Playing Lady Gaga, Being Nan Pau. Steve Tolbert

awake or eyed him like he’d escaped a psycho ward.

      Jake must have missed those looks though, or mistaken them for hero-worship, for with no loss of confidence he sat, turned all wide-eyed and beaming towards Nick, and jabbered on again, un-ignorable. ‘I thought I’d grow wrinkles and like go arthritic before Mae Sot popped up on the windscreen. What a tragedy that would be.’ He lifted his face, patted his cheek. ‘More than just a haircut on board shorts, I can tell ya. Like I’ve spent twenty-three years honing these centrefold features.’

      Laughing – for whatever reason – the freckled (like he’d been mud sprayed), auburn-haired (sticking up like he’d been dragged through the bush backwards) Jake tipped his head back, finished off his tinnie, sandal-crunched it and tossed it out the window. ‘Might have a last beer to celebrate that fact, and our arrival. Like to join me, dude, for a wee small one?’

      Warm beer, swaying bus, lumpy road: a recipe to vomit. ‘No thanks.’

      Jake freed a tinnie from his backpack and waved it in front of Nick anyway. ‘Ah go on, say ya want one. Good for the pimples they are.’

      Had Nick grown a few pimples since getting on the bus wouldn’t have surprised him. Enough time to. Nick shook his head.

      ‘Ya with the Mormons or somethin’?’

      ‘Not yet. But I might be one day,’ he lied.

      ‘The god squad. Right. Like that, is it?’ Jake ripped the tab off the tinnie and took a hard-thirst guzzle straight out of that VB ad back home. ‘Mmm, keeps ya nicely jacked-up this time of day,’ he said, blowing beery breath over Nick’s face. ‘Proof positive there’s a god watchin’ over us … Doubt he’s a friggin’ Mormon one though.’

      Nick looked back out at the heat mirages and scrappy fields mer­ging into corrugated iron shacks, a timber yard, motorbike repair shop, roadside fruit stalls. How Jake could drink beer warm like he’d been doing since leaving Bangkok boggled Nick’s mind.

      ‘Have a look at the rubbish out there!’ Jake piped up again. ‘The local tip, like, it’s been carpet-bombed. And those buildin’s over there saggin’ with age, lookin’ half-eaten. Ya wouldn’t wanna like sell real estate around ’ere, would ya? Could be a short stay, unless …’ His mouth went slack, his eyes big, like he was witnessing a holy act. ‘I see visions, Nicko. And—’ he cupped a hand to his ear ‘—somethin’ else is comin’ through … Would ya believe it? Patpong. Hear it? Neon-lit exotica thumpin’ out do-it, do-it, do-it music as those goddesses of the silver poles buff their pleasure points radiant with G-string moves we’ll never stop dreamin’ about. Oooo-eee, how good were those Patpong nights? Our eyes about to pop their sockets, havin’ ta gulp our Singhas down ta keep our love muscles from burstin’.’

      ‘What do you mean “our”? I wasn’t there.’

      ‘No, dude, ya weren’t, but ya should’ve been, so I’m like includin’ ya in my golden moment memories.’ He polished off his tinnie, crushed it under his sandal and tossed it out the window. ‘Gotta be a Pussycat Club in Mae Sot. I’ve not struck a Thai town yet that didn’t have one, or its equivalent. Have you?’

      ‘Straight from Bangkok to here, so I wouldn’t know.’

      ‘Not even a short Patpong detour, like, just to get the juices flowin’?’

      Patpong could have been in Africa for all Nick knew. ‘No, not even that.’

      ‘Tragedy.’ Jake gave Nick a questioning look. ‘So, whereabouts ya stayin’ in Mae Sot?’

