Rainy Season

It was a very typical rainy season night. I had drifted into the neon sterility of Au Bon Pain—craving a taste of home and a chocolate brownie—under clear onyx skies and was putting the two-toned hulk of my ten baht coins in my purse when the thunder rolled. The deluge of hamster-sized raindrops started pummeling the ground, subduing the traffic outside into a surprised smear of brake lights tap, tap, tapping.

I waited it out, taking my usual “to go” order on a tray instead, leafing through my planner, picking off the last of my nail polish. Finally the drops softened, and I stood between two pillars of smokers in the doorway, becoming wrapped in smoke like vines becoming solid in the wetness, assessing the persistence of the rain through the bulbous auras of streetlamps. People began shedding their umbrellas as the drops gave way to a mist.

I knew the window of opportunity, the breath between downpours, was limited. It was time to get home as quickly as possible.

Too much traffic for a taxi when the streets start to flood like this. Too much traffic, too few available taxis. I squinted and tried to spot the orange vests of the motorcycle taxi drivers. Those vests that give texture to the slate gray night like globs of agitated paint. I finally saw one, and he avoided my gaze for as long as possible before realizing that resistance was futile. I pleaded and shivered and blinked with the suggestion of a frown. He reluctantly deposited the contents of his hand into his pocket, shrugged, nodded, and we ventured into the slippery spinal cord of Bangkok’s rain traffic, weaving between still vehicles like delinquent impulses, fluid and electric.

And then…..the ever-lovin’ heavens opened up and the rain was like a million metal screws or shark’s teeth or filthy marbles. I couldn’t feel the wetness through the sheer force and impact of it all, and I could feel my flesh becoming pockmarked and illustrated with gumdrop welts and my bones being devoured like the ends toothpicks and my hair most likely melting from my head, leaving a stringy wake as the motorcycle shook and proceeded forward in its steadfast, metallic determination. I found myself hugging the driver’s waist and burying my face in his back like he was my lover or a tree branch and our fates were entwined and isn’t it funny how often our lives are in the hands of strangers due to the impersonal need for transportation and vehicles and drivers and people in control? My eyes could not stay open in the blinding, blinding rain and I estimated our location from the angled arcs of our turns, from the small sways of my driver’s torso as he drove on in spite of my clinging like a starved koala. When I did open my eyes I recognized nothing. I saw the thick green varicose veins of the 7-Eleven sign, but it melted into unfamiliar surroundings. Families huddled under flimsy umbrellas. Where there had previously been the living, breathing organism of traffic there were now only pedestrians and dogs and small doorways and everything was still. And waiting. And staring.

I hoisted my chin onto my driver’s shoulder and bellowed into his ear. I asked him where we were. I gave him my address again, which had been previously absorbed with a nod of recognition. My mouth filled with rainwater. The air was absent and I had to fight the impulse to start gulping. I could feel the arteries in my neck starting to pop like gills. There was no space for air. No space. No oxygen. No orientation.

My driver bellowed back, his voice lost in sheet of noise that rose up from the pavement and I tried to decipher what he said by the quick bursts of his diaphragm contracting, hoping that his rib cage could send a bony code to my fingers while they clutched it like piano keys.

I had no idea what he had said. Suddenly I saw the twin towers of my condo, rising up like sticks of chalk, white molars, lighthouses. The darkness seemed to bubble up around them and everything was illuminated. I pointed. He drove. He drove until we got to the meticulous bars of an impenetrable gate. And there was my condo, just beyond, lights blinking out as its inhabitants fluffed pillows, yanked out false teeth, spoke in many languages about their gratitude for walls and ceilings and blankets because have you seen it out there?

I snaked my arm in a manic undulation to show my driver where to turn, how to turn, screaming in Thai though none of my words reached his ears. They drowned, scattering on the street with their exoskeletons like quarters dropping without sound. We backtracked. He shrugged violently, not knowing quite how to handle my wild gesticulations. Suddenly I smelled that hearty scent associated with dry mouth and headaches and flavored burps and foam, and my leg was saturated with a frigid liquid that I could easily differentiate from the tropical rain. It was the contents of my driver’s pocket. It was beer. A can of beer that he had been happily quaffing when I happened upon him and was just too blinded by my desire for my pink pillows and pirated DVDs and hot showers to notice.

Please. Please please please please please PLEASE.

I closed my eyes and just let the rain pound, wishing for more wax in my ears, wishing for something to shield my eyes, wishing that I could wipe off the beer that was cascading down my leg, warming and thickening with the rain, resembling beer-induced piss. I had no idea if my driver knew where we were or where we were going. I just slumped further and further into the tensed shape of his back. I just waited. Waited. Waited in motion, waited for breath. I only knew that we were safely in the garage of my condo when the dark of my eyelids became penetrated with the smack of fluorescent lighting. I could still feel the rain beating me. I could still hear it. I could still taste it. But it was over and done with now. I opened my eyes and the security guards all stared. My colored bra and panties were betrayed as my white dress (yes….yes….the dress was white, because that’s the only thing that could possibly make sense in the infinite possibilities of this day) had essentially dissolved against my skin. They all just gave me the look that I’ve gotten since I was little. A look I’m rather accustomed to by now. A look that is partly amused and affectionate, partly questioning my sanity and wondering where the hell it is, exactly, that my mind resides. A look that crosses cultural borders. A look that is seared into my mind when I see myself through other peoples’ eyes.

I just shrugged, smiled, shook like a wet dog, discreetly spat out a mouthful of rainwater, and walked my (essentially naked) self through a gauntlet of (dry) lobby observers. And I giggled.

At the end of the day, sometimes that’s all you can do.