Jackson Warfield
"it's easy to be a bad writer, but it's hard to wake up each day and devote a chunk of your life to bad writing."
"I heard a voice hiss,
'I'm gonna fucking kill you.'"
'I'm gonna fucking kill you.'"
All work copyright Jackson Warfield 2009
A STRANGE TALE FROM VANG VIENG
by JACKSON WARFIELD
In Vang Vieng, it became my short-lived habit, after awakening in the morning and eating breakfast, to rent a bicycle from my guesthouse and go for a long bike ride. There was only one main road going through the little valley town, and you could take it either north or south.
Riding south, the valley would widen and the mountains would shrink and the landscape, though still picturesque, was nothing compared to riding between the mountains to the north, where the road followed a winding, shallow river. So naturally, each day I'd ride north.
The bicycle I rented had a single speed and had long, arcing handlebars, resembling one you might find Mary Poppins riding through the streets of London. In the basket on front I'd bring a bottle of water and sometimes sun block, depending on the weather.
The rides were exhilarating. It felt wonderful to breathe in the fresh air after much time spent in smoggy, busy, filthy cities all over southeast Asia. The mountains were made of steep, jagged limestone and dotted with small trees which somehow survived on their nearly sheer, barren slopes.
The road through the valley was fairly smooth and mostly flat and every few kilometers there was a town where the locals would be busy doing their daily work of basket-weaving, rock-grinding, or shop-keeping. Some simply lied around, napping in hammocks or on outdoor beds. It seemed a very relaxed way of going about life.
The young children, upon seeing a falang, would run out towards the street and shout "saibadee!" They'd wave their dark, little hands and some would even hold one up in the air for me to give them high fives as I pedaled past.
Coming from Vietnam, where even the children were always out touting and trying to swindle you, it was a welcome change to be received with only mild interest, or even kindness.
But on the northern edge of one town, about ten kilometers north of where I was staying, there was one kid who seemed at first neither interested nor kind. I remember spotting him during my first ride. He was squatting by a small abandoned shed, a good ways away from any nearby house or hut. He looked about ten or eleven years old and had hair down to his nose, mangy and black. His face was splattered with whatever he'd eaten for lunch and he wore filthy clothes and a big frown. What I recall most vividly was that when we first made eye contact he scowled at me and stuck out his tongue.
I smiled and let out a little snort as I passed him, then gave him no more thought than I gave the big cow turds that were mashed into the dry pavement along the side of the road.
I continued biking on, over a bridge where men were fishing and then through other towns. When I came to a spot that had an especially nice view of the river and some rice paddies I stopped my bike and pushed down the kickstand, found a spot to sit down and had a good, long drink of water.
As I sat there admiring the landscape and watching the gently moving clouds which shrouded the highest peeks of the mountains, the image of the mangy boy came back into my mind. There was just something about him, something peculiar and mean, like he was some kind of wild or rabid animal. Like he didn't belong.
For a few minutes I thought about the kid until finally I said to myself, "what a foolish waste of time, giving the little bastard any thought. Look where you are, man."
And it was foolish. I was gazing upon one of the most beautiful and serene country landscapes I'd ever seen, a place whose beauty even a professional photographer would find difficult to capture. But there I was, thinking about a young boy with a dirty face.
I pushed the thought from my mind, got back on my bike and pedaled further on. When I felt like I was far enough out that it would be a long, tiresome ride back to town, I turned around and started on my way.
As I came to the spot which I'd first stopped I thought about taking another rest, but after short deliberation, I decided it would be better to keep moving, because as with many things, if you stopped when you were tired, it was always much harder to start up again.
I cruised along at about the same pace at which I'd been going. I really only had one pace when I pedaled, and it was a steady one. Never had I been passed by another bicycle rider, but many had I passed. It was a little point of pride that entered my mind each time I came up behind somebody and whizzed right by them.
"shit," I'd say, after overtaking them, "Lance Armstrong has nothing on me! balls or no balls!"
As I rode through the towns I began to feel strangely excited and apprehensive at the same time, wondering whether I'd see that little monster again. His odd mug had snuck back into my mind.
The towns all looked similar, each with their thatched huts and stilted houses and chickens and dogs and goats on the edges of the road. The little kids playing under the water pumps. I wasn't sure on the outskirts of which town to expect to see the kid who, in my mind, was slowly growing into a weird obsession.
But I didn't need to put much work into finding the kid. The kid found me. While approaching his village, I saw him squatting there on the edge of the road near the abandoned thatched shed, just where he'd been before. I stared at him as I pedaled by, as though to decipher whether he was real or maybe just a scarecrow or some weird, painted wood carving, and maybe I'd just thought he'd stuck his tongue out.
The closer I got to him the more strange I felt, as though some force was pulling my vision towards him. Then, just before passing him by, he leapt to his feet, wound up his arm and hurled a large rock at my head! The little prick!
