Buddha's Bad Boys

Monk For A Month

Monk For A Month

by

Alan Chin

There is no fire like lust. There is no grip like hate. There is no net like delusion. There is no river like craving. 

-- The Lord Buddha, Dhammapada, #251

Chapter One

I sat at the bar sporting saffron robes and shaved head, sipping a Singha beer and listening to the bartender who was clearly agitated. I couldn’t tell whether the man was upset over the recent murders, or because the hard rain was hurting his business, or if he simply didn’t like serving alcohol to a monk, even a Caucasian one. 

“His name Somchai,” the barkeep said. He spoke English, but with the usual Thai singsong-clip that I had come to adore. “And yes, he kill American expatriate named Warren. Tony Warren.”

I had seen a dead body only once before, and it took a moment to settle my nerves. I had never learned the invaluable art of staying detached in the face of tragedy, of not identifying with the victim. I had no way to shield myself from the reality of how brutal humans can be to each other, what ruthless lengths they will go, and the pain they are capable of inflicting on each other. 

Across the street, four soldiers trudged along in the rain.

“When did Somchai kill the American?” I asked, my voice scarcely a whisper.

The barkeep didn’t know exactly, sometime at the beginning of the afternoon that had now come to an end. At the same time that he killed Warren, Somchai had also slain Warren’s Thai girlfriend. Both victims had been found two hours earlier at the apartment belonging to Warren. 

The barroom was already dark, due to the lateness of the hour and another power outage. Candles flickered on the bar and at each table; their yellow light mingled with the blueness of the dying day. 

The shower stopped as suddenly as it had started, as it often does in Thailand. 

“How old was she? The girlfriend I mean,” I asked. 

“Very young. Nineteen.” Regret passed over the barkeep’s face. “A real beauty.”

“I would like another Singha,” I said, “but I have no more money. Can I buy on credit?”

The bartender’s look of regret turned to disgust. As he walked away, a customer two stools over ordered beers for me and himself, and also shots of cheap Thai whiskey.

The barkeep prepared our drinks while the man who ordered moved to the stool beside mine. He introduced himself as Ty Poe, and did not shake my hand, as it is consider disrespectful to touch a monk. Poe was courteous, offering the customary wai gesture of respect. He was somewhere in his forties, and had a smoking-induced cough. The polluted streets of Chiang Mai didn’t help his lungs any more than his chain-smoking, I thought. I gave him my name, Reece Jackson, and told him I was from America, San Francisco in fact.