Six months in ‘Nam
My students are pretty much all 20 year-old females who are all ovulating unceasingly. I didn’t like Vietnamese girls when I first got here, but let’s just say my views on this issue are evolving. When they look up at me I know what it’s like to be a cult leader. In the classroom you can literally see electricity arcing between pheromone clouds*. Pheromone clouds. Change genders if you want. More power to you. But you can’t fake that.
Some men would be plowing through this roster but I know better. I’m not saying I know what will make you happy, but I am also saying that impossibly tight young snatch won’t do it.
I usually wake up at noon. My life feels stressful but it’s not. I have to go out and manufacture stress if I want it. God bless the Socialist Republic of Vietnam for providing the freest ecosystem a man could dream of. Expats exist in a gray zone with no cops or taxes. Motorbike costs a dollar a day. I’ll never go home. Every morning I watch the West burn on my smartphone. Shrug and have coffee. This election horseshit feels like it’s unfolding on the other side of the galaxy.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m white trash who’s made all the wrong turns. I’m supposed to be selling Amway in Stratham, NH right now. The force that got me here was luck, multiplied by luck and then compounded by even more luck. I feel guilty about it all the time. Like: good times are only temporary, this is all going to fall apart tomorrow. You have to worry if you’re in a good spot, because if you act like a complacent cunt, your luck disappears. Then I realize that is a stupid way to expend your emotional energy. Look at the news. Bankers never run out of luck, and they’re demons. They expect luck, and so it’s always there for them.
I just re-read those two paragraphs above. I’m such a prick now. Probably the worst byproduct of freedom.
Young snatch used to be a remedy. Way before that, loving God was, and then hating him was too. Loving someone always starts well but then is also always a disaster. Writing can work, but writing is mostly torture. Booze has its moments but that shit’ll hurt you. If you’re free for a little while, you figure out that nothing works for long.
We rode out onto the marshes at midnight and drank beer under a tree fit for a lynching. Too far away to see lights of the city. A monsoon hit with lightning bolts stabbing down every twenty seconds. We had to drive back because it was just getting worse. Our tires weren’t gripping the reeds and kept getting sucked down into the mud. No idea which way to go. The riverbanks were starting to overflow and cut off out options. Too much rain to hear shouting. One of those times where you’re thinking: this isn’t a joke.
I was scared. So scared the only thing I could do was laugh hysterically. I imagine that’s how most boys have died in battle, laughing like that, because screaming would validate the fear.
*not actually literally