I was about to stop and turn around and chase him but when I opened my eyes again I saw another rock flying towards my head but I dodged that one also. My legs began pedaling furiously and as I passed through the town I just kept charging on, paying no attention to the little kids who came out and screamed, "saibadee!" and giving no high fives to the ones with raised hands.
A few minutes later, outside of the town, I slowed my pace and got my bearings but continued along, panting and sweating, but never stopping.
I thought about the kid and the size of the rocks he was throwing.
"one of those could have fucking near killed me," I said out loud, catching my breath. "coulda cracked my skull!"
When I got back to town I parked my bike on the pavement out front and went inside my room to shower and lie down. I couldn't stop thinking about the little bastard and how he'd nearly hit me with one of those jagged, fist-sized cannonballs. I wanted to go out front and try to explain to the owners of the guesthouse what had happened, maybe learn if this kid was just the town menace or what, but they spoke only bare bones English and I figured it wouldn't be worth the trouble. It must have just been some fluke incident. Maybe he thought I was somebody else.
"hell, all little boys threw rocks at things. I had, just not bike riders. I stuck to cars and UPS trucks."
The day wore on and I went to a restaurant and ate a late lunch and lied there a while on one of their lounge-type seats watching reruns of old American television shows. In the evening I went to an internet café to check my emails and when night finally came I returned to my room and read in bed until I fell asleep, exhausted from the day's exercise.
In the morning, the first thought I had was of the boy. That little twerp! I concentrated for a few moments, trying to recollect my dreams and discover whether his blatant assault had just been in my dreams or if it had actually happened the day before.
No. I was sure that it had happened. Sure as my legs were sore and sure as the perfect image of him I had in my mind.
I went to one of the nearby restaurants for breakfast, the cheapest place I could find, and ordered a grilled vegetable sandwich and a fresh orange shake. Both were better than I expected and I left with a smile on my face and a skip in my step.
"let's see if you dare throw a rock at me today," I said, hoping to somehow telepathically threaten the little fucker.
I changed my clothes and grabbed a couple kip notes and went outside to the reception of the guesthouse.
"here's ten thousand for another day's bike rental, and two thousand for a bottle of water."
The old lady who was always around the guesthouse reached out and took the money and nodded, wondering what it was I was paying for, then realizing as I went over and picked up a bottle of water, tossed it in the basket of the bike and went on my way.
The day was overcast but still plenty warm and after a few kilometers I'd gotten into my stride and worked up a bit of a sweat. Or maybe I was just sweating in anticipation of seeing the kid again, seeing whether or not he'd pull his same game as the day before. But this time I'd be more cautious. I'd roll up slowly and scope him out from a distance before venturing down the road and crossing his range of fire.
Because the tows looked so similar, I was now skeptical of each town and all the kids, but as I biked through everything else seemed normal. The children still came running towards the roadside waving and yelling, "saibadee" and I managed to give quite a few of them high fives as I passed through.
"Lance fucking Armstrong," I smiled.
I kept a vigilant watch for signs of the town in which he lived, or rather inhabited. But thinking back to the previous day, after the incident, I could recall nothing except a blur of faces and huts and pedaling as fast as I could.
I rode slowly through the towns and passed huts that resembled the one in my memory, but they were vacant of all life, including the boy. I began to worry if maybe he'd changed his location, moved to a different hideout, and was waiting for me there.
But then as I was edging through a town, small peculiarities stuck out in my mind: a red door on a stilted house, a gray, unfinished temple with bamboo sticks holding up a door header. And then I saw it. The shed. About fifty meters in the distance.
"sure as shit, that's the one."
I stopped pedaling and just coasted and finally stopped on the edge of the road. There he was, the mangy little bastard, squatting down and banging a rock on the ground. I stood there watching him and he slowly turned towards me, as though he already knew I was there, and even from that far back I could see him scowl and once again he stuck out his tongue at me.
I looked around to see if anybody else was nearby, but the closest kids were a hundred yards back up the road. Aside from them, I could only make out a few people, their bodies bent over, working a rice paddy past the river and in the distance.
Just then I heard a humming and looked behind me. A single motorbike was coming along at a steady clip and it blew right past me, then right past the kid and continued on out of sight. All the while I watched the kid and his face remained directed towards me.
"man, this little turd really has it in for me. What did I ever do to him?"
I waited there a while longer until I heard another sound, but this time it was more like a rumble, starting low and getting louder. I turned around and saw a great, big trailer truck loaded with logs approaching. I immediately had the idea to use it as a shield. I began to pedal, slowly at first, looking back to gauge the distance and to time it just right so that when I passed along the roadway which was in the kid's firing range the truck would be right between us. I figured the kid wouldn't dare toss one of those rocks at the truck.
And I was right!
My plan worked out perfectly and as the truck drove past me I stood up and pedaled like I was being chased by demons, because in a way I was.
When I looked back the kid was standing up. His arm was cocked but then it dropped to his side and he stamped his foot on the ground. I gave out a hoot and had a hard laugh and kept on my way. I always enjoyed beating a kid at some game, and though this game had some high stakes, it was still a game.
