He did know. He bled from knowledge but he frowned and for a
moment he was taciturn fighting back anger and memories. "Well, do
whatever you damn well please. I need out of this car and that is what
I'm doing. You can feast on what remains of the breath fresheners. I
for one am dining out. I'll be back in ten minutes."
"When do we need to get on the plane?"
"There's plenty of time," he said. "Plenty of time to eat another
meal in the airport before departing. You'll get a high price western
meal at the airport. I guarantee it." He left the taxi and sat down
meditating on the river flowing at a distance. Soon the anger
dissolved and his memories were imprisoned.
The idea of paying on a taxi where the meter continued to rise
without his presence enthralled him. Having lots of money was a
novelty and flaunting this novelty to patrician and plebian,
proletariat and CEO alike still engrossed him. Thais were culturally
programmed to give the "wei" to the Buddha and the monk but in their
hearts that steamed with greed as they cooked their food on the
streets, sold their trinkets from their sheets, worked in office jobs,
were government officers, part of an educated middle class, and a
million other activities, classifications, and identities, this
traditional greeting with the folded hands in front of the face was
deeply given in the secret regions of subconscious ideas for those whom
they thought of as rich. And as he ate his pork laden noodle soup
while the meter ticked on he picked out the pork to feed the dogs; but
in so doing he glimpsed someone. Past the gravel were sidewalks and
stores and further was a department store. Next to it, beyond the
gaunt old woman on the sheet selling and squeezing rubber duckies in
the hope of selling a few and having money to eat, a man clanging bells
with handless hooks above his cup, shoe repairmen fixing soles, a kiosk
of a key maker, and a blind mendicant with a speaker and a microphone