The stranger went on to tell me he’s from Berlin, Germany, and had worked for Puma for 25 years, all here at a factory in Thailand. His English was perfect, only slightly accented, and not in a cartoonish Nazi way, but more in a sophisticated slow drawl.
For the first couple of minutes, we were having the typical expat conversation, about travel, nice places to see in Thailand, the best islands, all that.
But then the dialogue turned dark. No, he wasn’t a pedo, thankfully, or not that he disclosed. But he’d obviously gotten himself into an unfortunate situation.
He mentioned something about trying to get his pension, that he was relying on it, and that the German Embassy in Bangkok refused to help him receive it. And that now he had no money. And that he’d gotten into an argument with the staff at the embassy and they’d asked him to leave the premises. And that he was thinking of going back there tomorrow. To kill someone.
Laughing it off, figuring (and hoping) that it was the sarcastic, black humor of the northern European variety, I chuckled and spat back, “nah, definitely don’t do that,” and kept at my noodles, trying to plow through them quicker so I could get away from this situation, before the German divulged anything incriminating.
I started worrying a bit, too, thinking, like, shit, what if he really does walk into the German Embassy tomorrow and stabs someone… What if I read about that in the Bangkok Post… Should I call the cops? Would the cops in Bangkok even do anything about such rantings, possible threats? The “Boys in Brown,” the coppers here, aside from collecting “tea money,” aren’t known as the most proactive of police forces…
Of course, too, I was thinking the German might be one of those deranged foreigners in Thailand I hear about jumping off a balcony, another farang joining the Pattaya Flyers Club… He definitely looked the type. There was a discomfiting, quiet rage to him, and he reminded me of the old flick, Falling Down, that variety of older white guy fed up with the world and ready to kill.
I’d read on the CIA World Factbook that more Americans die in Thailand, per year, than anywhere else in the world. But I’m not sure about the Germans, where they die the most.
Normally, though, in Thailand, random violence is rare, and violent crime committed by foreigners is even rarer. Normally, from what I’ve seen, in Thailand, foreigners are more of a threat to themselves than anyone else.
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In fact, at this very shopping center, there was an Italian, an older fellow, too, who, not far from where we sat, had done a swan dive from a fifth-floor ledge, landing splat, face down in a mess of bone and blood, on the ground floor, giving that day’s shoppers a most unforgettably gruesome spectacle.
Oh, and this stranger definitely had that look; the German looked like a future suicide case. And speaking of his look, he had a certain shiftiness to him, a really dishonest face, with a jawline that was almost too squarish. It was almost like his chin and his jaw were too small for his skull, giving him a certain unnerving, creepy appearance, almost like a bottom-feeding fish, like a fish you’d see only at the deepest depths of the ocean.
Although he wore brown-tinted eyeglasses, I could see that his blue eyes were bright and small, small and beady, like two blue dots punched into his skull, which rendered his countenance even more sinister, and his skin was bad too, reddish and leathery, speckled in uneven clots of scraggly white body hair, and he had wrinkles in his forehead that ran deep, like cracks in stone, and they were loud wrinkles, too, wrinkles that told stories, stories of woe, stories of sleepless nights, stories of too much booze.
Again, I tried to put aside my prejudices. Look, I’m also a guy who escaped the clusterfuck of my home country to travel, roam, explore, have fun. I’m also a guy who found a job in this crazy beautiful tropical land. And I really don’t care about what others do in their personal lives. As long as they aren’t pedos, as long as they aren’t violent pricks, as long as they aren’t hurting anyone, who am I to judge. Right?
A red flash from the corner of my eye caught my attention, and I craned my neck, saw a muted flatscreen TV hanging from a wall nearby. It was showing a news story about a Czech billionaire who’d died in a helicopter crash, during a ski trip in Alaska.
The German joined me, glaring and gasping at the ghastly images of smoky black and gray ‘copter wreckage strewn over a jagged white hilltop.
The German sighed and then commented on the horror of being in a helicopter crash. What it’d be like, as a passenger, inside a helicopter going down. The claustrophobia and fear the passengers felt in that helicopter cabin. The passengers, confined in that metal box, plummeting from the sky, their weight heavy with gravity, their screams, and what must have been going through their minds in those final minutes as their bodies rocked and swayed and shook and the emergency lights flashed and beeped. He wondered if the doomed passengers had resigned themselves to death, if they were saying final prayers, or if they were thinking they’d survive the impact…
After taking a deep breath and exhaling loudly, he exclaimed, “Then whack! Lights out. His money meant nothing,” and the German clapped on the table to punctuate.
A moment of silence followed, and we both turned our attention away from the TV. The profundity, enormity of his words sank in, and I wondered if the isolation of the pandemic, the lockdowns, if that’d made me even more socially retarded, made me into a total jerk, made me figure this guy all wrong, guessing him a chomo or boozer. What if he was alright after all?