Riding through that valley, those beautiful mountains on each side and the wandering river flowing along, it didn't take me long to forget about the kid. He was behind me now, like a hurdle I'd successfully jumped. He was something I'd have to deal with again but not for some time. I took special notice of landmarks to remind me on the way back when to start being cautious and keeping an eye out for the kid.
The rest of the ride went by wonderfully and when I'd reached the point where I'd stopped the day before I pulled over and dropped the kickstand, taking a long drag of water. My legs were tired, but in that good way. I sat there for some time, admiring the view and breathing deeply and relaxing. But slowly my mind began to wander back down the road, back towards the town where the kid was probably waiting for me, squatting down and sharpening his throwing rocks.
"what the hell?" I finally said out loud.
I hoped that somehow I'd have a revelation, while sitting there looking into the valley, watching the people bent over the rice paddies. I hoped that something would just snap in my head and everything would make sense, would explain why the kid was against me.
But nothing snapped.
I followed my usual routine, riding a bit further along and then turning around. When I neared the outskirts of the town and saw the shed where the kid dwelled, I noticed him squatting there. Once again, he was banging a rock on the ground and as soon as I came into sight he turned towards me, his wicked little mouth opening and his nasty tongue shooting out.
"what the hell did I ever do to you?" I wondered.
I stopped for some time and watched him as he watched me. He stopped banging his rock on the ground and tossed it up in the air and caught it again, all the while looking over at me with this mean smirk, like he was saying, "this one here's got your name on it!"
Every so often I looked back down the road to see if there were any approaching trucks or buses I could hide behind and finally I saw a touring bus approaching from a long way's off. I prepared myself, took a sip of water and tossed it back into the basket and began to slowly pedal as the bus came tearing along.
I felt I timed it perfectly again and as the bus drove by I thrashed my legs and gasped and heaved air to do my best at keeping up and moving as fast as I could. But those touring buses, they really tore along and it was harder to keep up with than the logging truck. The bus passed me in a flash and I turned towards the kid to see how far I'd made it and just as I did I saw a rock cutting through the air. It crashed into my rear wheel but I kept the bicycle stead and kept pedaling hard. When I looked back there was another rock sailing through the air which landed a few feet behind me.
Unlike the day before, when I'd just kept pedaling madly along, I got out of range and stopped. I wanted to inspect the bicycle wheel, to make sure it was all right, but I also wanted to look back at the kid, just to let him know that even though he'd hit my bike, he hadn't gotten me.
So I turned around and the kid was back in his squatting position, with a new rock in his hand.
"hey!" I shouted. "hey, you little shit!"
He slowly turned towards me and this time it was me who stuck out my tongue, but it didn't seem to faze the boy. He just continued squatting, rolling his rock around in his hand and occasionally banging it on the ground.
"whatever," I thought, and mounted my bicycle for the ride home.
But as I passed through the town I thought maybe those townspeople might know something of the kid, or at least I could tell them what he was up to because it wouldn't be good for tourism if somebody was killed by a little town boy throwing sharp rocks at them.
I pulled into one of the shops. There was an old woman lying on a bed behind the counter. She was snoozing but when she heard me approach she sat up, startled, and got to her feet and walked towards me.
"ah, perdon," I said, as slowly and clearly as possible. "do you speak any English?"
She squinted and bent her head to one side and leaned in, signifying that she hadn't heard me well.
"um, English? Ingles?"
I always found it obnoxious but funny that when I was in a foreign country I went from English to Spanish, thinking those were the only languages spoken in the world.
After thinking for a moment she shot her head back and began to laugh wildly and patted the air in front of her like I'd just told her the funniest thing she'd ever heard. When she was through with her laughing fit she pointed to her glass case of goods, thinking I wanted to buy something.
I thought for a moment, about whether to ask around, to see if anybody else spoke English. Or whether, through use of charades, which I'd become highly adept, I could convey to her that I was speaking about the little boy at the edge of town who was throwing rocks at me.
But I was tired. Tired from bicycling and tired of trying to get across any communication aside from the basic "yes" and "no" and "hello" and "thank you" and "how much?"
So I shook my head and walked back to my bicycle, got on and began pedaling home. On the way I thought maybe I could ask other foreigners if they'd experienced the wickedness of the little boy, but on none of my bike rides had I seen anybody who looked to be from elsewhere. The falangs, as they called us, mainly stuck to tubing along the river and drinking in the riverside bars and lazing around watching television in the restaurants.
When I got back I went through my normal routine of showering, eating and then resting. Later that night I fell into a tormented sleep in which I kept waking with a start, the image of the boy with his tongue sticking out still fresh in my open eyes.
"this little fucker is really getting into my head!"
At one point, it must have been nearly three or four in the morning, I'd dozed off but was awoken by a terrible dream in which the boy had made his way along the road south to my town. He'd found my guesthouse, and my room, which was on the first floor, and he'd tossed a giant rock through the front window. I shouted when I woke and rolled off the bed, covering my head with my arms and burrowing into the corner between the bed and the floor.
