The Paradise Complex

A short story by J.S. Birt

Copyright © John Shick 1999



1



	    Mid-morning sun exploded through an almost wall sized window 

coated outside with soot and grime, silhouetting streaks left from the previous 

night's shower.  Tropical light ignited a generously sized room with hazy glare, 

revealing a spotlessly tidy chamber.  Though aging and shabby, floor tiles were 

polished right across cracks left by missing grout, and peeling woodwork was 

free of dust.  The constant flip, flip, flip of a ceiling fan made little headway 

moving limp hot air heavy with scent of fresh flowers.  A lonely mattress lay on 

the floor sharing the light with neatly folded clothing placed in small piles 

against the walls or hanging on hooks pounded into the woodwork. Two pairs 

of shoes, one leather boots, the other Nike sneakers, stood guard by the door.



	Puiaw ducked slightly to avoid a crack in the mirror while trying to brush 

his unruly hair into submission.  At twenty-two his face was loosing it's boyish 

roundness, leaving behind sharper, harder lines of promised manhood.  The 

tiger across his chest was no longer raw, though the colors had not yet 

mellowed into harmony with his cafe-au-lait complexion.  Pushing back his still 

recalcitrant mop, the young man rushed out hoping he wouldn't be late for his 

morning cyber school. 

	

	He had rented the room about a year before when his employer moved 

him from the gogo stage to behind the bar when he, the bar owner, discovered 

Puiaw was good with numbers.  Before he rented his room he lived with the 

other employees upstairs in a dormitory over the bar.  



	The woman who owned the building, which consisted of a small 

convenience store on the first floor and a room each on the second and third, 

lived with her infant daughter in the room over Puiaw's.  They shared a 

common shower, toilet, and sometimes a bed.  Puiaw reminded her of her 

son, who, on a rainy day three years ago, at the age of thirteen, skidded his 

motorbike under the wheels of a truck delivering large bottles of water to 

restaurants and hotels along the beach road.  She was responsible for the 

cleanliness and tidiness of his room and generally looked after him in her 

quiet affectionate way.  It is rumored around the Paradise the child is Puiaw's.



	Puiaw left his mother, brother and sister in Isaan when he turned sixteen 

to make his way in the city.  All he could remember of his father was the acrid 

smell of smoke from the funeral fire at a small Wat in Bangkok.  He was four 

when his father's tuk tuk ( three wheeled mini-cab) was crushed by a runaway 

Toyota.  



	For a year or two Puiaw drifted in and out of odd jobs, selling cigarettes 

and flowers, bussing in restaurants, and helping an old man with his fast food 

push cart.  He tried his luck as a motorcycle messenger but quickly realized he 

didn't have the requisite death wish.  



	Puiaw made some friends hanging out by Robinson's department store 

on Silom Road.  They shared smokes and stories, while they told him of the 

easy money to be made working in gogo bars.  Working as a gogo boy is just 

another name for turning tricks.  Puiaw wasn't at all sure he would like being a 

gogo boy, but he had nothing much going at the time.  He thought he would 

give it a try, finding, much to his surprise, that he was good at it.  The old Thai 

and Farang (white) men who frequent these venues seemed to find him 

attractive, though he never thought himself a looker at seventeen.  He was in 

his second year and third gogo bar when a patron took him for a week long trip 

to Phuket.  When Puiaw first laid eyes on the beach and the sea, he was 

enchanted and there he stayed.



	Phuket Island is an emerald of rugged green hills surrounded by a ring 

of golden sand.  This jewel is attached to the naval of Thailand by a short 

bridge and busy airport.  Towards the southwestern end of the island, Patong 

Beach and the Gulf of Patong form the perfect ubiquitous Thai smile, 

welcoming cumulonimbus clouds and a seemingly endless supply of tailors 

from India across the Andaman Sea.  Phuket thinks of itself as a world class 

tourist destination, and who would argue?



	The Paradise Complex thrives right in front of the Royal Paradise Hotel, 

which is by far the tallest building on Phuket Island.  The Complex is a rabbit  

warren of little streets, a busy cul-de-sac of gogo bars, restaurants, beauty 

parlors, convenience stores, and barber shops.  One can even find an Indian 

tailor or two.  It is also home to the largest collection of gay-oriented 

businesses on the Island.



	Puiaw worked in the Cabin Boy Agogo, the busiest gogo boy bar in the 

Complex.  



	The interior of the Cabin Boy Agogo is a riot of noise and motion filtered 

through cigarette haze.  A steady thwomp, thwomp, thwomp blasts from an 

over-modulated music system belting out disco music to accompany eight or 

ten young men slouching, shrugging, and shuffling around on a raised oval 

platform in the middle of the floor.  Occasionally a boy gets swept along with 

the music, undulating and writhing to the insistent beat, only to awaken a 

moment later looking sheepish and quickly return to shrug, shuffle, and slouch.  

