October 26th, 2010

Dear Nate,

Last night I was asked by a small group of Vietnamese men to finish the night at a club. Then I woke up this morning with a swollen eye and a leaking bag of frozen beans beside my pillow. It all went so terribly wrong. How was I supposed to know that turning down a hooker would result in the loss of a friendship that had enough money to buy me hookers and infinite shots of Hennessey?

Cultural Wisdom: When someone offers you a night out, it is custom for them to pay and treat you for the entire evening. This includes food: pineapple, meats, cheese, grapes. And girls. It wasn’t like I asked for a hooker, and it wasn’t like I asked for the knowledge that 51% of all hookers in Vietnam are believed to have HIV (I blame the latter on the uni-browed nurse shooting me up with vaccinations). It was custom, a gift, fresh bland seed. Happy pigeons in Central Park.

Ten minutes into the feast, the Manager tapped me on the shoulder. He had one hand on the hooker’s hip, the other graced her shoulder. A delivery. I didn’t mean to blow my cigarette in his face but I was stoned and caught off guard. He didn’t notice. The girl didn’t catch my eye nearly as much as the creepy-ass grin the manager wore while encouraging me to drink from the offered lotus cup. He then whispered in my ear for you, friend, you dance her. As I listened, I noticed our waiter remove the first bottle of Hennessey and replace it, smooth, done it a million times. His gig. No better job in the city.

My reason to avoid dancing, I mean really dancing, the 2005 club-hump, was simple. No reasonable dancer would settle for a humping, stiffened fish-out-of-water, especially without protection. Plus the tinny music sounded like it was echoing off aluminum walls and the green, red, silver and some others flushed with too many strobe lights for any event made the scene look like a bad acid trip. I wasn’t hungry. Thirsty as ever, yes, but my morals remained strong.

I refused to make sex with the petite Vietnamese woman with her juicy rose lips, perfect chest, short red skirt begging me to pull it up one more inch with straight almond hair combed across her timid eye shouting to the world you shy, fuck, take advantage me. NO. NOT ME. Nooooooo Way. Not once, not never.

And it was this attitude that got me punched in the face by a 5’8 Vietnamese man who apparently dropped 1,000,000.00 Vietnamese Dong (40 USD) to give me good time. The last thing he wanted was to watch me crank alone with a head full of Hennessey and adrenaline to horribly loud music. It probably didn’t help when I responded she wasn’t my type when asked why you no take gift from me?

It was a painless shot. A brief glimpse of Vietnamese hostility.

It took me two hours to find my way home. It was one of those drunk-sailor walks. A stinky-boot glide to the rail ralphing on the fishing nets walk. The city was quiet with a few greedy vendors holding their post selling frog legs and candy. Harmless. I stumbled over garbage and urine making believe I knew where I was. Saigon, I thought, somewhere far from home, far away on some foreign escapade, looking for letters from God in the street. No luck. The only difference between here and Boulder and the dampness of Berlin was my eye. I felt comfortable to know I was so near to arrival with a complete loss of expectation. I wore my swelling eye like a Boy Scout badge. One step closer to becoming an Eagle Scout.

Finally home to recall and repent with a bag of green beans on my eye, my mind was clear, I realized and accepted the result of my actions: I will never talk to Huang, Guong, Hangh and the others ever again. And with them the free Hennesey.

But this entry isn’t about me. It is about things you don’t understand that can land you drunk in Saigon with a black-eyed drag in your step. Well, it’s not that either. It’s about being cultured, and the sacrifices you make when you’re not.

Nhìn thấy bạn sau này,
Nooch

Nooch