8-Ball

September 5, 2017

Chiang Mai, Thailand

 

I stared at the small mirror on which the little glassine bag and his casino rewards card rested. “Come on”, he said. “You know what to do.” And I suppose I did know what to do, but I was definitely not ready for this.

It was mid-September, 2016, and I was hosting a guy from Texas. Gaco had requested a stay on short notice as he was coming to Chicago. I was still recovering from a trip to New England for Labor Day weekend, had just finished hosting some people and events during the Chicago Couch Crash*, and also just got a new roommate.  I could have easily said “no”, because of everything else going on, but something about Gaco’s profile information and his nice request told me that it would be worth hosting him. I made arrangements to pick him up at a train station outside of the downtown area, and afterwards we met up with some new Filipina friends at the grand opening of a huge Filipino superstore that everyone had been going on about. The ladies had ordered food from inside, and we all sat out on the sidewalk eating interesting dishes and having a really fun conversation. Gaco didn’t know anybody there, and I only knew one of them briefly, but he made himself at home with the group.

The Filipinas were all tired from fighting the crowds at the store, and so they decided that they were going to check out early and go home instead of staying out to go dancing or karaoke. So Gaco and I headed back toward my place on the south side of Chicago. Before we got all the way to my home, however, I decided that we really owed it to ourselves to have a couple more beers. Reggie’s Music Joint and Rock Club on the corner of State and E. 21st had always been one of my favorite places to hang out and bring my couchsurfing guests. It was within walking distance to my apartment, which was convenient if heavy drinking was planned. Reggie’s boasted a very cool downstairs bar with live music, another soundstage for ticketed events, an amazing record store on the second level, and one of the coolest rooftop bars in the city. This place catered to everyone’s taste. Some nights there would be folks all dressed up in leather and chains for a heavy metal concert, other times it was hip/hop. The music joint bar bands ranged from country to 80’s, jazz to current pop. Everyone felt welcome at Reggie’s. It was probably the most integrated bar I ever saw in Chicago.

It can be difficult to find parking near Reggie’s on a summer weekend. I felt lucky to grab a spot on 21st across from the Chase Bank branch. It was just after 10pm, so I didn’t have to pay the meter, which was nice. After showing our ID’s at the door, we walked up to the rooftop bar and ordered a couple of beers. It was pretty crowded, and seating was scarce. I noticed a couple of vacant spots at one of the octagonal picnic-style tables that was otherwise occupied by a group of women and one guy. I sauntered over and asked if we might grab a seat, and they graciously welcomed us to join them. They turned out to be a group from a couple of local radio stations, including a couple of on-air dj’s who had been at the RiotFest concerts earlier in the day. Some of them were more drunk than the others, including the guy dj, who was making a total ass of himself. I trolled him for a bit until it got boring. Gaco headed back to the bar counter to get us a couple more beers, and I saw him over there talking to some old guy sitting on the barstool.

Since the radio personalities were pretty much finished with their night, they got up to go, leaving me there by myself. Gaco was still engaged in conversation with the dude, so I wandered over. This guy was tanked. His name was Jeff, and he was spouting some weird shit over and over, and the only reason it was funny to me was because he looked like what Jason Statham will be when he gets old and goes to pot. There was a girl sitting on the barstool next to us, and she was laughing at Jeff’s stupidity. As long as we were drinking, I didn’t care. It was a good time. The young lady’s name was Char – short for Charlene, and at some point she started to tell me about some personal stuff that was bothering her. I could see that she just needed to talk, so I guided her over to one of the covered picnic tables, as it had begun to sprinkle rain. She vented for a bit while Jeff continued to hold court at the bar. A few minutes later, Gaco walked over to us, looked at me and asked, “Do you want to go hang out on a boat?”

Now, you would think that someone with a bit of maturity and savvy would maybe ask a couple of questions at this point. Like perhaps, “Whose boat?”, or “Isn’t it a bit late (midnight) to be going out on a boat?”

The mature and savvy me had taken the night off, evidently, so my immediate response was more like, “HELL YEAH!”