Along one wall four or five customers are seated, one alone, the others with 

friends or boys from the bar.  Along the opposite wall about twenty or so youths 

sit waiting their turn on the stage.  Their interaction is a fascinating study of 

affection and ennui.  In keeping with the name of the establishment, the 

bartenders and hosts wear sailor suits.  The boys, shrugging on the stage or 

loafing along the wall, wear hardly anything at all, just snowy white briefs; a 

uniform of sorts with numbered badges conspicuously displayed for easy 

identification in case a patron wishes to order desert by number.  Along the 

back wall is the bar.  It was here, behind the bar, that Puiaw made change, 

drinks, and kept accurate accounts for the day in his cramped schoolboy 

scrawl. 



	Puiaw was constantly amused by the boys and the customers.  The 

never ending dance of the evening fascinated him.  The younger boys prance to 

a customer's side as soon as he is seated, fishing for drinks.  They prod, 

probe, and knead the hapless customers like bread dough.  The old-timers 

shrug them off, but new comers, especially Farang, look uncomfortable.    



	Puiaw had learned early on the importance of being a little hard to get, 

maintaining the illusion of a perfunctory mating game.  While the younger ones 

smother the nervous newcomers, he kept to his place behind the bar, knowing 

he would soon be discovered by someone trying to escape the busy kneading 

fingers of the boys in briefs.  He generally liked the customers.  In the few years 

he had been in the "business" he experienced few problems. There are the 

usual rumors about boys being beaten or robbed, but so far he had been 

careful and lucky.  He favored Farang over Thai because they treated him better 

and tipped more.  He especially liked Americans, as they were usually not very 

demanding and over-tipped extravagantly in direct proportion to their guilt. 



	The bar boy knew his time in the bar and the "business" would end 

some day soon.  He was a man with a plan.  He had become good friends with 

two English gents who were the proud owners and proprietors of a new 

restaurant, inn, and internet cafe.  In a moment of dubious inspiration they 

dubbed their venture "The Plugged Inn".  It was right across the street from the 

Cabin Boy Agogo.  The Englishmen were charmed by Puiaw.  They spent time 

tutoring him in English and teaching him basics of computers. They delighted 

in guiding him into the mysterious realm of Cyber-space where the youth 

discovered a greater world outside gogo bars.  



	Puiaw found a web site in Bangkok offering high school courses.  He 

labored most every morning studying with the magic computer at The Plugged 

Inn.  He was making progress though, and applied to a school in Phuket Town 

teaching hotel and restaurant management.  The gogo boy dreamed of being 

an innkeeper, or at least working at the front desk or perhaps the business 

office.



	Puiaw watched the new Farang enter the bar, potbellied, middle-aged 

and probably American.  He guessed that from the University of Minnesota  t-

shirt he was wearing.  The young man behind the bar even knew about 

Minnesota.  He had seen "Fargo".  He watched him cringe while two young 

gogo dancers were busy seeing who could crack the poor man's knuckles with 

the loudest pop.  When boys left for their turn on the stage, the newcomer fled 

for the sanctuary  of the bar, where he looked straight into Puiaw's amused 

laughing eyes.

2





	J. B. was a fifty-five year old bookkeeper for a small town school system 

in southern Minnesota.  He was sliding through a placid, lackluster life with his 

gayness carefully hidden from his local community.  When the urge to hang out 

overcame his shyness he would go to the Twin Cities and try a bar or two.  But 

they all seemed seedy, the men unpleasant, and the conversation desultory.  

Mostly J. B. was lonely, intensely lonely, and alone.  He looked at his declining 

years as an increasingly oppressive realm of unwelcome solitude.  He 

wondered if he died how long it would take for his body to be found.  He was 

surrounded by acquaintances and colleagues all busy with their kid's braces 

and second mortgages.   



	One day, in a bookstore in Minneapolis,  he came across a title that 

caught his eye, "T.M.O.T" ( The Men of Thailand) a guide to Gay Thailand.  He 

bought the book and devoured it.  He knew he must go.  He didn't believe that 

Thailand could be like the picture painted in the book.  He was wrong.  Flying 

out of Minneapolis on Northwest Airlines, armed with maps, guides, and 

language tapes, plus his dog eared copy of "T.M.O.T", from which he had torn 

the cover with its photo of a lovely Thai man, he tried to imagine what Thailand 

would be like.  He was amazed and fascinated by how powerful the need to 

end his loneliness had become.  Here it was propelling him half a world away 

for a dream that could not possibly be.  He thought himself a realist, telling 

himself to be wary.  It was, after all, only a vacation.  The venues in the book 

were, after all, only businesses.  This  trip was to be just an escape for a few 

weeks from the numbing reality of the small rooms he rented in the back of the 

hardware store.  He was a man on a quest.  He must, he thought, end his 

solitude, if only for a moment, during this all too brief vacation.



