Page 18 of All That Remains
"Yep. Get some scenery in, make some memories. The last time we were on a boat was with dad. Remember that?”
“Yeesh, don’t remind me.” I was only six at the time and had become violently seasick in the little skiff. Puking off the undulating side until I thought my head would explode. The fishing trip had to be postponed after that.
“I want to absorb as much as possible while I'm here. I’ve already picked out a place for dinner tomorrow. I heard they serve good pork and a mean noodle!"
"Mmm, love a good noodle."
She winked and shot an air gun at me and reminded me so much of myself I snorted.
"Ah, the street food," Sal added. “Primo.”
"Good and greasy!"
"What about the other boys?” she wondered.“Want ‘em to tag along? Where are they anyway?"
"God knows. Gone their separate ways," I shrugged. "Roman and Alex might be together, I think. They usually are. And, no, I’d rather it be just us."
“Fine by me.”
Half tipsy and following my interrogation of Rose about everything going on back home, I got up and requested Leonard Cohen’s “Last Year's Man.” It's the first thing that popped into my head, as it was Roman’s favorite. Whenever we fought, I listened to his music to try to channel him. The version of him I preferred. The romantic, the poet. The mood of the room shifted as the melodies unfurled across the dank low lights, surprisingthe locals. I sang the first verse off-key and everyone gaped at me. Apparently I was in the mood for karaoke after all.
"Oh God. What's happening here? That needs to stop immediately!" Rose cringed, flushed from the warmth of the bar. She also always got rosy-cheeked whenever she was tipsy.
"No, it's happening. Right here, right now," I spun clumsily, nearly knocking over someone’s drink at a nearby table.
"You're actually insane!" she squealed, and I found it hysterically funny. I plopped back into my seat with a cackle.
"Who doesn't need a little Leonard Cohen from time to time? He’s always good. Timeless, mate. Truly timeless."
"Eh...notalways," she laughed, eyeing me. "Don't get me wrong, he’s definitely good, butalways? Kind of a bummer, if you ask me."
"Alwaysssgood." My drunken breath filled the booth and she fanned it away.
8
The more humid the night became, the more I longed for an out. I stepped outside to catch my breath, and the street was filled with traffic and chattering pedestrians. People stumbling out of neighboring bars with unchecked laughter. Horns blaring. Suddenly I took off down the middle of the road, skirting motorbikes, happy no one had recognized me.
A few blocks away, I spotted a corner bar looming behind dozens of stacked power cables that ran the length of the street. It was situated on the very corner, jutting out from the rest of the block in three-stories of teetering red brick.smallswas written in lowercase letters with yellow lights, beaming out from a recess over the rotating door. Later I learned it was a repurposed hotel owned by a Hollywood photographer.
Something about it compelled me forward. I approached in a staggering daze. The second story had a balcony that ran the length of the building, hedged by a crumbling iron railing. The third floor featured a sparsely occupied roof-top bar. When I entered, it was like stepping into another era. Though the quarters were close, it was cozy and eclectically furnished. The lighting was low and ambient. There were several small, circular tables that littered the floor space, and a massive zinc bartop complete with stools upholstered in green velvet. Partitioned across the room was a small stage area hung in red curtains that lent the place a vaudevillian atmosphere.
I walked around and studied the art that littered the place, all amazing pieces by local contemporaries that enlivened the brick walls and period décor. Two women at a nearby table burst into laughter. They might’ve been laughing at my drunken bewilderment. I ruffled my hair and moved on, spotting an old man bent over a bowl of soup, as if the two were holding a private conversation. Strange, experimental Jazz bled from the stereo, and a lively Thai woman danced to it behind the bar. There was an overwhelming sense of calm here. An almost otherworldly tranquility. As if I’d stumbled onto the terminal to another dimension, one beckoning me to forget the material world with cajoling arms.
Shortly after I entered, the owner's ten-year-old son recognized me and asked for a photo. I hardly had time to wonder what he was doing awake at that hour before his dad came over to greet me as well. They were incredibly kind and seemed to know the locals on a first name basis. David, the bald, goateed owner, proved to be a charismatic Californian who welcomed me to sit at the bar and have a drink on him. He recognized me from a Toyota commercial and a few concert ads and sang a bit ofour latest singleto prove it.
"How was the show?" he wondered, producing a shot of Patron, which I'd requested. He had searched a while among the tiered shelves crammed with a variety of spirits, backlit with golden light that suffused the surrounding glass.
"As good as they come, I suppose," I drawled. "Thailand's lovely."
"Ever been here before?"
"Nope, first time. Definitely not the last though."
"Here for a while?"
"Few more days…" I nodded, downing the second shot he offered. It burned the back of my throat, trickling down my esophagus like molten lava. But it was the good kind of hurting.The purifying kind that let me know I'd be alright in a few minutes.
"What d’you have planned? Hitting up any of the markets? There's tons to choose from."
