Sea Of Sorrows. Charley Brindley

so I could continue to occupy the table without being bothered.

      These writing channels open to me only rarely, and they usually occur after some emotional event. When I’m in that groove, I have to stay there until it runs its course to that inevitable burnout of the flame, because it might be days or even weeks before it ignites again. The intervening time between these episodes, I spend on editing what I’ve written.

      I had no idea of the passing time until someone spoke to me in English.

      “What are you doing?”

      I knew it was Prija without looking up. “I was writing.”

      “Writing what?” She sat at the table without being invited and took a piece of baked pork with her fingers.

      “Why don’t you have a seat and eat my dinner?” I said in Thai.

      “You dinner is cold.”

      “I like it cold.” I’d forgotten all about it. “What the hell?” I glanced around at the street vendors starting their daily routines.

      “This happens every day at sunrise.”

      “Sunrise?”

      “Yeah.” She leaned her elbows on the table, watching me. “Are you senile as well as stupid?”

      “Those two might be the same thing.”

      “What are you writing?” She craned her neck to see the screen of my iPad.

      “Nothing you could understand.” I turned it toward her.

      She read the page, then flipped to the previous page. She read and flipped again. “This makes no sense.”

      “Well, if you’re going to read it backward, it might be hard for your pea brain to comprehend.”

      “Pea brain? You talking about the vegetable or piss?” She drank from my glass.

      “In your case, piss.”

      “Your tea’s warm as piss.” She held up the glass for the waitress to see.

      “I guess you know a lot about urine temperature.”

      “I know a lot about a lot.”

      “You come into my world uninvited, eat my food, insult my writing, drink my tea, and now I guess you expect me to pay for your drink as well.”

      “Why not? You got money to burn. What are you doing here, stalking me?”

      The waitress brought her a fresh glass of tea.

      “I was waiting for Siskit so I could have an intelligent conversation, but I got you instead.”

      “You’re lucky. I normally charge men for this.”

      “For what? Obnoxious belligerence?”

      “Most men get off on that.”

      “Most men are idiots.”

      “All men are idiots.” She sipped her tea. “Some are just half-idiots.”

      “I take that as a compliment.”

      “It wasn’t meant to be.”

      “I’ve got to go before I puke.”

      “Yeah, I’ve got to go before I’m bored to death.”

      I stood, left some money on the table, then took my iPad. “See ya.”

      “I hope not.”

      In my hotel room, I started a pot of coffee, then forgot about it.

      Noon came, and still I worked at the computer.

      At mid-afternoon, I sat back and folded my arms, staring at the screen.

      Wow, 115 pages.

      I was suddenly hungry and sleepy. Unable to decide which to do, I poured a cup of tary coffee.

      * * * * *

      Thursday night. I sat at the cafe table, watching Prija work. I tried to write, but it was nothing more than typing. She was very busy.

      My phone played Johnny B. Goode. “Hey, Number Three.” I listened. “Yeah, I’m awake. What time is it in L. A.?” After a moment. “About 1:30 a.m. here.” I didn’t really want to talk to him, but we had to get this issue settled. “I couldn’t sleep.”

      “I’ve worked out new profit and loss projections,” he said.

      “Why?”

      “We think we could buy the heavy equipment for the project, then sell it when we’re finished. It would be a lot cheaper than renting or leasing the equipment.”

      “We?”

      “Number Two and me.”

      “But we can write off leasing to reduce our tax obligation.”

      “We can amortize the purchases,” Three said.

      “No, it won’t work.”

      “I’m sending you the P & L projections.”

      “Send them,” I raised my voice. “But I’m telling you it won’t work.”

      “Problems?” Prija took the chair next to me.

      “I gotta go. We’ll talk later.” I tossed my phone to the table.

      “Who was that?”

      “Business partner,” I said.

      “What kind of business?”

      “Hospital renovation in Los Angles.”

      “Sounds hard.”

      “Yeah,” I said, “hard to get everyone on the same page.”

      “What page?”

      I glanced at my watch; after 2 a.m., I tossed money on the table and grabbed my iPad to leave.

      “Why are you spying on me?”

      “Actually, I thought I’d get away without seeing you.”

      “You’ve been watching me all night.”

      “I’ve been working all night.” I held up the computer for her to see.

      “I hope it’s not the same twaddle you were writing last night.” She sat at the table, but I didn’t.

      “No, this is mostly drivel and tripe.”

      “Should be an improvement. Sit down. You look like you’re about to take a runner.”

      “I guess it’s too late for that.”

      I took the chair across from her. She waved the waitress over.

      “So you’re like a voyeur?” She spoke to the waitress. “Hi, Ringy. Can we have two root beers?”

      Ringy smiled and went away for the drinks.

      “Why are you nice to her?”

      “She used to work the street until she got too old.”

      “That will happen to you, too. Probably next week.”

      “Funny. Why do you come here?”

      “I thought I might find intellectual stimulation, but all I get is boring conversation.”

      “Stimulation cost money.”

      “But boredom is free?”

      “Until I get a paying customer. How about you? Wouldn’t you like to buy some real stimulation?”

      I laughed. “Why would I do that?”

      “Why does any man?”

      “Because they can’t