	Landing in Phuket presented him with a magnificent panorama of the 

sea and Island so compelling he shrugged off his displeasure with the airport 

hotel in Bangkok, soaking in the natural beauty before him.  He was met at the 

gate by a man with a wide smile holding a sign with his name, J. B. Stewart, 

displayed in large block letters.  He was charmed, and relaxed as he allowed 

himself to be whisked away through small busy villages and past rubber 

plantations to the Patong Beach Bungalows.  He picked this hotel from his 

guide book because it was right in front of the only  gay section of beach on the 

Island.  He was not disappointed, though Spartan, his room was neat and 

spotless with fresh flowers welcoming a weary traveler. 



	Leaving unpacking for later, he ventured out to the beach.  After some 

confusion he discovered the lounge chairs, lined up in rows shaded by brightly 

colored umbrellas, were for hire.  For fifty Bhat he could roast all day.  The girl 

showing him to his chair suggested he might take two in case a friend wished 

to join him.  "What friend?" he asked.  " I just got here, I don't know anyone".   

She gave him a now familiar Thai smile, and a shrug.  

	

	He wasn't baking for more than ten minutes before he noticed several 

other Farang, a word he had learned from the guide book, reclining in varying 

stages of doneness, each with two or three young Thai men hanging around or 

reclining on the empty chairs so thoughtfully provided.  They reminded J.B. of 

queen bees with their little drones.  No sooner had this thought passed from 

his mind when a youngish Thai man approached.  "Wa-u-nam Wa-u-fom?"  

"Huh?" thought J. B.  The young man tried again,  "Wa-u-nam wa-u-fom?".   J. 

B. couldn't remember anything at all like this on his language tape or in his 

phrase book.  The Thai repeated yet again, smiling broadly " Wa-u-nam wa-u-

fom?" .   "English?" asked J.B,, hopefully.  " Yeees!" the fellow said  It dawned 

on J. B. that this must be English.  My name is J. B. and I am from Minneapolis.  

The man smiled even wider, which wasn't possible,  " Oh! Australia?"  " No 

America" said J. B.   " Oh yeeeees!  America number One!".  His visitor sat 

around talking for a few minutes and then left to join a volleyball game in 

progress.  



	No sooner had he left when a youth approached with the same greeting 

" Wa-u-nam wa-u-fom?".  This was old hat by now.  " I'm J. B. and I am from 

Minneapolis".  " Oh!  Australia?" said he.  "No.  America" said J.B..  "Oh! 

America Number one!" said the smiling boy. 



	J. B. was ready when a third young man approached.  "Wa-u-nam wa-u-

fom?", came the opening gambit.  "I am J. B. and I'm from Minneapolis. " 

counter play!  " Oh! Australia?"  J.B, made a tactical faint, " Yes Australia".   " Oh! 

Australia!  Number one!".   Check and mate thought J.B. smiling to himself.



	That evening J. B. decided to explore Phuket's night life.  He stuffed the 

trusty guide in his pocket and put on his University of Minnesota t-shirt.  

Tropical air mingled with pounding surf greeted the American new comer as he 

set out to find the Paradise Complex.  He walked along Thanon Taweewong 

dodging swarms of buzzing motorbikes infesting the street, turning inland at 

Thanon Bang-La.  He passed a department store, a Kentucky Fried Chicken, 

and about a million fake Rolex watches.  Myriad Indian tailors beckoned with 

their commercial paean " Make nice suite for you! only 24 hour!".  Little stalls 

and stands stuffed with trinkets, leather goods, shirts, shoes, bags, and silver 

jewelry were crowded together in a  jumble, spilling out over the sidewalk 

making progress difficult.  Elbowing past huge numbers of Germans, 

Russians,  Aussies, and an occasional American, he worked his way slowly up 

the street.  



	 All along the street, wherever there were spaces large enough, were 

little beer bars.  Each had a counter and five or six stools.   About four or five 

young Thai women, and one or two customers could be seen seated or 

standing about inside.  When J. B. passed, the young ladies would wave to him 

" Papa youwanlady?".   "No, papa no wanlady. " 



	He finally reached the corner where, according to his map, he must 

cross Thanon Rat-U-Thit to get to the Paradise Complex.  The motorcycles, Tuk 

Tuk trucks (little covered pick-up trucks with benches for paying passengers), 

tour buses, water trucks, automobiles, and other strange motored vehicles, all 

being piloted with wild abandon, whizzed by in a never ending stream.  He was 

beginning to think he would spend his entire vacation trying to cross this street 

when a group of inebriated Russians stepped off the curb into screeching 

brakes and honking horns.  J. B. seized the moment, insinuating himself into 

their group just long enough to achieve relative safety on the far side.