It turned out to be old, fat, loud Jason Statham’s boat. I looked at Char and asked her if she was willing to join us. She hesitated a bit, perhaps due to maturity and savvy, and said that she lived in Humboldt Park, and would need to make sure she got home safely. Gallant that I am, I told her that I would keep her safe and promised to make sure she made it back.  So we were four.

Gaco, Char, Me, and Jeff at Reggie’s. (Come on..he kind of looks like a grumpy, old Jason Statham, right?)

The first order of business was to make sure that we continued to be well-lubricated. Reggie’s didn’t do carry-out beer, so we jumped into a cab that Jeff had hailed without our knowing, and headed off. Up State Street and around a corner was an establishment that would cater to our needs. I was volunteered to go in and pick up the beer. As I was waiting for the guy at the register to acknowledge my presence, I saw and smelled the food being prepared, and I just had to order some deep-fried onions, which made the rest of the cab ride to the marina very smelly. Jeff alluded to having party favors, which I understood to mean that he was in possession of some weed.

Jeff’s boat turned out to be a 45-foot sailcraft instead of the powerboat that I had imagined. The moon was very close to full, and because the sailboat was taking up the slip at the far end of the pier, we got to see an unobstructed view of the beautiful reflection on the calm waters of Lake Michigan. It was a soundless night, unsullied until all four of us decided that we needed to take a piss. The boat didn’t have a proper head, just a bucket, so the three boys stood at the end of the stern and whizzed into the lake, while Char squatted down on the edge of the pier next to the bow. Not a creature was stirring in any of the surrounding watercraft.

Down in the cabin, it was a bit cramped quarters. There wasn’t a lot of headroom, but as we sat down on the sleeping berths, it didn’t really seem to matter. The beer continued to flow, Jeff continued to be loud and boisterous, and Gaco continued to laugh at his antics. Old, fat Statham decided that I reminded him of Jeff Lynne from Electric Light Orchestra, and kept badgering me to sing, except he was asking for songs by other bands instead. I did my best to make him happy, but he’d usually interrupt me before I even got to the chorus lines.

About the time that I started wondering how my night ended up like this, Jeff half-stood up and said that it was time to get the party started. I was confused. Weren’t we already…? He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope, then began bellowing for his mirror. I had no idea what he was talking about, until he grabbed a very small mirror – about four inches square -, plopped a little baggie and what looked like a credit card on top of the looking glass, and shoved it at me. “Here,” he brayed, “you cut it.” I just sat there and stared. “Come on,” he said. “You know what to do.”

Yeah, I’ve seen enough movies and television that I knew what was supposed to be done. But as most of you are already aware, I grew up rather sheltered. I didn’t have close friends in my childhood who used drugs of any kind. If asked, I couldn’t have told you which of my classmates sold or even used marijuana. I heard the terms “dime bag” and “roach” bandied about when I was in high school, but didn’t have a clue what they really were. That sheltered life continued into adulthood, as my family’s religion kept us separated from most other people on a social level. So I never was exposed to drugs or paraphernalia. I was 40 years old before I was even approached on the street with an offer to buy weed. It was only earlier in the summer of 2016 that I actually tried marijuana for the first time (I found that smoking it has little and less effect on me…edibles are a completely different story).

I continued to stare at the mirror, plastic card, and bag of cocaine for another couple of seconds, then just said, “I’d rather not.” Flabby, elderly Transporter-with-a-beard had this incredulous look on his face until all of a sudden, Gaco piped up. “I’ll do it!” he said. I watched as the mirror was passed to my right, and my couchsurfing guest began to empty the white powder onto the glass. He held the mirror with his left hand as he began to use the credit card (which turned out to be a rewards card from Horseshoe Casino in nearby Hammond, Indiana) to divide the pile of coke into four caterpillar-shaped lines  I didn’t even have to do the math. Four people, four servings.  Oh, shit.