I heard a voice hiss, "I'm gonna fucking kill you!" and I just closed my eyes and cringed and waited. I had always wondered how I'd react if somebody actually tried to kill me, if they came at me with a knife or a gun or something, and I felt like a coward to learn that I would just close my eyes and take it like a rat.
It took some time for me to pull the blanket from my head and look out to find, to my great relief, that the window was still intact and that there was no sign of a rock or the kid. But I was still skeptical so I crawled over to the window and pushed back the blind just enough to peak out to the dark street, expecting to see the kid out there in the lamplight, that smirk on his face and his slithering, wicked tongue sticking out at me.
"oh, thank god," I said, after minutes of scouring the street and the doorways and the shadows and finding nothing but the empty night.
I got up and took a piss and looked in the mirror, taking deep breaths and giving myself that kind of look like, "is that you? Have you gone mad?"
"no," I said out loud. "I haven't gone mad. everything is fine. Just a bad dream. A bad, bad dream, worse than any I've had since childhood. But still, just a dream."
I rinsed my face and went back into bed and two more times I woke up with a fright, and both times it was to that voice hissing in the blackness of the room, "I'm gonna fucking kill you!"
"But who's saying that?" I wondered in my dreamy state. That kid doesn't speak English. Then again, it's a dream, right? And it was my dream, and I speak English, so it must be the kid. Just because he's Laotian in real life doesn't mean he'd be unable to speak to me in my dreams, in my own tongue.
Finally, towards the dawn, I fell into a deep, unmolested sleep and didn't wake until late the next morning.
I dressed and went out for my roasted veggie sandwich and orange shake, thinking the whole time about the kid and the voice that hissed in the night. I wondered why the little fucker wanted to kill me. The question bothered me almost as much as the fact that he did. I'd done nothing to him, and felt his sentiments towards me, in real life and in dreams, were highly undeserved.
I thought about going on the offensive, about filling up my basket with stones and attacking him. But there were too many faults with that plan. For one, I had one of the weakest throwing arms of any man or boy I'd ever seen, and accuracy to match. That, and the fact that I'd be riding by on my bicycle would give me nearly no chance of making contact with him. I was more likely to just lose my balance and crash into a ditch and have him barrage me with his jagged stones.
The second thing was that I didn't want to get in any trouble with the local authorities. It was always my first and biggest goal, while traveling in foreign countries, to stay out of jail. They just weren't places I wanted to be. It was bad enough to be in jail in your own country, where the dickheads running the place can speak your language, or at least to some extent. It's a whole different sport, being locked up in a place where anything you say they either smile and nod or just completely ignore you.
So I decided I'd bicycle on up there, stop a hundred yards away and walk towards the kid on foot. At least then I'd have a better chance at dodging his stones and when I got close enough I'd charge him and pin the little fucker down and look into his wicked, black eyes and see if I could figure anything out, like why he'd chosen me as his main target.
I finished my meal and paid my tab and walked back to the guesthouse, going through the plan in my head. Maybe I'd find some sort of piece of plastic or sheet metal on the side of the road which I could use as a shield. I was resourceful when it came to matters like these.
At the guesthouse I grabbed a bottle of water out of the cooler and twelve thousand kip out of my wallet, but was surprised to see that the bicycle I normally rented was gone.
"soory, no bye-see-cull," said a younger woman who spoke the best English. "Other mahn take it tiss monning."
I was floored. I sat down at the cement bench and table and opened my water. After a few minutes I looked over to the younger woman and said, "do you know when he'll be back?"
She squinted her eyes and leaned in with one ear, just like the older shop woman had done the day before.
"when, he, come, back?" I asked.
"I…" she said and shrugged. "He go early."
Hmm.
Maybe I'd wait it out. I sat there, sipping at the water and wondering about this other man, whether he'd gone north or south. I was about to ask the woman if she knew which direction the man went, but she'd gone inside her little shop and was out of sight.
Just then a guy came riding right up onto the pavement in front of the guesthouse. He was on the bicycle that I normally rented. He was riding with one hand on the handlebar and one hand clutching the area just above his knee were blood was running from between his fingers.
He dumped the bike down onto the pavement and rushed towards the guesthouse, making sobbing, grunting noises. He held his leg with both hands now and just as he went by me I heard him whimper something like, "oh, god, forgive me! Oh, jesus Christ. What have I done?!"
I followed him with my eyes as he hobbled down the hallway and I tried to speak but no words came to my lips. Then, as he reached the end of the hall near the stairs, he turned back to me. He was hunched over, clasping his knee which now was just pouring blood. He looked like the shell of a man, like a creeping peasant just back from seeing and doing heinous things on the front line of a gruesome medieval battle.