	He found the Paradise Complex.  It was easy.  The monumentally phallic 

Royal Paradise Hotel was hard to miss.  The first business listed in his guide 

was a Thai restaurant.  It featured "wonderful Thai food with a friendly 

ambiance," so the book said .   The Siam Cafe proved a delight, he loved the 

deliciously spicy food served up with smiles and giggles.  The owner was 

friendly and informative, recomending J.B. try either My Way Agogo or the Cabin 

Boy Agogo as they feature ladyboy shows.   He suggested the Boat Bar for after 

midnight as they too have a show.  It seems cross-dressing cabaret shows are 

all the rage in the Paradise.  The  restaurateur also mentioned he owned the 

Hot Spot Coffee Shop which is open very late, just in case he was hungry after 

all that night clubbing.



	When J.B. left the cafe, it was still too early for the cabaret shows so he 

set out to find  the Black and White Agogo, another entry he had underlined in 

his guide.  He found it close by.  Several lads were milling around outside 

hoping for customers.  At the sight of a Farang without a clue, they pounced, 

almost pulling and shoving him into the bar while laughing and smiling.  "You 

Like! Nice Boy!"  J.B. thought he must be wearing a neon sign saying "I am 

gay".  It was dark and noisy inside, with loud disco music, accompanying gogo 

boys on a stage.  Seeing that there were no other customers in the place made 

him feel extremely self-conscious.  He fled as soon as he gulped down his 

beer. 



	J.B.'s next stop was the Cabin Boy Agogo.  He was again accosted by a 

coterie of young men extolling the virtues of their establishment.  Armed with 

the recommendation of the restaurant owner and spotting several Farang 

customers enjoying themselves, he allowed himself to be seated at a table.  By 

the time his beer arrived, three different boys in briefs had approached with the 

now familiar "Wa-u-nam Wa-u-fom?".  Two of the lads sat themselves down 

and began kneading his legs, prodding his pot belly and pulling at the hairs on 

his arms, laughing while showing J.B. that their arms had none.  He was in a 

panic.  He looked about to see if other customers were watching.  J.B. was kept 

busy gently removing wondering hands from parts of his anatomy he barely 

remembered.  He was sure he was making an utter fool of himself.  The boys 

asked for drinks.  J.B. obliged, not wanting to appear too green.  

They were having fun, laughing and chatting away in their simple grade school 

English, all the while demonstrating their technique for cracking J. B.'s 

knuckles.



	After a few moments the young men excused themselves, saying it was 

their turn on the stage.  He took the opportunity to flee to an empty stool at the 

bar where he thought he would be less visible.  When he sat down the first 

thing he saw was a handsome young Thai whose eyes were laughing. " You 

first time Phuket?".  The best J. B. could manage was "Yes, a my first time in a 

gogo bar too!.".   The youth behind the bar smiled broadly "OK here, boy only sit 

you want"  



	Vastly relieved, J.B. began to relax and look about.  "I am Puiaw", a voice 

behind him said.  He turned back to the bar and the young man's extended 

hand.  "J. B." said J. B. shaking the offered limb.  Much to J. B.'s surprise Puiaw 

did not ask where he was from.  Maybe it was that University of Minnesota t-

shirt.  J. B. was dazzled by an impossibly broad smile, beguiled by a smoky 

complexion, and fascinated by the hint of a tiger seen through the open necked 

sailor suit the handsome youth was wearing.  He was enchanted.



	The two of them hit it off almost at once.  By the time J. B. finished his 

fourth beer it was closing time.  By then they had already exchanged their life 

stories.   J. B. resolved to return the next evening.  He could hardly get through 

the long day at the beach, though there were many young men hanging about 

ready to talk to a lonely foreigner.   As soon as the doors opened he was back 

in the bar.  That evening he asked Puiaw out for dinner.  He was amused when 

he found he had to pay the bar a small fee for the privilege of taking Puiaw out 

for a meal.  After exchanging his sailor suit for street clothes, Puiaw appeared 

at J.B.'s side.  They wished the owner good evening, and left for the Siam 

Restaurant.  They spent the next three weeks together.



	At first J. B. was shy, but Puiaw knew the ropes and he knew his Farang.  

They had sex a few times in the beginning, but J. B. found what he really 

wanted was someone to talk to, someone to share his adventure,  Someone to 

turn to and say "Wow, look at that sunset", someone to chase away his 

solitude. 



	They went to a disco, a movie in Phuket Town, seafood restaurants, and 

all the other places tourists go.  Puiaw took him bowling, something J. B  

thought he would never do.  They went to Phi Phi Island together for a day trip, 

snorkeling in a beautiful coral reef.  They played checkers.  J. B. taught  Puiaw  

the basics of chess.  The young man spoke of his dream to be an innkeeper 

and about his plan to go to the school in Phuket Town.  He talked a lot about 

America and how much he wanted to see it for himself.  He loved American 

movies.  Puiaw introduced J.B. to his friends, the English gents at The Plugged 

Inn.  J. B. showed his new friend some accounting shortcuts.  The boy with the 

new tiger taught J.B. how to bargain and read menus in Thai.  He constantly 

chided J.B. for being foolish with his money.  Puiaw melted away his 

loneliness day by day.



