The Worst Years of Your Life (12 page)

“Just this once, Anek. I promise I won't bother you.”

“I don't think so.”

“Please?”

“‘Please' nothing, little brother. Sit at home and watch a soap with Ma or something.”

“But why, Anek? Why can't I go with you?”

“Because I'm going where grown men go, that's why. Because last I checked, last time I saw you naked, you were far from being grown.”

“I promise I won't bother you, Anek. I'll just sit in a corner or something. Really. I promise. I'll stay out of your way. Just don't leave me here with Ma tonight.”

W
HEN WE WERE YOUNG
, our mother would put on her perfume every evening before Pa came home. She would smell like jasmine, fresh-picked off a tree. Pa, he would smell of the cologne he dabbed on after he got out of the shower. Although I would never smell the ocean until we went out to Pak Nam to scatter his ashes, I knew that my father smelled like the sea. I just knew it. Anek and I would sit between them, watching some soap opera on TV, and I would inhale their scents, the scents of my parents, and imagine millions of tiny white flowers floating on the surface of a wide and green and bottomless ocean.

But those scents are lost to me now, and I've often wondered if, in my belated sorrow, with all my tardy regrets, I've imagined them all these years.

A
NEK FINALLY GAVE IN
and took me. We rode out to Minburi District along the new speedway, the engine squealing beneath us. We were going so fast that my face felt stretched impossibly tight. I wanted to tell Anek to slow down but I remembered that I had promised to stay out of his way.

We were wearing our best clothes again that night, the same old outfits: Anek in his blue jeans and white polo shirt, me in my khakis and red button-down. When we walked out of the house Ma glanced up from the TV with a look that said
What are you all dressed up for?
and Anek told her he was taking me out to the new ice-skating rink, he heard it was all the rage. I even said, “Imagine that, Ma. Ice-skating in Bangkok,” but she just nodded, her lips a straight thin line, and went back to watching television.

“‘Imagine that, Ma'…,” Anek teased when we walked out.

“Eat shit, Anek.”

“Whoa there. Be careful, little one. Don't make me change my mind.”

When we arrived at the place, it was not what I had imagined at all. I expected mirror balls and multicolored lights and loud American music and hundreds of people dancing inside—like places I'd seen in the district west of our neighborhood, places all the farangs frequented at night. It didn't look like that. It was only a shophouse, like the thousands of tiny two-story shophouses all over the city—short and common, square and concrete, in need of a new paint job. A pink neon sign blinked in the tinted window.
CAFÉ LOVELY
, it said in English. I could hear the soft, muffled sounds of upcountry music reaching across the street.

“This is it?”

“I can take you home,” Anek said. “That's not a problem.”

The place smelled of mothballs. There was an old jukebox in the corner. A couple of girls in miniskirts and tank tops and heavy makeup danced and swayed with two balding, middle-aged local men. The men looked awkward with those girls in their arms, feet moving out of time, their large hands gripping the girls' slender waists. In a dark corner, more girls were seated at a table, laughing. They sounded like a flock of excited birds. I'd never seen so many girls in my life.

Three of Anek's friends were already at a table.

“What's with the baby-sitting?” one of them asked, grinning.

“Sorry,” Anek said sheepishly as we sat down. “Couldn't bear to leave him home with my crazy ma.”

“You hungry, kid?” said another. “Want a hamburger?”

“No thanks.”

“Hey,” Anek said. “Leave him alone. Let's just pretend he's not here.”

The song ended. I saw a girl go up a set of stairs at the back, leading one of the men by the hand. I didn't even have to ask. I wondered if Anek, too, would be going up those stairs at the end of the night. And although I had been disappointed at first by the café's shoddy facade, I found myself excited now by its possibilities.

Anek must've seen me staring because he slapped me hard across the back of the head. “Ow,” I cried, rubbing my head with a palm. “That fucking hurt.”

“Keep your eyes to yourself, little man.”

“That's right,” one of his friends intoned, the one who'd asked if I wanted a hamburger. “Be careful what you wish for, boy. The AIDS might eat your dick.”

“Not before it eats your mom's, though,” I replied, and they all laughed, even my brother, Anek, who said, “Awesome,” and smiled at me for the first time all evening.

A
NEK HAD COME
home one night when I was nine and told me that Pa had taken him out for his fifteenth birthday. The city dump was burning; there was a light red glow in the sky from the pyre. Even though our windows were shut, I could still smell the putrid scent of tires and plastic and garbage burning, the sour odor seeping through our windows. I was sleeping in my underwear, two fans turned on high, both fixed in my direction. Anek walked into the room, stripped down to his underwear, and thrust out his hand.

“Bet you can't tell me what this smell is.”

I sniffed his fingers. It smelled like awsuan: oysters simmered in egg yolk. But somehow I knew it wasn't food.

“What is it?”

Anek chuckled.

“What is it, Anek?”

“That, my dear brother, is the smell of”—he put his hand up to his face, sniffed it hungrily—“heaven.”

I blinked at him.

“A woman, kid. You know what that is? Pa took me to a sophaeni tonight. And let me tell you, little one, when he takes you for your fifteenth birthday, you'll never be the same again. This scent”—he raised his hand to his face again—“it'll change your fucking life.”

A
NEK AND HIS FRIENDS
had already poured themselves a few drinks while I sat there sipping my cola—half listening to their banter, half watching the girls across the room—when one of Anek's friends stood up and said: “It's getting to that time of night, guys.”

