Bangkok in Salisbury by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

So, there we were in downtown Salisbury, North Carolina on a hot, yet dry, July afternoon in 2014. Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) were hungry for some Asian fare, when lo and behold, we spied a Thai restaurant on the corner of Innes and Lee.

Bangkok Downtown was the name on the glass pane of the old green door of the renovated, three-story, 90-year-old building. Not being sure if they did late Saturday lunch, I pulled gingerly on the old brass door handle. The door opened easily with nary a creak. We entered the cool foyer.

A Thai hostess quickly had us seated. There was only one other couple in there at the time, both buried in their plates. They seem to love the food here.

The World Cup soccer match between the Netherlands and Costa Rica was running on the LCD screen, high overhead. The original, white, raised-relief, tin Queen Anne ceiling tiles had been cleaned up and retouched very nicely. In fact, the whole building had been expertly redone.

Soon a diminutive Thai waitress arrived at our table in traditional attire. We ordered green and red curry dishes. Then the waitress promptly disappeared into the kitchen.

I refocused on the soccer game, while Monique continued to study the menu. Halftime arrived along with our plates. A scoreless draw at the break.

The food smelled heavenly and got the wall elephant's nod of approval. Monique began to feast as I pondered the first half.

“Van Persie needs to get his head into the game.”

“No dolphin dive yet, 33?”

“No, nothing even close, Monique. Though, Robben, as usual, is playing like a man on a mission.”

“Well, maybe he can score in the second half.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said as I looked around for the restroom.

I got up and headed for a narrow back hallway. I had gulped down a quart of ice water while watching the tense first half. I left a Gold card (a coupon to purchase my e-novel Gold, a summer story for just 99 cents) in the men's room in a location that probably won't lend itself to being discovered for several months to several years. I'll just leave it at that.

Well, for now, as it was. (Not sure what that means, either, but I seemed to think it was clever at the time.) Once back at our table, I devoured the vegetarian red curry dish. It was – in a commonly used English word – delicious. Good, tasty, healthy chow.

Monique was almost done with her green curry bowl. She seemed to like it as much as I liked mine. Her fork and spoon were nonstop.

Soon the game recommenced as another pair of middle-age couples arrived and were seated on both sides of us with a table between. I’m glad they didn’t cram us all awk wardly together. This spacing is perfect for intentional overhearings.

The goateed 60-ish Caucasian man to my right had a casual interest in the match, looking up at the screen from time to time. I'm not sure if he had a rooting interest, though. Since this wasn't a sports bar, I curbed my enthusiasm whenever the Dutch team had a scoring chance, or whenever they were close to being scored upon. Nonetheless, the bearded man to my right picked up on my interest in the game. Now it’s time to have a little fun. Time to click on the digital audio recorder. I might utter a good line and forget it when write-up time comes.

The game seemed to slow down. Costa Rica was being defensively cautious, but would still launch surprise counterattacks. Suddenly, Robben led another break down the pitch. A beautiful cross to Robin van Persie gets misplayed. Darn it! Wake up!

“Did you see that, lovely Agent 32? Van Persie almost tripped over his own two feet. He can play so great and then … well, I don't know.”

“You were just talking him up the other week, telling me how he was going to score at least twenty goals with Manchester United next season with fellow countryman Louis van Gaal as manager, and how Liverpool were in deep trouble.”

“I know, I know, I know. It's a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately World Cup kind of thing, I guess.”

“Don't take it too seriously, Parkaar; [my ailing alias] it's not the United States.”

“Yeah, you're right, Monique.”

“Do you even know any Dutch, 33?”

“Niet veel [not much in Dutch] I would say in Rotterdam.”

“Neat feel?”

“Yes, later, 32.”

“What in the world are you talking about, 33?”

“Gosh, Sneijder just hit the crossbar! Dutch luck, I tell ya.

Just dumb Dutch luck.”

“Dutch luck?”

“Believe me, 32; you don't want it. Certainly not in the finals.”

The second half ended with no score. Two 15-minute periods of extra time were played as we sipped our Singha lager beers. Still, no team could score.

“It's PKs now, 32.”

“PKs?”

“Penalty kicks.”

“Is that good?”

“It's a crap shoot. Throw a coin in the air.”

“I think Costa Rica wanted it to get to this stage, 33.”

“Me, too, 32. And, they have succeeded in that.”

All eight of us in the main dining hall watched the TV screen as the nerve-racking round of penalty kicks began.

Replacement goaltender Tim Krull made two big saves and the Netherlands won 4-3 to advance. Maybe there is an oranje [orange in Dutch] demigod after all.

As the match neared conclusion, I had a strange sensation of seeing all of us from above – from those old ceiling tiles. I saw four random couples at a Thai restaurant on a Saturday afternoon in the hot piedmont of North Carolina, watching a hot soccer game in Brazil, while their food got cold and their drinks got warm. I saw nine translucent numbers hovering around us (one for the waitress):

2,836,042,002 | 4,045,823,905 | 3,035,012,064

4,212,257,093 | 2,901,084,931 | 3,215,913,416

2,967,391,745 | 4,404,204,357 | 4,503,026,198

“You look lost in thought, 33. What are you thinking about?”

“Numbers, 32. Unique human numbers.”

“Goals scored? Those unique human numbers?”

“You could say that. The human score on Earth. And when someone dies, their number evaporates. A lot of gaps in the sequence.”

“Did you quick-drink another Singha beer while I was in the ladies' room, Parkaar?”

“No, just more ice water. Did you remember to leave a Gold card in there?”

“Why, of course, 33.”

“Salamat, [„Thank you' in Tagalog] Monique. Who knows, maybe someday someone will find it and want to check out my novel. Maybe they will buy it and read it, and actually like it enough to tell a friend who will … blah-blah-blah, and so on, and sew [ sic] on.”

“Do you have that recorder on?”

“Ja.” [Yes in Dutch]

And then from the table to the right, the older gentleman with a slight Scouse accent: “That was some match.”

“It sure was,” I replied.

“But, don't worry, mate; Robin van Persie won't torment Liverpool next season. It will be the usual villains: Rooney and Mata.”

“Yeah, you're probably right.”

“I'll give you a hint for planting business cards. I did some of that in my younger days. You want to place them in books, newspapers, weeklies, etc.”

“That sounds logical. Thanks for the tip.”

“Everyone has to use the bathroom, but not everyone is a reader.”

“I get what you're saying. That's some sage advice, sir.

Thanks a lot. I'll keep that in mind.”

“No problem. Have a nice evening.”

“Likewise.”

Monique and I got up to leave. We paid our bill and wandered outside.

“Monique, we got eavesdropped upon this time,” I said to her on a vacant block of sidewalk.

“Smartly so, though,” she replied.

“Yes, very smartly so.”

We rounded the corner and looked up at the sign on the old Hardiman Building.

“Ah, they're still leasing office space,” I said.

“A psecret society office in Psalisbury?” Monique suggested.

“Psalisbury with a silent P, 32?”

“Why, of course, 33.”

“I'll have to run it by, Ernie.”

“Yeah, you do that, Parkaar.”

We both laughed like impish schoolkids.