	J. B. was no fool.  He knew Puiaw expected to be paid for his presence.  

He had been generous with the boy, buying him a gold chain and some 

clothing.  He tipped him after their early sexual encounters, and tipped him 

handsomely at the end of the first week.  He was surprised when, in the 

second week, Puiaw refused his offered tip, saying " No more it business.".  

They were becoming good friends, perhaps more.  By the third week Puiaw 

went back to work.  After his study time at the Plugged Inn, he spent the day 

with J.B..  In the evening Puiaw would excuse himself  to go back behind the 

bar at the Cabin Boy.



	Puiaw received his acceptance notice to the school in Phuket Town. The 

Cabin Boy decided to have a big party to celebrate the occasion.  The fete 

would be four days before J. B. was to leave for home.  Thai, it seems, use any 

excuse for a party.



	J. B. and the English gents at the Plugged Inn pooled their resources to 

buy Puiaw a used motor bike so he could commute to Phuket Town for his 

classes.  They kept it out of sight in a vacant  room at the Inn.  The night before 

the party, while Puiaw was hard at work behind the bar, they had fun decorating 

the bike with ribbons and flowers.





	





3 





	Vichapat had already seen the far side of 30,  He lived by his wits, such 

as they were, on the beach.  He hung out mostly around the lifeguard tower or 

in front of the Patong Beach Bungalows.  Vichapat had never worked a real job; 

he had left school after third grade and remembered little of it.  Since his teen 

years Vichapat had been bothered by voices in his head.  At first he just ignored 

them, but in the last few years the voices had become much more insistent.  

They told him over and over that he, Vichapat,  was king of the beach.  The 

voices spoke increasingly more often, soon giving him no peace.                        

When he tried to sleep they would enter his head, controlling his thoughts, 

constantly urging him to claim his rightful fiefdom.  It is said on the beach that 

he is a little touched, or as J.B. succinctly put it," He's not playing with a full 

deck." 



	Vichapat made a habit of accosting every Farang, male or female, on his 

patch of beach.  He scrounged for cigarettes, drinks, food, sex, and attention.  

He marked out his Farang, guarding them jealously from the other boys like a 

dog  defending his territory.  If any Thai boy approached one of his tourist, 

Vichapt would try to  stare the boy away, or make silly nasty remarks.  He made 

himself a general nuisance.  The Thai youth were remarkably tolerant towards 

the strange man.  They were friendly to him, including him in their conversation 

and inviting him into their games.  They seemed able, somehow, to 

understand his odd sometimes bizarre behavior, accepting it without 

condemnation.  Farang would shoo Vichapat away when they cottoned to his 

act and he would sulk a few yards away trying to will back the attention he 

desperately wanted.



	

	When he was not bothering Farang, he was ranging up and down the 

beach picking up little treasures of pretty rocks or polished glass washed up by 

the storm tides. He scavenged for discarded apparel, paper cups, or any other 

detritus that caught his eye.  He was a man with a secret.  One day, behind 

some rocks by the Diamond Cliff Resort, he found an old rusty revolver.  It had 

been in the salt sea for many days and the mechanism was jammed solid with 

rust.  The gun became his prize possession.  He kept it wrapped in a dirty 

piece of canvas hiding it away in a little hole in the base of the lifeguard tower 

with the rest of his treasures.  He always kept a watchful eye out if anyone was 

near his secret hiding place.



	Vichapat slept on the beach, usually taking down one of the stacked 

beach chairs.  The cushions had been removed and placed together on top of 

one of the stacks.  Two or three cushions on a lounge chair made a 

comfortable bed.  On the whole of the beach, in good weather, many young 

men spent the night sleeping on the dormant chairs.  The voices told him to 

always sleep close to the lifeguard tower to better keep track of his treasures.



	Vichapat watched the pudgy new Farang with the University of Minnesota 

t-shirt walk out to the beach from his hotel.  He waited until the man was 

established, reclining on his beach chair.  "Wa-u-nam wa-u-fom?" asked 

Vichapat.  He couldn't figure out why the Farang didn't understand what he was 

saying.  "Perhaps he was not English" thought Vichapat, but he pressed on 

desperately repeating the phrase which had always  worked before.  He smiled 

broadly, but inwardly he was angry at this fat Farang who refused to 

understand.  Finally the man got it.  They chatted briefly, but when it seeped into 

Vichapat's vacant brain that the stranger was no longer interested, he left to 

play volley ball with the boys on the beach.  He noticed, as he left, another boy 

approaching.  Vichapat seethed. "This is you beach" he heard the voices sing. 