I didn't know what the hell was going on, I just thought he was a funny drunk, but then Anek got up and told the bartender we were going outside for a breath of fresh air. One of the girls came up to us, put a hand on Anek's shoulder, and said, “Leaving so soon?” but Anek told her not to worry, to be patient, he'd be back to give her what she wanted soon. The girl winked at me and said, “Who's the handsome little boy?” and I smiled back, but Anek had to be an asshole, so he said, “Oh, that's my virgin brother,” which annoyed me because no girl had ever winked at me before and I thought she was beautiful.

I followed Anek and his friends out of the Café Lovely and into a small alley off the shophouse row. Anek didn't want to leave me by myself. He said it didn't look good—leaving a little boy alone in a place like that—but I could tell that he didn't want me to come, either. As we cut into the dark alley, I had a feeling that a breath of fresh air was the last thing we were going to get.

When we stopped, one of Anek's friends pulled out a small container of paint thinner from a plastic bag. “All right,” he said, prying at the lid with a small pocketknife. The lid flew open with a loud pop and rolled down the dark alley, swirling to a stop by a Dumpster. I saw the quick shadows of roaches scattering in its wake. That's what the alley smelled like—roaches: dank and humid like the back room where Ma put away our father's belongings. Anek's friend poured half the can into the plastic bag, the liquid thick and translucent, the bag sagging from the weight, while the others flicked their cigarettes into the sewer ditch along the side of the alley. The thinner gave off a sharp, strong odor, punched little pinpricks in my nostrils, and reminded me of days when Pa and Anek used to fumigate the house. Anek's friend pulled out another plastic bag from his back pocket and put the first bag with the thinner inside of it.

“Okay.” He held out the double bag with one hand, offering it to his friends, the way I'd seen butchers at the market holding dead chickens by the neck. I could hear the jukebox starting up again in the café, another old upcountry tune echoing softly down the alley. “Who's first?”

For a second, they all stood with their hands in their pockets. Then Anek reached out and took the bag with a quick, impatient gesture.

“Let's just get this over with,” he said. “I tell you guys, though, one hit and I'm done. I don't like having my little brother around this shit.”

I realized then what they were doing. I knew what huffers were, but I'd always imagined little kids and strung-out homeless guys in the Klong Toey slum with their heads buried in pots of rubber cement. I suddenly became very afraid—I wanted to grab the bag out of my brother's hands—even as I longed to watch Anek do it, wanted, in fact, to do it myself, to show Anek and his friends my indifference.

Anek brought the mouth of the bag to his chin. He took a big, deep breath, pulled his entire body back like it was a slingshot, then blew into the bag, inflating it like a balloon, the loose ends covering half his face, and it made a sound like a quick wind blowing through a sail. The bag grew larger and larger and I was afraid that it might burst, that the thinner would go flying everywhere. Anek looked at me the whole time he blew, his eyes growing wider and wider. He kept blowing and blowing and blowing, and I knew that my brother was blowing for a long time because one of the guys said, “Fucking inhale already, Anek,” but he kept on blowing and blowing and all that time he kept looking at me with those eyes about to pop out of his head. I don't know what he was trying to tell me then, looking at me like that, but I remember noticing for the first time that he had our mother's eyes. He finally inhaled, sucked his breath back into his chest, the plastic balloon collapsing in on itself, and then my brother was blinking hard, teetering, like a boxer stunned by a swift and surprising blow, and I knew that whatever it was he had smelled, whatever scent he had just inhaled, it was knocking him off his feet. He handed the bag to one of the other guys and said, “C'mon kid, let's get out of here,” and I followed my brother out of the dark alley, back into the dimly lit street.

Y
EARS LATER,
I'd be in a different alley with friends of my own, and one of the guys, high off a can of spray paint, would absentmindedly light a cigarette after taking a hit and his face would burst into a sheet of blue flames. He ran around the alley wild with panic, running into the sides of the buildings, stumbling and falling and getting back to his feet again, hands flying violently around his burning face as if trying to beat back a swarm of attacking insects. He never made a sound, just ran around that alley with his face on fire in silent terror, the flames catching in his hair and his clothes, looking like some giant ignited match in the shape of a man. For a second, we couldn't quite comprehend what was happening—some of us laughed, most of us were just stunned—before I managed to chase the boy down, tackle him to the ground, and beat out the flames from his face with my T-shirt. His eyes were wild with terror and we just stared at each other for a moment before he started to weep hysterically, his body shaking under mine, the terrible scent of burnt flesh and singed hair filling the alley. His lashes and eyebrows had been burned cleanly off his face. His eyelids were raw, pink. His face began to swell immediately, large white welts blooming here and there. And he just kept on crying beneath me, calling for his mother and father, blubbering incoherently in the high, desperate voice of a child.

B
ACK AT THE CAFÉ
, I could tell that the thinner was setting in. Anek kept tilting back in his seat, dilating his eyes. He took a long swig of his rye, poured himself another. I knew we wouldn't be going home for a while. The same girl who had winked at me earlier walked across the room and sat down at our table. She put her arm around my shoulder. I felt my body tense. She smelled like menthol, like the prickly heat powder Anek and I sprinkled on ourselves to keep cool at night.

“Hi, handsome.”

“Hi.”

I sipped at the last of my cola. Across the room, I noticed the girls looking our way, giggling among themselves.

“That's my brother,” Anek drawled.

“I know, Anek.”

“He's a little high,” I said, laughing.

“Looks like it.”

“Yeah.” Anek smiled, slow and lazy. “Just a little.”

“Where are the rest?” she asked me.

“Outside.”

“What about you, handsome? Are you high?”

“No.”

“Ever been?”

“Yeah. Of course. Plenty of times.”

She laughed, threw her head far back. Menthol. I felt my heart pounding in my chest. I wanted to smear her carmine lips with my hands. I reached across the table for Anek's Krong Thips and lit one.