      Alarm hit Nick hard. He’d hoped to just wave good-bye when they arrived, and that would be the end of it. ‘Haven’t decided,’ he lied. Having Jake next to him ‘on countdown time to his first Mae Sot beer and bonk’ had eased his loneliness and anxiety, for a while anyway. Jake was entertaining (first time Nick had laughed in weeks). He slept, woke, rabbited on, downed tinnies, left to ‘drain the dragon’, came back ‘rapturous’ about the ‘pure relief and feeling of ecstasy’ the experience provided him with. Most importantly, he didn’t ask probing questions – until now. So despite his distraction value, Jake wasn’t the full-time travelling companion Nick was looking for. Nobody was. And if Nick did choose to enter a Pussycat Club, or some such place under-age, he wanted to do it on his own, in his own time. ‘I might have a look around, see what’s available.’

      ‘I can save ya the trouble. Like, Lonely Planet reckons the Bai Fern Guesthouse is the Hilton by another name. Dead centre of town, clean, cockroach-resistant, big fridge. Can’t be far from there to the nearest coldie and leggy lady serving it up, can it?’ He paused for a breath, not an answer. ‘Sample the merchandise, support the local tourist industry. How perfect is that? And not to worry, my man, like, as long as you’ve graduated from nappie-wearing ya’re old enough to get in the clubs here.’

      He took a mid-rant break to glance out the window before continuing on. ‘A piece of advice though when ya do get inta a club. Either wear three pairs of yer strongest underdaks or yer baggiest trousers so ya got plenty of room ta grow, cuz ya will.’ He winked. ‘A vital statistic, mate: two-thirds of the local lads have their first below-the-belt experience wrapped up in the arms of Pussycat girls, or their clones.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Aaaab-solutely. Check it out on Google if you don’t believe me: the girls’ sole purpose is to share their charms and knowledge for the benefit of mankind, especially the under-educated ones.’

      ‘At a price.’

      ‘Yeah, well … poverty’s sad, sadder than a three-legged dog, but what can ya do? Ya can go a lifetime with an empty brain, but not long on an empty stomach. Everyone’s gotta eat. So not to fret, it’s coin goin’ to a good cause, and like no way will yer Pussycat experiences feature on Facey, Twaddle or Piffle, unless ya want ’em to. Ya can, like, take a mornin’ to snap some photos: temples, boneheads, the market place, that sort of thing, then—’

      ‘Boneheads?’

      ‘Hairless ones. Monks, my man, monks.’ He gave a nod towards the front. ‘There’re a few about ya know.’

      And there were. Nick spotted four, the backs of their heads like great brown onions.

      ‘So, what ya do is select yer best pics, break out the lappie and fire ’em off ta the rellies and friends back home. Or ya get back home and show ’em off personally while tellin’ ’em all a Buddha story or two. “That’s our Nick,” they’ll be sayin’, elbowin’ each other in the ribs, “gobblin’ up the culture, gettin’ the most out of his travels.” ’

      Nick rested his head on the back of his seat and looked out the window again. Jake, on full throttle, was starting to grate.

      ‘Anyway, Nicko, up the Pussycats. Up the Bai Fern Guesthouse. Up our Mae Sot budget plan! Like, what we save in sharin’ a room, we spend hangin’ out sharin’ a culture.’ He waited for a response that didn’t come. ‘Ya gotta toothache or somethin’? Ya’re not lookin’ that thrilled.’

      ‘I want to have a look around the place first.’

      Jake did a quick take of nearby passengers before eyeing Nick again. ‘Right, that’s cool … Mind if I tag along, just ta get a feel for the place too?’

      The bus slowed and shuddered to a stop on the edge of a huge, crowded market place. Mae Sot was out there waiting for them.

      ***

      Nick turned off the main road onto a crumbling laneway, Jake following at just above crawling pace, scanning left, right and behind. The sun’s glare and oven-blast heat were starting to ease. People were appearing, sitting down in the shelter of shade. On a nearby goal-less pitch, shirts versus skins school-agers played hard soccer in a haze of dust and reddening sunlight. Beyond the pitch, a pagoda’s golden spire, bell-shaped stupas and whitewashed walls stood out stark against the paint-starved town.