"Take it back," they chanted.  But he lost the thought as quickly as it had 

occured.  Few thoughts stay in his head long.





	The troubled young man was very jealous of the boys, of their youth, their 

grace, their beauty.  He was especially jealous of Puiaw.  In his dim mind 

Puiaw was a dangerous pretender to his throne, the biggest threat to his 

imaginary kingdom.   He boiled over with envy as the voices became a chorus 

in his head, " Take back the beach", while he watched Puiaw and the obese 

Farang enjoying each other.  For more than two weeks the handsome boy had 

been flaunting his good fortune, so Vichapat thought.  He was beside himself, 

knowing somehow he must vanquish this dangerous upstart to quiet the 

voices.  When he heard about the party for Puiaw he snapped.  He stalked off 

the beach shaking with fury, frustration, and jealousy.   He screamed to no one 

in particular he would fix that poacher , Puiaw, and his bloated Farang.  



	The night of the party Vichapat retrieved the rusty gun from it's hiding 

place.  He slid it inside the waistband of his tattered pants, putting on a dirty 

jacket to cover the bulge.  He hadn't a clue what he would do.  The voices had 

taken control.  Giving in to their demands, Vichypat lurched off towards the 

Paradise Complex, his mind numb as his body trembled in submission to the 

single-minded message of the voices.  In just a few steps he was sweating 

profusely.  Passers-by thought he might be sick and gave him a wide berth.  





4





	Boon thought he cut quite a figure with his polished shoes and pressed 

khaki pants.  A shiny Sam Brown belt holding his service automatic was 

stretched tightly over his freshly starched shirt.  He especially liked it when he 

thought the girls were looking.  Boon was far too bashful to speak to them.  In 

truth they frightened him a little.  He was mortally afraid they would laugh at his 

weapon.  His face would grow hot with embarrassment while savoring their 

femininity, leaving him tongue-tied with frustration.  Boon fantasized about 

beautiful women in his arms, but lived alone.  The young policeman had only 

been on the T.A.T. police (tourist police) for three months.  His father wanted 

him to stay in the army, but Boon was a home boy and didn't like being away 

from Phuket.  He failed the tests for the Regional Police.  T.A.T., however, was 

in need of recruits.  His father greased a few palms and got his son in.  He 

hoped the boy would last in the job.  



	Boon was, by nature, easy going, slow to anger, slow to think, slow to 

act, not stupid, just slow and deliberate.  He was cursed with runaway teenage 

acne which had left his face scarred and puffy.  He worked out a lot to 

compensate so he had quite an imposing figure, but he just couldn't get the 

tough guy act that policemen universally develop.  In the department he was the 

youngest and newest recruit making him the object of jests and jokes.  He took 

the ribbing with good humor, trying earnestly to do his job, smoothing out the 

ruffled feathers of  irate foreigners.  Keeping the tourists areas safe so more 

vacationers could be parted from more Bhat more happily is the prime directive 

at T.A.T..  He was also charged with seeing that various businesses which 

catered to the hoards of visitors complied with the law, more or less.  He loved 

the camaraderie among the men on the force.  It helped him get past his own 

loneliness.  Still, he dreamed of girls.  Boon had just turned twenty-one.



	About a week after Boon started his new job, he was relaxing in the 

T.A.T. headquarters, which is in a smallish building between the lifeguard 

tower and Thanon Taweewong, the beach road.  Hearing loud angry voices he 

headed out the door.  A man on the beach wildly waving his arms about, was 

screaming at a Farang that he, Vichapat, was king of the beach.  Boon 

approached telling the Thai to stop bothering the tourists or he would be 

arrested.  The shabbily dressed man became wilder and more incoherent, 

shaking while jumping about with his arms flying everywhere.  Boon stepped 

close, wrapping his huge arms around the agitated vagrant from behind.  

Vichapat struggled and thrashed but could not break that gentle embrace.  The 

big policeman held on while making soothing noises until he  was finally able 

to calm down his captive.  Boon took him back to the T.A.T. headquarters where 

they took his name and gave him a stern warning about bothering tourists.  

Boon thought him a troubled soul while noting to himself Vichapat would need 

watching.



	On the night of the party for the popular bar boy, which had quickly 

become an event for the entire Paradise Complex, Boon planned to be in the 

Cabin Boy.  He was sent around to the gogo bars twice a week to check things 

out.  He was told about the party by his sergeant, though he had already heard 

of it.  His sergeant also reminded him of his other duties, those duties not 

spelled out in the manual.



	He began his evening's work at the My Way agogo.  As he entered the 

bar he paused by the door looking about.  His large imposing presence didn't 

go long unnoticed.  The boys all knew the big easy-going young policeman.  