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “None for me tonight.” Gaco looked up at me in a mixture of balefulness and amusement. Now he had to start over. Which was probably not a bad idea, because his squiggly lines didn’t look like the expertly cut ones I’d seen Denzel snort up in “Flight.” Old man Statham shook his head. Char didn’t say a word. She just stared greedily at the little piles of powder. ‘Who ARE these people?’ I wondered, ‘and how did I end up on some strange guy’s sailboat at 1am watching a scene from “Blow”?’

As Gaco finished putting the final touches on the three more generous lines of nose candy, Jeff pulled out a for-real $100 bill, just like in the movies. He rolled it up tight, grabbed the mirror, and snorted up the first little seam of chalky-looking powder. He handed it over to Char, who with no hesitation, sucked the second line up into her right nostril. She wiped her nose with one hand, and gave the mirror to Gaco with the other. I watched in detached fascination as this guy I agreed to let sleep in my home hunched himself over the mirror, with the cylindrical Benjamin Franklin shoved up his sniffer. Holding the reflecting glass in his right hand, he guided the money straw with his left over the last line of cocaine as it disappeared.

Now what? It occurred to me that Jeff had probably been a combination of drunk and high the entire evening. But what effect was the narcotic going to have on Char and Gaco? I had promised the Texan that he could sleep on my couch for a couple of nights while he was in town. I had also guaranteed Char that I would make sure she got home safely. Was I the only responsible party here?

The party continued, with more clinking of beer cans, and Jeff’s boisterous antics, with Gaco egging him on. Char got a little more quiet. She had been asking if the group could go back up topside for some air. The sailboat captain had no intention of leaving his cabin, so I gently guided the girl up the steps to the stern deck. The stars were brilliant in the sky, and the lake serene. We sat there as she talked about her family and the business she worked for. She wanted to join a walk for suicide prevention, as it had struck close to home in the past. I wanted to know how she was so expert at snorting coke. She gave me a wan smile and said that she had been doing drugs since she was 13. I didn’t know what to say to that. She continued about some of the problems that she had experienced and I began to see a woman who was fighting a lot of demons. She moved closer to me, then eventually into my lap. There was a spider on the stern rail, right next to where her finger rested. I pointed it out, lest she be startled by it. Rather than pull her hand away, she pushed it closer to the spider, and allowed it to walk up her finger. I told her that I could never do that, as I suffer from arachnophobia, and she told me also feared spiders. The only reason she felt like she could do it was because she was high from the coke, and felt a bit euphoric. Meanwhile, Gaco and Jeff’s conversation had muted, and we discovered that they had passed out and gone to sleep. Jeff had crawled up into the forward compartment, and Gaco was on one of the sleeping berths on the starboard side aft.

Char and I talked and sat for a while longer, then dawn began to break. I knew that I should get some sleep, and she said that she was exhausted as well. We made our way down into the cabin, and took up sleeping positions on opposite sides of the sailboat. I set my alarm for 7, because I remembered that I had left my car in a paid parking zone that would start up at 8am. Chicago is notorious for handing out expensive parking tickets, and I had no desire to get hit with another. I was able to get a good hour of rest before my phone began to chime. I woke Gaco up and told him we had to go. I gently shook Char until she opened her eyes. I reminded her of my promise to get her home, but she just looked at me and said that she was going to stay. I asked if she was sure. None of us really knew anything about Jeff except what he had told us about having been a stockbroker whose wife had divorced him and blamed him for the death of their daughter. He had bought the boat with what remained of his share of the sale of their house during the divorce. Char nodded and said she’d be fine. Well, she was an adult, so I told her goodbye and left with Gaco in tow.

He and I walked back towards Grant Park in the downtown area so it would be easier to catch a cab back to Reggie’s and my car. He was in good spirits, and we were both hungry. I told him there was a very good soul food restaurant in my neighborhood, and we decided breakfast would be an excellent idea. As we drove down Martin Luther King Jr. Drive towards Peach’s cafe, I admitted to him that I had never been in the presence of people using cocaine before.  He said it was his first time too. I looked at him in disbelief. “Dude!” I said. “You snorted down that line like you were a pro!”

“No, I actually didn’t,” he replied.

