'd probably give in. There would be some yelling and extractions of promises and obviously some kind of apology on her part, but I would take her back.
She had been my life for years, and now she was just gone. It was as though someone had simply come along and lopped off one of my limbs without provocation, and though I could see its clear absence, I could still feel its phantom there anyway, with a pain I could never hope to assuage because some part of my brain still hadn't figured out that that part of me didn't exist anymore.
Taking a deep breath, I stored her image away and walled it up, brick by brick. I wouldn't think of her crooked smile, or the bright amber eyes that never dulled even after a long day, or her capable hands, deft and dexterous even though they seemed so small in mine. Line by line, up and up went my wall. With a last slap of mortar troweled in, I put the final brick in place, sealing her out of my mind, like she had sealed me out of her life.
Satisfied, I released the breath, and carried on my way.
As I walked out of my room and past the restaurant, I remembered suddenly that morning's unexpected meeting with Nate, the potential organ harvester, and his tip about the night market. Market implied food, so I made a quick stop at the front desk to ask for directions and was on my way.
It didn't disappoint. Lit by street lamps, colorful lanterns and generators, the long street, blocked off from vehicles larger than motorbikes, was a riot of rich sounds and smells, most distinctly of deep-fried deliciousness. A light haze of smoke hung in the air from a hundred different cooking fires, stalls upon stalls of vendors hawking things I had never seen in my life, let alone put in my mouth.
Paralyzed by the sheer amount of choice, I bought nothing and instead kept walking and gawking, mentally keeping a list of all the things I might consider ingesting. A few vendors lacking in custom called out their wares, tried to catch my eye with wide smiles and friendly gestures as I moved past.
"Hey!"
I walked on, inspecting each stall's displays from a safe distance; get too close and I might feel obligated to buy up the whole street.
"Hey, Chicago!"
I paused. Weird.
A hand tapped my shoulder, and I turned. "Oh," I said, simultaneously glad to see an almost familiar face and worried that I was about to make a charitable donation to the organ black market. "Oh, it's you."
Nate grinned at me, somehow managing to dim the fluorescent light bulbs immediately adjacent to us. "Hey. Emory, right?"
"Yeah. Hey. Nate," I said. "What are you doing here?"
"I love this place," he said, radiating enthusiasm. "Different awesome thing to eat every night. Hey, have you eaten yet?"
"Ahh, no...?"
Probably should've said yes. I glanced around stealthily, making a note of all possible escape routes.
"Oh, man, you have to try this place," Nate said. He looked over to his left, getting on sneakered toes to peer over the heads of the crowd, even though he was taller than most everyone there. His face lit up as he spotted what he was looking for. "Yeah, there it is. Come on."
He took me by the arm and started walking us toward a stall, I didn't know which one. I looked at his fingers clasped around my arm as we moved through the throng. "Okay... So, this is happening..." I muttered to myself.
A thought suddenly occurred to him, and Nate stopped. It apparently wasn't to let go, however. He glanced at me somewhat warily. "Are you allergic to seafood or anything?"
"Um," I said, shaking my head. "Not that I know of."
"Excellent," he said, and pulled me along again.
I can't say why I didn't just shake him off; maybe it was the relief of having had a dinner decision made for me, or the sheer curiosity of finding out what was going to happen next. Nate was... interesting; he seemed like the kind of guy to which things happened that would then make incredible stories for dinner parties.
I was not that kind of guy. I moved through life carefully, always a few cautious steps behind the action, waiting and assessing. Maybe that was why I was tolerating Nate's exuberant charge tonight, to be something different.
We didn't end up too far from where we started, standing in line at a stall, behind a group of three girls. I leaned over to try to peek around them at what the stall was selling. There were things on a stick, which was about all I could make out, since the people in front were crowding around, and any signage available was all in Thai.
"What are you making me eat?" I asked.
As the group in front of us handed their money over and began moving away, Nate pointed to a stick in one of the girls' hands, atop which was perched something dark brown with char marks from the grill. "That," he said happily.
"Uh," I said. "That looks kind of like--"
"Baby octopus, yeah," he said, and gestured to the woman behind the stall that he wanted two.
I watched with trepidation the hawker retrieve two sticks from the front of her stand. "Wait," I said to Nate. "It just looks like a baby octopus or actually
is
a baby octopus?"
He smiled at the hawker, receiving the maybe baby octopi in a little plastic bag with red sauce at the bottom, and then turned the smile on me. "Which one is more likely to persuade you to eat it?"
"That is a great question," I said.
"It's really good, I promise," he said, though how he could have so much confidence in just to what extent our gastronomic tastes merged was beyond me. "Okay, if it helps, I'll go first."
He swirled the octopus on a stick in the bag, picking up as much sauce as he could, and then stuck the whole thing in his mouth, scraping it off the stick with his teeth. As he chewed, he made the kind of face celebrity chefs make when they taste whatever divine creation they have assembled in front of the cameras in under thirty minutes.
"That good?" I asked, skeptical. I couldn't recollect ever making that face when I'd had calamari before. They're kind of the same thing, essentially -- tasteless, rubbery cephalopods, and I said so.
Nate held the bag out to me, the remaining stick lolling around the mouth of the bag as he shook it lightly. "Just try it?"
