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Rubbish was the decoy, or rather the act of emptying my rubbish was the cover under which I sought to initiate the subterfuge. And the plot, you scallywags, centered upon a lovely young Swiss miss named Claudia, and the prize of her affections. The night before, I had become quite enchanted with her. In the dim green and amber fluorescent lights of the bungalow restaurant we conversed with great fellowship and warmth on assorted après dinner subjects. It may not be true for most American men, but as for me, I am easily charmed by the accented fashion in which pretty European girls speak the English language. It's not so much what they say, as the way they make it sound when they say it. And if the accent is French, as it was with Claudia, the effect is virtually narcotic. Early the next evening, with the pastel colors of dusk beginning to draw across the horizon, I gathered up the little rubbish bin in the corner of my verandah and set about my scheme. It was simple and remarkably straightforward; well designed for someone as timid as myself. I meant to pace my thong-clad steps directly to Claudia's bungalow and ask her right out if she would like to take a stroll with me along the beach. Why not? She was alone, I was alone. We'd met the night before and had enjoyed each other's company--I, her beauty and pathos; she, my wit and empathy. One thing leads to another as they say, and--with luck--a holiday romance blossoms. We fall madly in love, cooing and cuddling our way to new realms of rapture…. During the day we frolic and splash about the bay. Yes, we're a nauseating spectacle for the immediate community. So what? I say. At night we nibble one another's ears, whispering endearments and fondling flesh. Three days later I go to Penang to renew my visa, and she heads north to trek among the hill-tribes in the Golden Triangle. Tag and bag the memories, and return, once again, to the comforts of solitude. No stress, no strain . . . no deposit, no return. Just a joyride along the avenue of transient delights. But first things first. It was my move, and that would mean assuming a position of vulnerability. I had to ask her; ask her to take a walk with me. Ah, the trepidation. Such a simple move, and yet reflection breeds hesitation, and moments drag on like hours fraught with anxiety. What silliness. You know it's ridiculous and you can't help it. Show some nerve, you mouse. Make like the bull of Dostoyevsky's "Underground Man." Lower your horns and charge the wall. Okay. Okay. Behind Claudia's bungalow is a dug-out garbage pit. She was stretched in a hammock gazing out to sea. The approach from my bungalow to hers was more or less peripheral to her line of sight. In others words, she would very likely see me coming. The prospect of being defenseless against her speculations on my purpose was most unsettling. If she spotted me as I began in her direction, I estimated that she would have a full twelve seconds to surmise my intentions. She would know I was coming to see her. She'd wonder why. What did I want? Twelve seconds to anticipate my intent and to ready a response. Of course, I could lean over the railing of my verandah and yell the question at her. But no, a little crude. And how embarrassing to have other people listening. Especially, if she yelled back, "O mon dieu! You must be making joke, no?" Anyway, the garbage pit seemed to offer a solution. All I had to do was walk toward her carrying my rubbish bin and I could amble through no man's land knowing that her obvious speculation would be that I was going to toss my trash in the pit. No cause for alarm. A very harmless, non-threatening bit of business. The next decision to make was whether I should put the question to her on my way to the garbage pit or on my way back. The advisable strategy seemed to be posing the question on the return trip. On the way to the pit I would just say, "Hello, how are you today?" or better yet, "Savoir"--which means basically the same thing, but it's French, and, ergo, très chic, which is also French, meaning "very cool." I could even add something amusing like, "Did you have a rough day at the office?" A casual remark or two as a means of re-establishing the entente cordiale (look that one up yourself) of the previous evening. Then dump the rubbish and serve the question. By the time I took the first step, my mind had so inflated the magnitude of the drama that it would have required someone with the intellectual skills of Homer to aptly delineate the adventure. Sauntering with as much affected ease as I could muster, I traversed the thirty yards to her bungalow. "Nice day?" I asked. She was wearing a loose, silky white sleeveless blouse and magenta cotton panties. Her legs were long, slender, and bronzed. Her hair was blonde. The side of her left breast was exposed, and the tender flesh of her inner thigh quivered gently. "Give me a look, give me a face That makes simplicity a grace;" wrote Ben Johnson in "Clerimont's Song," Robes loosely flowing, hair as free. Such sweet neglect more taketh me, Than all the adulteries of Art, That strike mine eyes, but not my heart." Needless to say, this verse did not occur to me at that moment. "Of course," she purred. "Of course what?" I thought. Oh, no! I'd forgotten the question. I'd forgotten everything. The whole plan dissolved, and I stood there wilting like a damp noodle. My mind was as void as a black hole. Panic tightened its grip upon me, and I my grip on the pail of rubbish. "W . . . would you li . . . like to take a walk?" I stammered. The words tumbled like rocks from my mouth. "What?" Oh, please. She didn't understand. Take me Lord. Take me this very second. Heaven or Hell . . . I don't care. Nothing could be worse than this. I repeated the question as best I could, and can only imagine how it must have sounded--because I couldn't bear to listen. It reminded me of the way I would pinch my nose and shut my eyes when I was force-fed liver as a child. The words had the same revolting effect upon my mouth. All I know is that Claudia understood the question, creased her adorable face with a demure smile, and said, "Ah merci, non." "Ah merci, non," she said. As if I were a beach peddler hawking a bunch of bananas. L'homme propose, la femme dispose. Unfortunately I still had to visit the garbage pit and then make that long walk back to my bungalow, knowing all the while she'd be looking at me and thinking, "What a muddle-headed buffoon," or the French equivalent. The pit was full of lemon rinds, banana peels, coconut shells, cigarette butts, and an empty can of honey and cream. It seemed a fitting buffet for vermin and other ignoble forms of life. I spotted a cockroach staring at me. Judging by the expression on his face, he appeared to sense my despondency--that I needed a sympathetic ear, a shoulder to cry on. Who better than a kindred spirit? No doubt this cockroach was familiar with the humiliation of unrequited love. McFinn is from Chicago and currently resides in Cambodia. He has a degree in Philosophy from Georgetown University. Much of his work should be considered humorous and fictionalized memoirs. There are also satirical essays. Location settings include Thailand, Cambodia, India, Burma, Morocco and Greece. Excerpts, reviews & purchase information are available via his website: http://www.morganmcfinn.com
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Morgan McFinn, Koh Samui, Thailand, unrequited love, holiday infatuation, a cockroach, romance, self-deprecating humor, courtship, flirting with ignomy,
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