“But I saw you! You moved the rolled-up bill over the coke and it was gone!”

“That’s what you saw,” Gaco said as he smiled. “I actually tilted the mirror a bit and pushed the cocaine onto the floor of the cabin as I went over it. It was dark in the cabin, and nobody noticed.”

“If you didn’t want to do the coke, why didn’t you just say so? I did.”

“Well, Jeff seemed so intent on sharing with us, and I didn’t want to be a dick and disappoint him,” he said with a wink.

As I thought about the expensive little pile of powder hitting the grubby floor of Jeff’s sailboat, and how crazy the night had been, I started laughing out loud. Gaco joined in, and we were soon both in tears.  I parked the car on 47th and King Drive. “Let’s go get some shrimp and grits!”

 

*Couch Crash:  Within the global couchsurfing community, there are members who set up special events in their respective cities and towns. Usually occurring over a weekend, these events are open by invitation to couchsurfing members across the globe. It’s a nice way to showcase your city and bring a bunch of cool people from around the world together for some food, drink, activities, and fellowship.

 

 

Don’t Move

September 4, 2017

Chiang Mai, Thailand

 

Sitting completely still is not as much of a difficulty as I had imagined. If you told my mother that I said that, she would not believe a word. According to her, I was a very fidgety child, and neither of my brothers or I could be counted on to stay in place for more than a few seconds. “Rambunctious” was the term she applied to us, which was a nicer way of saying “unruly” or “very naughty”. At any rate, sitting quietly was apparently beyond my abilities when I was a child.

In my quest to experience life to the fullest, I look for new challenges wherever they appear. Obviously, some of them are more scary than others, and I’m not always ready to accept them. My fears of heights, spiders, and looking stupid continue to confront me at times. I have overcome them somewhat, however. I have stood in the glass boxes hanging out over the sidewalk along Wacker Drive from the 103rd floor of the Willis (Sears) Tower in Chicago. It only took me three attempts on different visits to the observation deck to actually make that step. I allow some small spiders to inhabit my shower here in Thailand. I made an agreement with them that if they stay put, don’t invade my space or start crawling around while I bathe, I’ll let them have their homes and their lives. The large Huntsman spiders have not signed an agreement, however, and they continue to die as soon as I see them. As far as my self-consciousness goes, I no longer have to be drunk to get up and sing karaoke. I will dance in public. I’m hoping to get an opportunity for open mic night or some improv classes.

As I’ve said before, when presented an opportunity to try something new, I will say “yes” unless there is a good reason to say “no”. (Morbid fear still is a good reason sometimes.) Last week, there was an invitation on a local Facebook page looking for a nude model for a drawing/painting class here in the area. More specifically, they were looking for a “fat, nude model”. I was a little torn. I have always been on the heavy side for my entire adult life. And I’ve always been self-conscious about that fact. I seldom like my photographs, as they remind me that I’m not the muscular, trim, Fabio as I imagine myself. But I was intrigued by the challenge of being completely vulnerable in front of a group of strangers, so I didn’t allow myself to ponder over the “fat” part of the request, and I made the decision to reply to the message right away. Within a few hours I received a message from the woman who ran the studio. She told me that they were excited to be able to work with a live model (apparently, it’s a bit difficult to find people here who are willing to pose sans clothing), and that she would call me on Thursday to confirm. They were looking for someone who was heavy – at least 80kg (I’m a bit over 100kg) – and could spend the day Saturday sitting in one position for periods of time while the artists sketched, or used watercolors and oil paint to render a copy of a less-than-perfect figure.

I spent the next two days wondering if she was going to call me and tell me that I was chosen, or was going to let me off the hook. Part of me was kind of hoping for the latter, but honestly, I really wanted to have the experience. I visited the studio’s Facebook page, where they were inviting artists to join them for the event with the “fat, nude model”. The photographs of the paintings they used to advertise this made me wonder if I was actually what they were looking for. The models in these paintings were morbidly obese. I now found myself wondering if they would be disappointed in me.  Maybe they would feel cheated that I wasn’t as big as they had hoped for.  I had to laugh at the irony of worrying about being fat enough for the artists. On Thursday, I got the call from Pui, the woman who ran the studio. She told me that she would pick me up at 8:30 near the North Gate in Chiang Mai, and take me to the studio 20km away from the city. I would be paid a minimum of 700baht (a little over $20US), provided with lunch and snacks, and given stretch breaks throughout the day. The modeling would begin about 10am, and finish at 4:30, after which I would be taken back to the city.

