Monica lives in Florence, Italy. Her international spirit travels with an American passport. She moonlights as a legal worker when not parenting, project managing, and writing. Monica edits poetry and prose for Open Doors Review out of Livorno, Italy. See all publications and learn more at sharpmonica.com.

Apex Traveller

His flight from Birmingham to Dubai, then to Bangkok, was exhausting at best. Ghastly, really. He hadn’t been on a long haul like that since backpacking in South Africa five years ago. Fortunately he booked on Emirates, whose economy seats rivaled first class on most other airlines. He needed a place to put his long legs. The heady scent of luxury fragrance, capricious top notes of jasmine and ginger, from the duty-free shops in Dubai followed him like a dream from the departure lounge and onto the plane. Welcome enough in the dry air, those invisible tendrils of fragrance trailed behind him as he walked up the jetway in Bangkok, by that time having softened down into vanilla and sandalwood. Andrew put down his bag on the sidewalk and looked around. He hailed a cab to go to his hostel.

Youth hostel, again. Had it really come to this. He had sworn he was done, that he was far too old for such a scene. Backpackers could be beastly, honestly, so young, so callow. But he detested the loneliness and anonymity of proper hotels abroad and so felt that, in the end, it was a necessary concession. He would not be lured into their drinking matches, their petty flirtations, their immediate dramas. He must get well and truly down to business, else risk squandering all the effort that had been put into the fledgling family enterprise with his siblings.

He would resist temptation. He would practice moderation.

The Bangkok midwinter steamed. The taxi reeked of cheap patchouli freshener emanating from a rather linty felt Buddha that dangled from the rearview mirror.

“Here!” the driver chirruped. They had arrived.

The sign at Thai Me Up Hostel glinted weakly in chipped red and gold paint. Andrew groaned. Must they moniker themselves this way, he sighed. All allusions to forbidden liaisons and exhibitionism. He sighed and paid the driver a thousand baht.

The foyer of the hostel was punchy with fresh citrus cleaner. The room wasn’t bad, really. Though meant to be shared with five others, he had it to himself. For now. He changed his trousers for shorts and put on a clean shirt. A can of shoe freshener stood in the corner of the room. Common enough problem, clearly. He uncapped it and gave two long, generous sprays into his newish Adidas, well ripe from twenty-eight hours of transit. That should do it. Running a hand through his dark hair, wiping the fingerprints from his glasses, he quickly bent in and assessed himself in a mirror at his chest level. Ready for the street. Hair’s not foppish, really, don’t care what Lannie said, he thought to himself. What’s the alternative.

The hostel hung at the fringe of the old core of town, with its market and small shops. Reception assured him the pedicabs were safe. He hailed one and jumped in. “Where you go, mister?” the young driver craned around to inquire. A broad smile revealed two black holes where teeth had been. His breath puffed out sourly.

“I’d like some business,” Andrew said. The man he’d chatted with at the gate in Dubai had assured him this was the key phrase.

“You got it, chief.”

They soon pulled up next to a storefront with four large glass windows, all smoked. A sign over the door said “LOUNGE” in blue neon. The sidewalk smelt of dust, carpeted with cigarette butts and wrappers. He pushed open a door that tinkled faintly.

Inside the air was thick with tobacco smoke and skunky weed. Dewy young women and ephemeral ladyboys gathered in small groups on the sofas and chairs at the bar where music was blaring. Rag doll, baby won’t you do me… He ordered a gin and tonic.

“Only lime, please. It’s rubbish when it’s a lemon.”

The bartender smiled and slid over his drink, a thin lime slice clinging to the edge of the glass. Andrew turned around and continued to survey the scene, taking a small sip. It was shocking, really, how many beautiful people were crowded into such a small space, anything you wanted for sale or rent, and at prices whose modesty contrasted sharply with the divertissement du jour. It was impossible in here to tell what time of day or night it was. He took another sip.

“Mate, what you doin’ here? This is no place for you, you’re clean.”

He wheeled around and found himself next to an Aussie, wiry and well tattooed.

“Don’t know, really. Just got in.”

“Why you here? Makes no sense. Look at you.” Aussie cackled. “This is gutter life, man.”

“Doesn’t look it from here. They’re gorgeous.”

“They’ve all got forged medical certificates of good health.” Eyebrows shot up. “You wouldn’t want to touch ‘em, believe me.” He took a drag off his cigarette. “Business is in and out like the post in here. Rough life for the girls, especially the new ones.” Fresh tobacco tickled high in Andrew’s nostrils.

“They’re not all girls.” Andrew’s voice came out more flatly than he’d intended.

“Mate, did you just land? Of course they’re not all girls.”

Andrew ran his hand through his hair again. The old nervous sensation began to clack. Awful thoughts were creeping back in. Place was vile, really.

“Were you wanting something else?” the Aussie growled.

Andrew finished his drink. “No. I don’t think so.” He made note of where the door was.

Aussie moved in. “Whatever you want. I can get it for you.”

Andrew felt the man’s thigh touching his uncomfortably. This is ridiculous, he muttered.

“Not now, thanks. I might come back later.”

Andrew made the front door in about five strides, the girls and bois looking after him wide-eyed. Cute and clean, too cute and clean for them. A faint sigh riffled through the sofa where four of the workers perched like bright finches on a branch.

He pushed the door open into the blinding sunlight, the cloak of humidity, the dusty smell of must and street food. “Oi!” he called at a passing pedicab. “Please!”

The cab slowed to a stop. Andrew climbed in, ducking his head and remaining hunched over to fit into the miniscule passenger space. Funny – where was his… Fucking hell, Aussie. Nice beginning to Bangkok, this.