3.19 Out of Luck

Jean had said he wanted to get in touch with nature while on the island, so the next morning the three of us went on a quest for magic mushrooms.

I was still hopped-up on yaba by then, having spent the half of the night wandering around the dimly lit, sparsely populated village in a fruitless search for a party or a go-go bar or a show featuring genital acrobatics--anything that might fight back, if only temporary, the army of ants that were crawling in my pants.

Unfortunately little was open, nothing but a dismal little “Cyber Cafe” with two lousy computers and dial-up Internet. A hippy with blond dreadlocks dressed in what looked like pajamas sat before one of the computers, hunting and pecking at the keyboard, clicking the mouse with the frenzied urgency of a day trader. Watching him reminded me of something Jean had once said: Most hippies today are fakes, poseurs.

Returning to the bungalow, I plopped down on the bed and turned on the boob tube. A Thai soap opera was on. It featured beautiful people with gleaming white teeth and alabaster complexions living lives of such material abundance it made me wonder what the people living in the shantytowns along the train tracks and the stinking rivers of Bangkok must have made of it all. Flipping the channel, I caught CNN just as it was breaking for a commercial. Imagine that. Changing the channel, MTV was showing Crazy Town’s Butterfly--sh’gah babeh--a-fucking-gain. NHK was stultifying viewers on the next channel with its bone-dry reportage of the news--only the facts, ma’am.

“Ah, fuck it,” I said, turning the TV off, and headed out to the beach where I waited for the sun to rise.

*

Walking along the beach several hours later, Nori, Jean, and I happened upon a bar, the walls of which were painted in a wildly psychedelic motif, like something out of Alice in Wonderland.

“Bingo,” Jean said, snapping his fingers.

He sauntered up to counter and asked the bartender, a scrawny Thai, and the only person in the joint, if he knew where we might be able to score some shrooms.

The bartender laughed and in impeccable English told us that five years ago magic mushrooms would have been easy to get hold of, but now?

“Sorry, but you’re fresh out of luck, mate.”

Jean sat down at the counter and ordered a round of Singhas.

When the bartender brought the beers over, he whispered something to the effect that if it was partying we were after, he might be able to arrange for something.

Jean was game and gave him the nod, warning, “Better not disappoint us!”

“You won’t be,” the bartender replied and took off down the beach, giving us the run of the bar. When he returned half an hour later, he produced a small case of pink pills with WY imprinted on them.

Jean and I looked at each other and started laughing.

*

© Aonghas Crowe, 2010. All rights reserved. No unauthorized duplication of any kind.

注意：この作品はフィクションです。登場人物、団体等、実在のモノとは一切関係ありません。

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No. 6 is now available on Kindle.