Then, his eyes blazed as he stared right into mine and in a voice quite the opposite of his previous whimpering prayer, a voice that was savage and freakish and twisted, he hissed, "I told him, I told the little bastard when he kept throwing those rocks at me, I said to him, "I'm gonna fucking kill you!'"
A STRANGE TALE FROM VANG VIENG
by JACKSON WARFIELD
In Vang Vieng, it became my short-lived habit, after awakening in the morning and eating breakfast, to rent a bicycle from my guesthouse and go for a long bike ride. There was only one main road going through the little valley town, and you could take it either north or south.
Riding south, the valley would widen and the mountains would shrink and the landscape, though still picturesque, was nothing compared to riding between the mountains to the north, where the road followed a winding, shallow river. So naturally, each day I'd ride north.
The bicycle I rented had a single speed and had long, arcing handlebars, resembling one you might find Mary Poppins riding through the streets of London. In the basket on front I'd bring a bottle of water and sometimes sun block, depending on the weather.
The rides were exhilarating. It felt wonderful to breathe in the fresh air after much time spent in smoggy, busy, filthy cities all over southeast Asia. The mountains were made of steep, jagged limestone and dotted with small trees which somehow survived on their nearly sheer, barren slopes.
The road through the valley was fairly smooth and mostly flat and every few kilometers there was a town where the locals would be busy doing their daily work of basket-weaving, rock-grinding, or shop-keeping. Some simply lied around, napping in hammocks or on outdoor beds. It seemed a very relaxed way of going about life.
The young children, upon seeing a falang, would run out towards the street and shout "saibadee!" They'd wave their dark, little hands and some would even hold one up in the air for me to give them high fives as I pedaled past.
Coming from Vietnam, where even the children were always out touting and trying to swindle you, it was a welcome change to be received with only mild interest, or even kindness.
But on the northern edge of one town, about ten kilometers north of where I was staying, there was one kid who seemed at first neither interested nor kind. I remember spotting him during my first ride. He was squatting by a small abandoned shed, a good ways away from any nearby house or hut. He looked about ten or eleven years old and had hair down to his nose, mangy and black. His face was splattered with whatever he'd eaten for lunch and he wore filthy clothes and a big frown. What I recall most vividly was that when we first made eye contact he scowled at me and stuck out his tongue.
I smiled and let out a little snort as I passed him, then gave him no more thought than I gave the big cow turds that were mashed into the dry pavement along the side of the road.
I continued biking on, over a bridge where men were fishing and then through other towns. When I came to a spot that had an especially nice view of the river and some rice paddies I stopped my bike and pushed down the kickstand, found a spot to sit down and had a good, long drink of water.
As I sat there admiring the landscape and watching the gently moving clouds which shrouded the highest peeks of the mountains, the image of the mangy boy came back into my mind. There was just something about him, something peculiar and mean, like he was some kind of wild or rabid animal. Like he didn't belong.
For a few minutes I thought about the kid until finally I said to myself, "what a foolish waste of time, giving the little bastard any thought. Look where you are, man."
And it was foolish. I was gazing upon one of the most beautiful and serene country landscapes I'd ever seen, a place whose beauty even a professional photographer would find difficult to capture. But there I was, thinking about a young boy with a dirty face.
I pushed the thought from my mind, got back on my bike and pedaled further on. When I felt like I was far enough out that it would be a long, tiresome ride back to town, I turned around and started on my way.
As I came to the spot which I'd first stopped I thought about taking another rest, but after short deliberation, I decided it would be better to keep moving, because as with many things, if you stopped when you were tired, it was always much harder to start up again.
I cruised along at about the same pace at which I'd been going. I really only had one pace when I pedaled, and it was a steady one. Never had I been passed by another bicycle rider, but many had I passed. It was a little point of pride that entered my mind each time I came up behind somebody and whizzed right by them.
"shit," I'd say, after overtaking them, "Lance Armstrong has nothing on me! balls or no balls!"
As I rode through the towns I began to feel strangely excited and apprehensive at the same time, wondering whether I'd see that little monster again. His odd mug had snuck back into my mind.
The towns all looked similar, each with their thatched huts and stilted houses and chickens and dogs and goats on the edges of the road. The little kids playing under the water pumps. I wasn't sure on the outskirts of which town to expect to see the kid who, in my mind, was slowly growing into a weird obsession.
But I didn't need to put much work into finding the kid. The kid found me. While approaching his village, I saw him squatting there on the edge of the road near the abandoned thatched shed, just where he'd been before. I stared at him as I pedaled by, as though to decipher whether he was real or maybe just a scarecrow or some weird, painted wood carving, and maybe I'd just thought he'd stuck his tongue out.
The closer I got to him the more strange I felt, as though some force was pulling my vision towards him. Then, just before passing him by, he leapt to his feet, wound up his arm and hurled a large rock at my head! The little prick!
I was about to stop and turn around and chase him but when I opened my eyes again I saw another rock flying towards my head but I dodged that one also. My legs began pedaling furiously and as I passed through the town I just kept charging on, paying no attention to the little kids who came out and screamed, "saibadee!" and giving no high fives to the ones with raised hands.