Saturday morning came early as I was out late the previous night. I got up and showered, dressed, and packed my bag. As I rode into town, I began to wonder why exactly I had agreed to do this. I pushed the negative thoughts out of my mind and just focused on money (which made me wonder if that’s what prostitutes do) and the fact that I would hopefully have a cool story to write. After eating a quick breakfast of khao man gai (chicken with rice), I walked to the meeting spot at the North Gate. Pui was there waiting for me, along with another woman who was one of the artists. She then said that the rest of the group was joining us, and sure enough, four more people walked up. Pui was driving her pickup truck, which meant that we had four in the cab, and three others reclining in the bed with the art supplies and groceries. As I greeted each one in turn, I tried to not think about the fact that these people were paying to have me strip off my clothes and let them render my figure to paper/canvas. It was a little bit weird for me. But everyone was nice, and they didn’t seem to treat me as the object that I felt like.

There were two guys in the group. Lorenzo, from Italy, was a tall, thin, young man with long hair and a beard. Gio, shorter and stockier, was very dark-skinned, and I thought he might have been from India, but his accent said different, and he told me that he was Australian (although his heritage is Indian). One young woman from the UK had brought along her mother. Mia, and her mom (whose name escapes me) are both involved in NGO work to help developing countries. Hannah, the remaining girl grew up in Chiang Mai. She said that she was half native, which explained her fluent Thai speech. It was an amiable group, and I found myself relaxed in their presence, pushing to the back of my mind the reason why I was there with them. As we drove further away from the city, and into the wilderness, I realized that there was no turning back at this point. I was committed.

Pui’s place was a family farm, with groves of mango, papaya, and banana trees growing on the foothills of the mountain.  Pretty remote, and very beautiful. As we were driving up the rutted little dirt lane, I started thinking that this would be a good place to hide bodies. She and her parents had a homestay (guesthouse) on the premises and she had also built an open-air art studio out of mud and timbers, all by herself. After some light refreshments, we trekked out over a couple of hills to the studio.

Ten o’clock came, and the group had their easels all set up and their pencils/brushes/palettes all arranged. Hannah was on the couch (cut out of an old bathtub) where I would be sitting, trying out different poses that would suit the artists and be comfortable for me. I settled on one that looked like I could easily maintain for a length of time, and then it was the big moment. I took a deep breath and walked around the corner to undress. Thankfully, Pui had provided me a towel in which to wrap myself while I was naked, but not yet posing. Ready-or-not, here I come. I stepped out into the main room, dropped my towel, and sat down in the pose.  Six people were looking at me intently, sizing me up, checking from different angles. Lorenzo asked if I would take off my glasses, which actually helped, because with my near-sightedness, I couldn’t really see their eyes. I picked a spot on the wall across from the couch on which to focus my attention. Hannah set a timer for 20 minutes, and then the work began.

As I sat there without a stitch on in front of these people, I began to take stock of my life thus far.  I watched the blurry shapes in my peripheral vision move slightly – looking at me, looking at the easel, back to me, back to the easel-, heard the strokes of the pencils against paper, brushes on canvas, and I thought of all of the other crazy things I’ve done in my 49 years. When I was four, I ran ahead of my father on the pier, began climbing the lighthouse structure, and promptly lost my grip and fell onto the rocks, garnering a nice concussion (and probably my acrophobia) in the process. As teenagers, my friends and I used to regularly take inner tubes down the Chipola River in Florida, floating past snakes and alligators sunning themselves on the riverbanks. I’ve given speeches and presentations in front of crowds of hundreds or thousands. I quit my steady job with a good income and sold everything to move across the world to a place unfamiliar to me in both customs and language. Right before I made that plunge, I visited BDSM dungeons, went to a party as an enslaved man, rode through the streets of Chicago naked with a bunch of other bare-assed people. I tried illicit substances for the first time in my life. I often buy airline tickets on a whim to destinations without having any plans. But posing in the nude was one of the nuttiest things I ever did. I tried to imagine what my former coworkers would think if they knew.