They flocked around as Boon playfully boxed the ears of one or two of the 

younger lads, shooing them out for being underage.  They left dutifully, just to 

go around  back and re-enter, keeping a low profile.  Boon saw them out of the 

corner of his eye and shrugged.   He ordered a coke at the bar, paying with a 

fifty Bhat note.  He was always surprised when the bartender would give him 

one hundred Bhat for change.  Boon didn't think about these things very much, 

whether they were good or bad. They just were.  After a few pleasantries with 

the owner-manager, he left for the second stop on his rounds, the Black and 

White agogo, where the routine was the same, and on to the next and the next.  

By the time he arrived at the Cabin Boy, his pockets were stuffed with Bhat his 

sergeant expected to share.

 

	Because of the party, Boon planned to go to the Cabin Boy last. He 

wanted to spend some time there  wishing Puiaw well.  When he entered the 

party was chaotic.  Noisy laughter and shouting, accompanied by ear splitting 

disco music garnished with thick cigarette smoke, and brightly colored 

balloons, along with the aroma of spilled beer, all assaulted his senses like a 

runaway rogue elephant.  Ladyboys were performing lip sync songs.  Smiles, 

laughter and hugs were uniform of the day.  Puiaw was at the bar with J. B., the 

English gents, and several of the boys.  His landlady had come in only for a 

moment to wish her young tenant good luck.  She and two boys in briefs were 

now dancing with whoops, giggles, and great elan in front of the raised oval 

platform where dancers were now dribbling hot wax on each other.  



	The police officer stepped up to the bar, greeted Puiaw and the owner of 

the bar, while gently boxing an ear or two before ordering his drink.  He was, as 

usual, amused by his inflated change.  Boon settled onto a bar stool to enjoy 

the rest of the evening. 



	Officer Boon was half way through his second drink, having switched 

from coke to beer.  Loud shouts and a noisy commotion from outside the front 

door worked their way into his consciousness.  He looked up to see Vichapat 

bursting through the door, all the while wailing like a wild banshee.  He 

struggled into the bar, shouting and waving the rusty revolver, while dragging 

two of the greeters along in his wake.  The greeters were trying desperately to 

keep him out of the bar but to no avail.  



	The young recruit broke out in a sweat as his brain slowly processed the 

unbelievable scene.  Vichapat, screaming for Piuaw's head, was desperately 

trying to point the old firearm while pulling on the solidly rusted trigger.  Boon 

was a man with responsibilities.  He knew he was expected to do something.  

He stood up, shouting for Vichapat to put down the gun.  This provoked even 

wilder efforts to make that jammed old revolver work.  Boon felt he was loosing 

control.  He could see his comfortable career slipping away.  He slowly drew 

his service automatic, pointing it at Vichapat, commanded him to drop the rusty 

gun.  By now the rest of the bar was quiet except for the thwap, thwap, thwap 

from the disco speakers.  The young policeman was visibly shaking while 

Vichapat heard nothing but the voices in his head.  Boon seemed mesmerized, 

frozen in horror, as Vichapat pulled with all his might on the trigger that would 

not budge, crying with frustration and impotent rage.   



	Boon's brain finally accepted that he was going to shoot, but his hands 

were shaking so much he hoped he wouldn't hit someone else.  The boys and 

customers seeing him trying to take aim, dove for the floor or under the tables.  

The loud report stunned everyone.  The shot hit  Vichapat in the elbow sending 

the revolver spinning into the air.  



	Time stood still as the gun spun up, hanging motionless for an eternity 

before plummeting down.  Vichapat couldn't  pull the trigger that terrible night, 

but fate would not be denied.  The rusty old gun hit the hard tile floor right on the 

hammer, driving the firing pin into a shell stuck in the chamber patiently 

awaiting a brief but deadly life.   A second loud explosion tore the air as the gun 

disintegrated, parts flying every where.  The projectile that was spewed from 

the cracking barrel had just enough force left to enter Puiaw's chest, severing 

his aorta and collapsing his lung.  



	Puiaw looked down at the hole in his chest with disbelief as his blood 

gushed out over the bar. His eyes glazed over and he slumped down on the 

bar still clutching the acceptance notice from the school in Phuket town.



	J.B. tried desperately to stop the fatal flow of blood.  He tried to will time 

to reverse, to change the  events, to do anything to make Puiaw breath again.  It 

seemed like hours before the two English gents gently but firmly pulled him 

from his friend while two boys lay Puiaw down behind the bar covering him with 

a blanket brought from the dormitory upstairs. 



	A visibly shaken Boon was slumped on the floor holding the crazed man  

in his large helpless hands, his brain not yet accepting what had just 

happened.  Vichapat sobbed and whimpered  from the pain in his elbow and 

from the shock of what he had tried to do, now that the voices in his head were 

silent.  Three boys and one Farang customer were nursing minor cuts and 

bruises from the flying pieces of gun.  The other boys were weeping, clinging to 

each other in bewilderment while one or two youths, not wanting to be known, 

drifted off unnoticed.  The music had stopped.