A few minutes later, outside of the town, I slowed my pace and got my bearings but continued along, panting and sweating, but never stopping.
I thought about the kid and the size of the rocks he was throwing.
"one of those could have fucking near killed me," I said out loud, catching my breath. "coulda cracked my skull!"
When I got back to town I parked my bike on the pavement out front and went inside my room to shower and lie down. I couldn't stop thinking about the little bastard and how he'd nearly hit me with one of those jagged, fist-sized cannonballs. I wanted to go out front and try to explain to the owners of the guesthouse what had happened, maybe learn if this kid was just the town menace or what, but they spoke only bare bones English and I figured it wouldn't be worth the trouble. It must have just been some fluke incident. Maybe he thought I was somebody else.
"hell, all little boys threw rocks at things. I had, just not bike riders. I stuck to cars and UPS trucks."
The day wore on and I went to a restaurant and ate a late lunch and lied there a while on one of their lounge-type seats watching reruns of old American television shows. In the evening I went to an internet café to check my emails and when night finally came I returned to my room and read in bed until I fell asleep, exhausted from the day's exercise.
In the morning, the first thought I had was of the boy. That little twerp! I concentrated for a few moments, trying to recollect my dreams and discover whether his blatant assault had just been in my dreams or if it had actually happened the day before.
No. I was sure that it had happened. Sure as my legs were sore and sure as the perfect image of him I had in my mind.
I went to one of the nearby restaurants for breakfast, the cheapest place I could find, and ordered a grilled vegetable sandwich and a fresh orange shake. Both were better than I expected and I left with a smile on my face and a skip in my step.
"let's see if you dare throw a rock at me today," I said, hoping to somehow telepathically threaten the little fucker.
I changed my clothes and grabbed a couple kip notes and went outside to the reception of the guesthouse.
"here's ten thousand for another day's bike rental, and two thousand for a bottle of water."
The old lady who was always around the guesthouse reached out and took the money and nodded, wondering what it was I was paying for, then realizing as I went over and picked up a bottle of water, tossed it in the basket of the bike and went on my way.
The day was overcast but still plenty warm and after a few kilometers I'd gotten into my stride and worked up a bit of a sweat. Or maybe I was just sweating in anticipation of seeing the kid again, seeing whether or not he'd pull his same game as the day before. But this time I'd be more cautious. I'd roll up slowly and scope him out from a distance before venturing down the road and crossing his range of fire.
Because the tows looked so similar, I was now skeptical of each town and all the kids, but as I biked through everything else seemed normal. The children still came running towards the roadside waving and yelling, "saibadee" and I managed to give quite a few of them high fives as I passed through.
"Lance fucking Armstrong," I smiled.
I kept a vigilant watch for signs of the town in which he lived, or rather inhabited. But thinking back to the previous day, after the incident, I could recall nothing except a blur of faces and huts and pedaling as fast as I could.
I rode slowly through the towns and passed huts that resembled the one in my memory, but they were vacant of all life, including the boy. I began to worry if maybe he'd changed his location, moved to a different hideout, and was waiting for me there.
But then as I was edging through a town, small peculiarities stuck out in my mind: a red door on a stilted house, a gray, unfinished temple with bamboo sticks holding up a door header. And then I saw it. The shed. About fifty meters in the distance.
"sure as shit, that's the one."
I stopped pedaling and just coasted and finally stopped on the edge of the road. There he was, the mangy little bastard, squatting down and banging a rock on the ground. I stood there watching him and he slowly turned towards me, as though he already knew I was there, and even from that far back I could see him scowl and once again he stuck out his tongue at me.
I looked around to see if anybody else was nearby, but the closest kids were a hundred yards back up the road. Aside from them, I could only make out a few people, their bodies bent over, working a rice paddy past the river and in the distance.
Just then I heard a humming and looked behind me. A single motorbike was coming along at a steady clip and it blew right past me, then right past the kid and continued on out of sight. All the while I watched the kid and his face remained directed towards me.
"man, this little turd really has it in for me. What did I ever do to him?"
I waited there a while longer until I heard another sound, but this time it was more like a rumble, starting low and getting louder. I turned around and saw a great, big trailer truck loaded with logs approaching. I immediately had the idea to use it as a shield. I began to pedal, slowly at first, looking back to gauge the distance and to time it just right so that when I passed along the roadway which was in the kid's firing range the truck would be right between us. I figured the kid wouldn't dare toss one of those rocks at the truck.
And I was right!
My plan worked out perfectly and as the truck drove past me I stood up and pedaled like I was being chased by demons, because in a way I was.
When I looked back the kid was standing up. His arm was cocked but then it dropped to his side and he stamped his foot on the ground. I gave out a hoot and had a hard laugh and kept on my way. I always enjoyed beating a kid at some game, and though this game had some high stakes, it was still a game.
