sidewalk. Then he walked away.
A tuc tuc driver, slowing down in passing, beeped the horn at him.
The taxi looked like the distorted shape of a fly. He wished that he
had just a chunk of the money Kumpee had plundered. With it, he told
himself, he would buy his own motorcycle and become a self- employed
taxi driver for his age surely restricted him from getting a job with
the Bangkok Metropolitan Authorities. This, he told himself, would be
far better than sitting on the monkey bars near the door of a bus
clanging the tube of money upon one's knee. Besides, he didn't
especially want to be one of the many nameless beggars applying for
jobs with the Metropolitan Transportation Authorities.
He veered somehow from the sidewalk into a labyrinth of outdoor
hallways that ran between stands and quasi-stores, under canvas
canopies and through the smell of incense that came from a table that
contained a 2-foot Buddhist statue. Upon finding his way out by
charging through crowds and hangers of clothes, he heard the blaring of
pi phat music, saw a vegetable market, and smelled redolent papayas,
durians, watermelons, pineapples, guavas, and tangerines. Further
along he smelled tom yam soup, grilled squid, goo-ey tia nam (rice
noodle soup), khow laad nhaa gai (rice with chicken and bamboo), and
other dishes in an outdoor restaurant. He passed silk stores, jewelry
stores that catered toward ruby and sapphire-loving foreigners, and
fast food restaurants. Then he went into Robinson Department Store.
In the restroom he relieved himself at a urinal that was furthest
from the cleaning lady since her mopping presence there made him
nervous and had the possibility of clogging him up. Then he sat down
in the food court. His head was in vertigo like small children turning
themselves around in the grass or the routine of one's petty kinetic
life. He often noticed affluent men walking around with girlfriends or
wives in that male gesture of the hand of one arm clasping the other