An old man, a stale and bland tourist in a colorful and pungent city, his cargo shorts, American flag T-shirt, light vest and Vietnam-Veteran ball cap marked him perfectly as not native, but the type of tourist that Bangkok always saw.  He’d been making his vacations alone for nearly twenty-five years, every single year since his wife passed on.  She had begged him as he sat in the hospital beside her to rejoin the Church and get right with their god, and the small silver cross embedded on the Derby head of his Blackthorn cane symbolized that commitment.  


His species was simple dog, no breed to claim, an obvious mutt.  His father had been a mix of Black-and-Tan-Coonhound and and Grosser Schweizer Sennenhund while his mother was a mix of Groenendael and Barbet.  The only traces of Coonhound in him was in comically long ears and a nearly omnipotent nose that had begun to grow impotent in old age.  The Barbet came out in his hair, curled, kinky and black, or at least it had been black 30 years ago.  The only remnants of his once-glorious mane hung from his chest, back, and privates, as he now kept his silver hair shaved down to the fur.  The Sennenhund came out in his fur, his chest, hand, and the bridge of his nose being a bright white, with a border of colorful tan an inch or two thick that gave way to pure black on the rest of his body.  The Grosser also came out in his size, as he was nearly six-foot-six.   The Groenendael wasn’t visible on him, but rather came out in his personality.  In his youth his mother told him he was always like his grandfather Maxime, clever, quick-tempered and mean.  The older he got the more she asserted it, though always with the qualifier that Maxime might have been the best schutzhund in the old country.


The edges of his hat were tattered and it was faded around the stitches.  The collar of his shirt and the screen-print design was starting to get worn out from old age. The vest was tan, nylon, some cheap faux hunting jacket that in America would say “I only hunt with a thirty-aught-six and carry a J-frame,” but in Thailand it simply says “I’m American.”  His cargo shorts were longer than they probably should be, and his socks were taller than they should have been, his shoes had velcro presumably because he couldn’t tie them anymore.  


He’d spent his first two days acclimating himself both to the new time zone and the area again.  He came every year but as he got older getting used to the food and the smells and language and the time difference became harder.   Finally he had found equilibrium, with only five days to go, and called the same taxi he always called.  With both hands on his cane he leaned forward and waited at the corner nearest his hotel, neon and music in the distance in all directions, far enough away that the tourists in their high rooms could sleep but close enough to call them like a siren, their wallets feeding the beast and their selfies and instagrams doing a better job than the Ministry of Tourism and Sports could ever hope.  Finally the little green sedan pulled up, and before it could even get into park the old dog had pulled the back door open and started climbing inside.  


“How’re you doing this year, Han?”  He could remember when Klahan was pulling a tuk tuk behind an ancient Honda and had seen him grow from year to year.  Back then the dhole was young and bright and hadn’t dulled and gone grey himself.  They’d done good business that very first time and had stuck together since.  Brand loyalty and Customer Loyalty, you could say.  


“Very good, how have you been, Mr. Eli?”  He said with a moderate accent.  Dealing with English-speakers so often encouraged him to learn for himself and reduce his accent as much as possible.  Neither of them knew the others’ last name, Eli because he couldn’t pronounce Han’s, and Han because Eli had never seen fit to tell him.  


“Falling apart, Han!  I’ve got more metal in my hip than bone now, and they’ve given up on my back and are just shooting painkillers straight into the nerves to keep me out of constant pain.”  Eli laughed and cradled his cane between his legs, leaning forward toward the old acquaintance. 


“You should start taking it easy!  A man your age should be sitting in a rocking chair drinking Min’ Joo-lips.”  Han’s accent came out at the end, only slightly, though knowing what a Mint Julep was at all and that it was a Southern drink showed a considerable amount of effort.  


“Given the choice I choose a shorter more comfortable life over more time being miserable, thank you.” Eli said with a wry kind of laugh as the taxi began to move. 


Han sighed and sat back, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket.  Before he could fish out his own lighter Eli had a brass Douglass Lighter at his face, struck and giving him a light.  Han shook his head and inhaled the flame, taking the light.  As the lighter clicked closed and Eli pulled his hand away Han exhaled and filled the car with a grey haze, catching every stray beam of neon and illuminating it like dust floating by a bright window.  “So… Same as last year?”  He said in a tired tone.  


Eli smiled, putting his lighter away and sitting back, getting comfortable.  “Yes.  First suit.  Then leather.  Have you found me a fresh hardware store that carries what I’m looking for?”


Han nodded and took another drag before exhaling another cloud.  “I have.”  After a long pause and a deep breath of fresh air he continued. “There’s a man here, new.  He’s trying to make a name for himself dealing younger than anyone else, and only dealing in fresh.”  

The mutt of a dog smiled from ear to ear and pushed his hat back, looking out the window.  “You see those ISIS fuckwits have started selling kids?  Say you can grab a 6 year old for two-hundred US.   A steal, ain’t it?  It’d almost be worth having to deal with the ragheads to get at ‘em, wouldn’t it?” 

Han chuckled awkwardly and nodded.  “Same tailor?”  


“Yeah.  I’d feel like I was doing ‘em wrong if I took my business elsewhere now.”  His smile hadn’t faded, though it had an intimidating air.  His eyes were almost like a child’s in anticipation of Christmas but his smile was like a hungry animal, almost drooling, teeth shimmering, a few metal caps bringing even more attention to them.  This was the 23rd year in a row Han had escorted and directed Elias Johnston, and it was, like every year before it, the hardest year yet.   


TO BE CONTINUED 


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