Desmond, an accidental English-language expat, approximately Gen WTF, keeps himself afloat in Phnom Penh, day after day, week after week, without really knowing how. He drinks, he seeks companionship, he makes meagre attempts to engage with Cambodian culture that mostly amount to using motodops and giving directions in strangled Khmer. One otherwise unassuming weekend he gets drawn into the weird paranoid stench of the after-dark, hidden city and is almost forced to confront his limits, his demons, and his beer-drinking capacity. Cheer the good guys, boo the villains (if you can figure out which is which) in Penh-dacity: Bag Man, the third part of a new fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.
Desmond has locked some fornicating Swedes in his apartment, taken possession of a heart-stoppingly large amount of money, and may still have a chance with someone who took his number last night. It’s been a busy morning so far. Now read on.
……
An old man struggled past the Running Dog, leaning heavily on a stick, every few steps stopping to spit absently towards the gutter. In the opposite direction, a coconut seller pulled his cart, singing his wares in an irritatingly perfect repetition.
New message. Nancy. Desmond finished his beer with a swig and opened the message. ‘Missed u last nite ☹ thinking boat trip at 5 with some people, r u up? xx Nancy (from Humdinger).’ Hmm.
He slid his phone into his pocket, paid the bill, picked up the backpack – surprisingly, he realised, the weight of a two-year-old child – and eased as casually as he could into the street, sweating just a little more than usual. Ignoring the calls from the motodops, he walked, regretting the beers, at least the second one, and trying to concentrate on the problem at hand.
After a block or so it seemed the best thing to do would be to have one of those box-set weekends where you ignore the rest of the world and consume several series of television while lying completely still apart from visiting the fridge for more beer. He peeled down to the riverside and into the nearest DVD shop, where he grabbed all eight seasons of the medical drama Dr Cranky, five seasons of the cops and robbers show On The Side Of The Angels, and a complete box of the legal comedy drama In Litigation We Trust. He’d just add it to the invoice, he figured.
Then he treated himself to a tuk tuk back home. Status update: ‘More hungover now than when I woke up but feeling important.’ By the time he was crossing Monivong, five likes, two responses: ‘treasure that feeling, it’ll be gone tomorrow’; ‘I was feeling important, but then Important got out of bed and I felt Grumpy.’
Armed with beers and visual entertainment, he struggled through the front gate and was picking his way between the sniffing dogs and randomly parked motorbikes towards the staircase when the nephew of the landlord appeared; the English-speaking one, naked from the waist up and belly scratching, in the doorway. Behind him a television flickered and blared while granny stared blankly towards the street.
“Maybe today come fix water.”
The shower head had been leaking for several weeks. Approaches had been made, negotiations had set in. Landlords everywhere: so tight they squeak when they walk. Now it was down to timing.
“What time?”
“Maybe after this afternoon.”
“Maybe? Or for sure?”
“Maybe. My friend call me.”
Landlords everywhere: I’ve got a mate…
“Okay. I’ll be home.”
“You not home okay, you leave key.”
Whatever. Upstairs, put down bag, put down beers, fish for keys. Three more likes, another response: ‘I always thought you were a dwarf.’
Swedes asleep, no signs of attempted escape or cabin fever so far. Beer placed in fridge. Laptop found under pile of laundry. AC on, headphones in, DVD started, beer open. Two more likes, three more morning-caffeine-inspired responses, each sillier than the last. The brain of Desmond commences to operate on a higher plane.
Oh shit how did I get into this what if I lose the bag jesus where did he get a shitload of money why me I guess I’m trustworthy not such a bad fellow buy my share of rounds what the hell so shall I stay in until I get his message? What about this Nancy bird, wouldn’t mind a boat trip screw the shower hell I should ask Belinda he didn’t say don’t tell anyone…
New message, to Belinda: ‘Need advice. Conflicting priorities. Large amount of money to look after for a few days. Invited on boat trip by random connect from last nite. Fancy my chances. Your thoughts in 140 characters or less.’
Two more likes, one more response, conversation heading swiftly sideways. Waiting for Belinda. Waiting for Belinda. Waiting for Belinda.
New message, to Belinda:‘Well?’
Continues next week