Riding through that valley, those beautiful mountains on each side and the wandering river flowing along, it didn't take me long to forget about the kid. He was behind me now, like a hurdle I'd successfully jumped. He was something I'd have to deal with again but not for some time. I took special notice of landmarks to remind me on the way back when to start being cautious and keeping an eye out for the kid.
The rest of the ride went by wonderfully and when I'd reached the point where I'd stopped the day before I pulled over and dropped the kickstand, taking a long drag of water. My legs were tired, but in that good way. I sat there for some time, admiring the view and breathing deeply and relaxing. But slowly my mind began to wander back down the road, back towards the town where the kid was probably waiting for me, squatting down and sharpening his throwing rocks.
"what the hell?" I finally said out loud.
I hoped that somehow I'd have a revelation, while sitting there looking into the valley, watching the people bent over the rice paddies. I hoped that something would just snap in my head and everything would make sense, would explain why the kid was against me.
But nothing snapped.
I followed my usual routine, riding a bit further along and then turning around. When I neared the outskirts of the town and saw the shed where the kid dwelled, I noticed him squatting there. Once again, he was banging a rock on the ground and as soon as I came into sight he turned towards me, his wicked little mouth opening and his nasty tongue shooting out.
"what the hell did I ever do to you?" I wondered.
I stopped for some time and watched him as he watched me. He stopped banging his rock on the ground and tossed it up in the air and caught it again, all the while looking over at me with this mean smirk, like he was saying, "this one here's got your name on it!"
Every so often I looked back down the road to see if there were any approaching trucks or buses I could hide behind and finally I saw a touring bus approaching from a long way's off. I prepared myself, took a sip of water and tossed it back into the basket and began to slowly pedal as the bus came tearing along.
I felt I timed it perfectly again and as the bus drove by I thrashed my legs and gasped and heaved air to do my best at keeping up and moving as fast as I could. But those touring buses, they really tore along and it was harder to keep up with than the logging truck. The bus passed me in a flash and I turned towards the kid to see how far I'd made it and just as I did I saw a rock cutting through the air. It crashed into my rear wheel but I kept the bicycle stead and kept pedaling hard. When I looked back there was another rock sailing through the air which landed a few feet behind me.
Unlike the day before, when I'd just kept pedaling madly along, I got out of range and stopped. I wanted to inspect the bicycle wheel, to make sure it was all right, but I also wanted to look back at the kid, just to let him know that even though he'd hit my bike, he hadn't gotten me.
So I turned around and the kid was back in his squatting position, with a new rock in his hand.
"hey!" I shouted. "hey, you little shit!"
He slowly turned towards me and this time it was me who stuck out my tongue, but it didn't seem to faze the boy. He just continued squatting, rolling his rock around in his hand and occasionally banging it on the ground.
"whatever," I thought, and mounted my bicycle for the ride home.
But as I passed through the town I thought maybe those townspeople might know something of the kid, or at least I could tell them what he was up to because it wouldn't be good for tourism if somebody was killed by a little town boy throwing sharp rocks at them.
I pulled into one of the shops. There was an old woman lying on a bed behind the counter. She was snoozing but when she heard me approach she sat up, startled, and got to her feet and walked towards me.
"ah, perdon," I said, as slowly and clearly as possible. "do you speak any English?"
She squinted and bent her head to one side and leaned in, signifying that she hadn't heard me well.
"um, English? Ingles?"
I always found it obnoxious but funny that when I was in a foreign country I went from English to Spanish, thinking those were the only languages spoken in the world.
After thinking for a moment she shot her head back and began to laugh wildly and patted the air in front of her like I'd just told her the funniest thing she'd ever heard. When she was through with her laughing fit she pointed to her glass case of goods, thinking I wanted to buy something.
I thought for a moment, about whether to ask around, to see if anybody else spoke English. Or whether, through use of charades, which I'd become highly adept, I could convey to her that I was speaking about the little boy at the edge of town who was throwing rocks at me.
But I was tired. Tired from bicycling and tired of trying to get across any communication aside from the basic "yes" and "no" and "hello" and "thank you" and "how much?"
So I shook my head and walked back to my bicycle, got on and began pedaling home. On the way I thought maybe I could ask other foreigners if they'd experienced the wickedness of the little boy, but on none of my bike rides had I seen anybody who looked to be from elsewhere. The falangs, as they called us, mainly stuck to tubing along the river and drinking in the riverside bars and lazing around watching television in the restaurants.
When I got back I went through my normal routine of showering, eating and then resting. Later that night I fell into a tormented sleep in which I kept waking with a start, the image of the boy with his tongue sticking out still fresh in my open eyes.
"this little fucker is really getting into my head!"
At one point, it must have been nearly three or four in the morning, I'd dozed off but was awoken by a terrible dream in which the boy had made his way along the road south to my town. He'd found my guesthouse, and my room, which was on the first floor, and he'd tossed a giant rock through the front window. I shouted when I woke and rolled off the bed, covering my head with my arms and burrowing into the corner between the bed and the floor.