The chime on Hannah’s phone caught me by surprise.  Twenty minutes had gone by very quickly, and she asked if I needed a break. I told the group that I was good for another five minutes if they wanted. My ankle had started to ache from the position, but it wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t tough it out for a bit longer. After the five minutes was up, I sat motionless while Hannah used strips of masking tape to mark the positions of my feet, body, and arm. I then grabbed a small piece of tape and placed it on my focus spot on the wall. I wrapped myself in the towel to walk around, as I felt it uncomfortable to be standing around talking while I was exposed. It was at this point, when I glanced at the sketches and rough outlines that the artists were doing, that I realized my mistake in choosing the pose in which I ended up. The pictures of me -relaxed on the couch, one foot in front of the other, one arm draped over the back, the other resting on my belly/leg with my hand over my thigh- looked like a pervert Netflix-and-chilling all by his lonesome. I couldn’t help but think, “Oh my God! That guy is sitting there pleasuring himself, and he’s ME!” Way too late to change the pose now.  (Fortunately, Hannah didn’t really like it either, so she took a creative liberty and moved my hand to my side instead of in my crotch area.) After about a five-minute break, I went back and sat down, posing for another 25 minutes.

We stopped for lunch at noon, and took a 90-minute break. Pui made some delicious pad thai, and I enjoyed a couple of helpings. I had put my clothes back on for this, of course, because eating naked is just too weird. After we returned to the studio, Mia began to play some 70’s music from her Spotify account. At first, it was amusing, because trying to be completely motionless while you are listening to “Stayin’ Alive”, “Play That Funky Music”, or anything by James Brown, is almost impossible. There was also an uncomfortable minute or two when some French musical duet came on. I couldn’t understand the words, but I definitely knew that the guy was trying to seduce the girl – and winning at it, too -because the moaning, heavy breathing, and grunting that was going on as well as the singing made it perfectly clear what was happening. I never stared at a point on a wall with more earnest focus in my life. I can’t help but wonder if she didn’t play that on purpose. Bitch. (Kidding!) But as much as I enjoyed the other tunes, they were problematic for me, because they gave me a sense of time. Now, sitting for 20 minutes was four songs, or maybe five. Or perhaps a sixth would begin, because we started in the middle of another. And because my back and my butt were really beginning to feel the strain of sitting (it wasn’t a cushy recliner, after all), I started to count songs and the time became my focus. Fortunately, Mia finished up her painting early, and decided she was too hot sitting in the studio. She packed up her materials and took her Blue-tooth speaker with her to the main house.

When 4:30 came, I was more than ready to quit. I put my shorts and t-shirt back on, grabbed the blanket and cushions, and headed back to the house with the remaining artists. We all enjoyed some more food and drinks. They had already asked me if this was my first time posing as a model. Lorenzo mentioned that many models have a very difficult time being completely still, and they were very impressed that I sat like a statue.  Pui asked if I would be interested in sitting for other studios in the future, because of the shortage of people willing to pose in the nude.  She also handed me an envelope containing 1,000baht, which was considerably more than I was promised. Additionally, they gave me one of the drawings. A very nice gesture, but I promise you, it’s not going up on my wall.

 

Would I pose in the nude again for the sake of art? I thought about it while I was sitting there, and the conclusion I came to was probably not. Being stationary in the same pose for that long got to be tiring. I wasn’t doing it because I needed the money. I wasn’t doing it because I knew that the artists needed me. The main reason I did it was because it was a new experience. Something that wasn’t necessarily on my bucket list, but came up and I was able to add it and cross it off. It was an interesting thing to do, and challenged my sensibilities. And it also provided me with something to write about.