Middle management types on vacation come to irk me in my favorite restaurant by hassling the staff with a laundry list of questions about quality and cleanliness, then nod proudly to each other at a job well done.
Salt of the earth Englishmen smoke themselves to death, dropping 200bht for a beer so they can rest their hand on the knee of a young girl.
Would be hippies arrive two generations too late, flop on the axe-pillow mats to sweat off a hangover, their freshly bought Thaiwear already reeking and their bamboo-needle tats slowly healing.
A small dog jogs by, swinging breasts so laden they would fit on a woman.
A Thai woman giggles at her boyfriend, her only communication as he explains back-home office politics over dinner.
Another walks intertwined with a tall German. They say nothing, the small intersection of their English sufficient only for restaurants and birth control.
A motorcycle whizzes by, driven by a kid in a Cub Scout uniform. He’s young enough to wear it.
A fluffy black dog, evolutionarily opposed to the oppressive heat, moves just three times a day, adjusting its position on a small patch sidewalk in front of my hotel.
Thai tailors use limited English to try to persuade me into their suits; tuk-tuk drivers just honk and howl.
Sharp dressed lads on the prowl, the sort who say things like liquor is quicker and If there’s grass on the field, play ball. They’ll pay cash for now, but they’re hunting up a more lucrative contract.