	The regional police finally came.   After a few questions, they allowed the 

English gents to take J. B. back to their Inn.  The owner closed the bar while his 

boys just sat around stunned.  An ambulance came and Puiaw was gently 

removed to the Phuket Town morgue.  Vichapat was taken to the Phuket town 

Jail, after it was determined his injuries were not serious.  The officers would 

let someone higher up figure out what charges would be made.



	J. B. did not sleep that night.  He, the two English gents, and three of the 

boys from the bar talked all night sharing tears and memories of Puiaw.  The 

police came again the next morning to take statements.  J. B. was told he 

would not be needed and could leave the country as scheduled.  The Cabin 

Boy Agogo would be closed four days according to a terse sign posted on the 

door and the motor bike, decorated with balloons and flowers, still waited 

silently by the entrance.





5





	J.B. stayed in his room all the next day, stunned, not believing that he 

had lost so suddenly, so horribly, the young man with the wide grin, his friend, 

the boy who chased away the bitter solitude.  The oppressive well of loneliness 

sucked him down into an empty vortex of despair a thousand times more 

powerfully than before.  He cowered in his room for three days, numb and 

unfeeling.  He couldn't eat.  He didn't sleep.  J.B. could think of nothing but the 

senseless irony of an unfeeling fate.  He couldn't face going back to his empty 

rooms and empty life.  J.B., looking at a bleak future longing for the smiling face 

and laughing eyes of the boy from behind the bar, wondered where he might 

find a rusty revolver.  All it had to do was work.



	The day before he was to leave, four boys from the bar, solemn and 

subdued, came to accompany J.B. to the Wat where Puiaw was to be 

cremated.   When the ceremony was over the presiding monk asked the bar 

owner what was to be done with the young man's ashes.  Puiaw's family 

couldn't be found as he had been using a fake I.D card since his Bangkok 

days. The monk mentioned that in such cases it is sometimes customary to 

keep the urn at the Wat.  Before anyone could respond, one of the English 

gents tugged at the bar owner's sleeve, speaking quietly into his ear.  The bar 

owner nodded his agreement, then turned to question the boys, who quietly 

nodded their heads in unison.  He then spoke briefly to the monk, who listened, 

nodding wisely.  Finally the prelate approached J.B.  " Your friends think you will 

be able to find a suitable place for Puiaw.", presenting him the small urn 

containing his lost friends ashes.  J.B.  was overwhelmed, barely able to ask 

the monk what he was to do.  " You will know what is to be done." was the wise 

man's reply.



	J.B, returned to his hotel room.  He sat on the edge of the bed staring at 

the small urn holding all that remained of his ruined dream.  He could not bring 

himself to think about the ashes.  The words of the kindly monk were stuck in 

his mind.  Over and over again they sounded in his sleepless nightmare, " You 

will know what is to be done.".  The anguish was smothering him.  He wanted 

to sink into the endless void.  Slowly, from some inner corner of J.B.'s soul, 

survival, that older, more primal instinct, fought for control and he drifted off 

finally to sleep.  When he awoke on the day of his departure, the pain was 

gone, his mind clear, his soul at rest.  He knew what he must do. 









6





	Northwest Airlines  flight 60 was two hours out of Minneapolis, when J.B. 

awoke from an untroubled sleep.  He turned to the seat beside him and 

wished Puiaw good morning.  He thought about moving to San Diego so the 

young man with the new tiger would never be cold and could be close to the 

sea he loved.  J.B. knew he would never be lonely again.

  

	The lead flight attendant spoke to the First Officer about the man in 

coach who was talking to his carry on bag.  They did not know of the little urn it 

bore home with him to America.





	7



	The rising sun spilled over green hills flooding the beach with the 

promise of another hot day.  The night people scuttled away to hide until dark 

while day folk were getting their lounge chairs, umbrellas, and end tables ready 

for the coming crush of sun worshipers.  No one paid any attention to the lone 

Farang sitting on a rock out in the water at just about the low tide mark.  



	The solitary figure watched the small urn sink beneath gentle waves, 

saltwater coaxing gray ashes from the open neck of the container.  Ashes and 

sea swirled together in a timeless embrace.  Puiaw was finally home.   J.B. 

wished his friend with the laughing eyes one last good-bye. 



	 J.B. stood up slowly, shaking off his melancholy, and walked back along 

the beach, coming at last to the rows of lounge chairs with their brightly colored 

umbrellas in front of the hotel where he had begun his fateful adventure one 

year and a lifetime ago.  Approaching the girl who rented the chairs he returned 

her smile.   " I will have two chairs today".



Fin