I heard a voice hiss, "I'm gonna fucking kill you!" and I just closed my eyes and cringed and waited. I had always wondered how I'd react if somebody actually tried to kill me, if they came at me with a knife or a gun or something, and I felt like a coward to learn that I would just close my eyes and take it like a rat.
It took some time for me to pull the blanket from my head and look out to find, to my great relief, that the window was still intact and that there was no sign of a rock or the kid. But I was still skeptical so I crawled over to the window and pushed back the blind just enough to peak out to the dark street, expecting to see the kid out there in the lamplight, that smirk on his face and his slithering, wicked tongue sticking out at me.
"oh, thank god," I said, after minutes of scouring the street and the doorways and the shadows and finding nothing but the empty night.
I got up and took a piss and looked in the mirror, taking deep breaths and giving myself that kind of look like, "is that you? Have you gone mad?"
"no," I said out loud. "I haven't gone mad. everything is fine. Just a bad dream. A bad, bad dream, worse than any I've had since childhood. But still, just a dream."
I rinsed my face and went back into bed and two more times I woke up with a fright, and both times it was to that voice hissing in the blackness of the room, "I'm gonna fucking kill you!"
"But who's saying that?" I wondered in my dreamy state. That kid doesn't speak English. Then again, it's a dream, right? And it was my dream, and I speak English, so it must be the kid. Just because he's Laotian in real life doesn't mean he'd be unable to speak to me in my dreams, in my own tongue.
Finally, towards the dawn, I fell into a deep, unmolested sleep and didn't wake until late the next morning.
I dressed and went out for my roasted veggie sandwich and orange shake, thinking the whole time about the kid and the voice that hissed in the night. I wondered why the little fucker wanted to kill me. The question bothered me almost as much as the fact that he did. I'd done nothing to him, and felt his sentiments towards me, in real life and in dreams, were highly undeserved.
I thought about going on the offensive, about filling up my basket with stones and attacking him. But there were too many faults with that plan. For one, I had one of the weakest throwing arms of any man or boy I'd ever seen, and accuracy to match. That, and the fact that I'd be riding by on my bicycle would give me nearly no chance of making contact with him. I was more likely to just lose my balance and crash into a ditch and have him barrage me with his jagged stones.
The second thing was that I didn't want to get in any trouble with the local authorities. It was always my first and biggest goal, while traveling in foreign countries, to stay out of jail. They just weren't places I wanted to be. It was bad enough to be in jail in your own country, where the dickheads running the place can speak your language, or at least to some extent. It's a whole different sport, being locked up in a place where anything you say they either smile and nod or just completely ignore you.
So I decided I'd bicycle on up there, stop a hundred yards away and walk towards the kid on foot. At least then I'd have a better chance at dodging his stones and when I got close enough I'd charge him and pin the little fucker down and look into his wicked, black eyes and see if I could figure anything out, like why he'd chosen me as his main target.
I finished my meal and paid my tab and walked back to the guesthouse, going through the plan in my head. Maybe I'd find some sort of piece of plastic or sheet metal on the side of the road which I could use as a shield. I was resourceful when it came to matters like these.
At the guesthouse I grabbed a bottle of water out of the cooler and twelve thousand kip out of my wallet, but was surprised to see that the bicycle I normally rented was gone.
"soory, no bye-see-cull," said a younger woman who spoke the best English. "Other mahn take it tiss monning."
I was floored. I sat down at the cement bench and table and opened my water. After a few minutes I looked over to the younger woman and said, "do you know when he'll be back?"
She squinted her eyes and leaned in with one ear, just like the older shop woman had done the day before.
"when, he, come, back?" I asked.
"I…" she said and shrugged. "He go early."
Hmm.
Maybe I'd wait it out. I sat there, sipping at the water and wondering about this other man, whether he'd gone north or south. I was about to ask the woman if she knew which direction the man went, but she'd gone inside her little shop and was out of sight.
Just then a guy came riding right up onto the pavement in front of the guesthouse. He was on the bicycle that I normally rented. He was riding with one hand on the handlebar and one hand clutching the area just above his knee were blood was running from between his fingers.
He dumped the bike down onto the pavement and rushed towards the guesthouse, making sobbing, grunting noises. He held his leg with both hands now and just as he went by me I heard him whimper something like, "oh, god, forgive me! Oh, jesus Christ. What have I done?!"
I followed him with my eyes as he hobbled down the hallway and I tried to speak but no words came to my lips. Then, as he reached the end of the hall near the stairs, he turned back to me. He was hunched over, clasping his knee which now was just pouring blood. He looked like the shell of a man, like a creeping peasant just back from seeing and doing heinous things on the front line of a gruesome medieval battle.
Then, his eyes blazed as he stared right into mine and in a voice quite the opposite of his previous whimpering prayer, a voice that was savage and freakish and twisted, he hissed, "I told him, I told the little bastard when he kept throwing those rocks at me, I said to him, "I'm gonna fucking kill you!'"
