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wit 1

Looking at his new cell phone carefully cradled in his hands, Wit let out a whoop of glee. The newest model of iPhone, no one else he knew had one. Yet. As much as he hated the idea of work, Wit could hardly wait to show off his newest prized possession to his barmates later that night. He’d have to get to the bar early. For a change. Those bitches would be green with envy.

The clear skies of recent days were now under siege from masses of dark clouds, an ominous gathering begrudgingly allowing the early morning light to creep across the city. The wind sent candy wrappers cartwheeling across the asphalt and set soft drink cans tolling like bells as Wit slowly made his way down the small soi to where he’d left his motocy the night before. A small smile moved across his face with the swiftness of a breeze as he thought of calling his friend So. But So had booked a customer the night before, one of those farang who were as close to ancient as you can get without someone coming by twice a day to feed you and clean up your mess. The type of customer who whispered sour somethings in your ear like the cooings of a sick dove. The kind who’d flash the sort of smile a cat might give a mouse to take to the grave with it. But when you lived a life that was on nodding terms with poverty, you had to take what the Buddha gave you.

Wit was glad that he wasn’t So; sad that he wasn’t with So right now.

When Wit began working on the soi he’d believed in the rumors he’d heard. That by working in the bars you could find a rich farang who would love you. Who would buy you expensive gifts, take care of you, and who eventually might even buy you a house, property, or a farm. Someone for you to love and take care of and in return be taken care of and loved. But he’d quickly discovered when you work where love is for sale, it’s a barker’s cheap sideshow promise of want that rules the day, a fantasy driven world where reality only disappoints. But that dream world of a better life spun by his barmates and he was not one-sided. The farang too lied in preference to the cold hard truth that sex and love are two distinct animals, that when a price is put on the former, the latter rarely follows.

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Wit was lucky to be young and to look even younger than he was. Booking customers was not a problem. Finding one who would love him for who he was instead of what he was, was. Those first few weeks had brought him more money than he’d imagined possible, but little in the way of comfort or happiness. The men he’d gone with never seemed to recognize what he truly had to offer, their focus too intent on what they’d paid for. So, who possessed a natural affinity for empathizing with the emotions of those around him had recognized Wit’s despair, befriended him, helped him to understand what life on the soi really entailed. What could have been a harsh lesson in reality was tempered by So’s basic goodness, his willingness to find the positive in even the most negative of situations. His was a life almost mundane in the pleasure it derived from small bits of happiness and the beauty of the familiar, but uncommon in the value it attached to them. And Wit had found the love he’d been seeking, even if it did not come with the lifestyle he’d envisioned.

So was a good man. He was Wit’s friend. His brother. His family. And he’d welcomed Wit into his life. And into his heart. If only that heart could open to all that Wit had and wanted to give.

The morning rains had begun; droplets distorted the shapes of cars and the muted colors of the early morning sky reflected in the puddles on the pavement while the streetlights flashed by like pistol flares as Wit headed home, his motocy’s plaintive cry echoing through the gloomy suburban sprawl while those whose day was just starting slowly began to repopulate Bangkok’s streets. Wit pushed his new phone deeper into the pocket of his jeans, securing it against loss while drawing comfort from its touch. So would be happy for him he knew. He’d delight in Wit’s good fortune, absent the jealousy that could otherwise mar their mutual pleasure with his unexpected – although not unplanned for – windfall. Over the last year Wit had become an expert at deconstructing likely customers, almost without thinking. What they wore, how they walked, talked, and carried themselves was enough to clue him into their potential. And that was even before their eyes strayed to the stage.

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His most recent customer – a two night off, the farang who’d bought him his iPhone – was a middle-aged, middle-sized man with neatly combed unremarkable brown hair framing an equally unremarkable face, enjoying his first visit to Bangkok. One of the timid but nice farang who Wit knew would become putty in his hands. He’d been appreciative of everything Wit had done for and to him, had been gentle in his demands, and then generous with his wallet when they hit MBK the night before. As Wit had known he would be. This morning Wit had told him he had to leave early to pay his rent, a well-used bit of deception that detected those susceptible to suggestion. At worse it worked well as an excuse that would get Wit out of the hotel room before the customer demanded another round. When the gods were with him, he still made his escape, but usually with another few hundred baht in his pocket, the farang picking up on his signal, showing he was jai dee, proving Wit had worked his magic on the customer’s heart. The additional money was a bonus, its true worth Wit’s value refracted through the older man’s perceptions.

There was still a part of Wit that held on to the promise of love that a farang could bring, but it was a part of him that he’d learned to ignore, to push back into the recesses of his soul while he turned his attention to the customers who were elderly, needy, desperate; the ones who were so uncertain of themselves that they would trust another man’s judgement above their own, those who believed they were twice as attractive as they were, half as youthful as they appeared. The ones who turned the soi into a dumping ground for the worst fashion excuses of the polyester industry.

Wit sometimes went after the desperate ones, but he knew they could turn mean, or that maybe they wouldn’t have enough baht to make the night’s efforts worth while, or that they may possess a low cunning that made them naturally distrustful, a trait that naturally left them alone in the world, as well as unsuitable as a customer. But sometimes the desperate ones possessed an inner gentleness, a kindness Wit could sense in their eyes, a weakness that left them open to manipulation.

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Better yet were the customers who thought they were savvy. The world travelers who had good jobs back in their home country, who were so filled with their self-importance that they believed they could never be taken in by a bar boy. They were prime targets. And only half the challenge that they thought they were. The trick was to never approach them, never force them to do anything. Because the best customers were the ones who chose to come to you. Wit had learned: smile, remain aloof, lay the bait, and they will always come to you.

It wasn’t quite what So had taught him; the pursuit of what he could get out of a customer was at odds with So’s belief that treating customers with the same respect that you wanted from them would ultimately bring you the greatest amount of happiness. But then Wit had a brand new iPhone. And So, if he was lucky, might manage to snag a new shirt out of the customer he’d booked last night. If So could convince him to go shopping.

Wit considered calling So again, but knew, more than likely, at this early hour So would still be in the farang’s bed, cocooned in its soft, warm sheets. At that thought of So snuggled in bed, the temperate rain took on a sudden chill, the emptiness of the streets became a diorama mimicking the emptiness in Wit’s heart, the momentary vision that placed Wit in bed next to his friend briefly warming his soul, and then just as quickly dissolving back into the reality of the lonely streets as he guided his motocy toward his empty home. Against the cacophony of the town awakening, Wit’s phone rang, its sound diminishing the thoughts playing in his head. With one hand Wit wrestled it from his pocket, a photo of So glowing on its screen.

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