He looked so earnest that I had to accede to his offer. "Okay," I said, sniffing experimentally at the sauce, "but if at the beach tomorrow I get attacked by a giant kraken for eating its beloved spawn, it'll officially be your fault."
With one hand on his heart, Nate proclaimed, "I promise I'll be consumed by guilt for the rest of my life. I will build a bronze shrine to your memory."
"Well, that seems pretty fair," I said, returning his smile.
Dunking the thing several times into its saucy surroundings, I did as Nate had done and ate the octopus in one go. It was smooth and chewy, and infinitely tastier than I'd imagined. I may have made the face, because Nate looked excessively pleased with himself.
"I see your point," I conceded.
He grinned. "Want another?"
"Kind of, yeah."
Emboldened by this culinary delight, I treated him to two more sticks and spent the next hour ambling up and down the street with him, looking for the next great thing to eat. Some were recommended by Nate, who, as I found out, had arrived three days before, and was therefore three days more experienced in the consumption of night market mysteries; others we dared each other to eat -- though eventually I had to draw the line somewhere, and that line was at anything with more than four legs (octopus notwithstanding).
As far as impromptu jaunts with somebody I barely knew went, it was surprisingly enjoyable and made me feel lighter than I had in days.
When we had eaten our fill of everything deemed worthy of our mad standards (the more unidentifiable the better), Nate and I walked back toward the resort, slowly, to aid digestion.
A gibbous moon hung neatly in the sky among a confetti of stars, and I stopped at the side of the road to look up. Back home, in the city, the nights are always so relentlessly, artificially bright, you don't get to see skies like this very often.
Nate stood beside me, craning his neck backwards. "Know your constellations?"
"Nah, only the Dippers," I said. I pointed up to a straight row of three stars, bordered at four corners. "And that one, Orion the hunter. I knew a bunch more when I was little, but those are the only ones that have stuck, I guess."
A breeze danced in, ruffling the treetops as it twirled past.
Nate glanced at me, and then jerked his head in the direction of our hotel. "Come on, I know where we can get a better view."
It probably says a lot about my self-preservation skills that it didn't occur to me not to trust him until we were halfway there, winding through the boughs of the resort and toward the beach it jutted up against. But then I guess I'd already mentally accused him of shilling timeshares and stealing innards today, so I'd met my quota.
There was a small handful of other people taking quiet walks along the wide stretch of shore, though for the most part the beach was ours.
Finding a spot that met criteria he didn't explain, Nate plopped himself onto the white sand and lay down, his hands cradling the back of his head. I sat a respectful distance next to him.
"See right there?" he said, stretching a finger toward the sky. "Where those three big ones make a triangle?"
"Yeah?"
He drew a line in the air between two of them. "Those ones are Altair and Vega. There's a cool Chinese story about them that I could bore you with if you'd like," he offered, grinning up at me.
I leaned backwards onto my elbows. "Hit me."
"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess," he said.
"Sorry, wait," I interrupted, waving a hand in his direction. "Did you mistake me for a seven-year-old girl? I mean, I know I'm not that tall, but--"
"Shut up," he laughed, and kicked sand over my foot. "Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess from the heavens who weaved all the clouds in the sky."
She came down to earth one day and met a handsome young cowherd. They fell deeply and madly in love, and married, forging a simple but happy life together. Her parents were furious that she was consorting with a mere mortal and marched her back home; the cowherd tried to follow, but her mother carved out a river in the sky to keep them apart forever.
They live on as Altair and Vega, separated by the Milky Way, yearning for each other across the great divide. But once a year, their sad love story moves the magpies of the world to flock up to the stars and form a bridge so that the princess and cowherd may reunite.
"Well, that's romantic," I said grudgingly, thinking of how certain people formerly in my life could have learned something about the promise of commitment from these guys. "And also pretty depressing."
"All great love stories are," he said. "You know, your standard Romeo and Juliets--"
"
That
," I interrupted, "is a story about a couple of infatuated kids with poor communication skills."
Nate raised an amused eyebrow at me. "I didn't peg you for such a cynic, Chicago. Not a fan of love at first sight, huh?"
"I don't think it exists," I said, shrugging. "You do?"
He nodded solemnly. "Yup. To my great detriment," he said, a wry smile forming on his lips.
He didn't elaborate and I didn't ask. I mean, I'm just some dude he just met. Eating street food together isn't exactly a life-altering event that forges the kind of emotional bond necessary for kick-starting heart-to-hearts.
I wasn't sure I really wanted to know anyway. I mean, he's just some dude I just met.
We continued stargazing for a few minutes, the gentle lap of the ocean waves a backdrop to our silence.
I sat up with a grunt and brushed sand off my elbows. "Almost my bedtime," I said, by way of explanation.
It wasn't actually very late, and I had jet lag anyway, which probably meant I'd be staring up at the canopy of my four-poster until the wee hours, but if I didn't move now there was a good chance I'd stay out here until sunrise with Nate, if he didn't move either.
The idea of us, side by side, watching the stars glide across the sky wasn't unpleasant, but its very lack of unpleasantness was slightly discomfiting. I didn't know him, and there was no logical reason I should feel that comfortable with somebody I didn't know. And I didn't particularly want to contemplate it any further, so I got to my feet.
Nate made no move to follow suit, merely looked up at me from where he lay in the sand.
"Um," I said, feeling awkward, "goodnight."
He smiled. "See you around, Chicago."