Excerpt:
Bangkok, 1989. The afternoon rains have ended, leaving the early evening air briefly free of smog and allowing that distinctive Thai perfume, frangipani with a faint note of sewage, to waft over the shiny streets. I hail a tuk-tuk, a three-wheel motorcycle taxi, and hop aboard. My young driver has an entrepreneurial smile as he turns around and begins the usual interrogation of male travelers.
"So . . . you want girl?"
"No."
"I see." Long pause, eyebrows slowly raised. "You want boy!"
"Uh, no."
Longer pause. Sound of engine sputtering at idle. "You want ladyboy?"
"No," I answer, a bit more emphatically, nonplussed at the idea that I give the impression of desiring this particular commodity.
"I got cheap cigarettes . . . Johnnie Walker . . ."
"No thanks."
Undaunted, he moves on to the next category of his wares, now with lowered voice.
"You want ganja?"
"No."
"Coke?"
"No."
"Ya baa [methamphetamine tablets]?"
"Nope."
A whisper now. "Heroin?"
"No."
Voice raised back to normal. "I can take you to cockfight. You can gamble!"
"I'll pass."
Just a little bit irritated now. "So, farang, what you want?"
"Prik kee noo," I respond. "Those little 'mouse shit' peppers. I want some good, spicy dinner."
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