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The Way They Leave Me
She walked up to the line, an American. She had on a light brown knee length skirt, a sleeveless blouse and heels too high for Bangkok. I'm third in line and this means she will not be my fare, but I watch her anyway as she gets really close to the first driver’s face and seems to stay there for insurmountable moments and reasons. With her Western authority, she simply shakes her head no and moves on to the number two guy in line. Same thing. Her flared nostrils leans her forward and then she leans back with a frown. Then it's my turn.
I sit on my manual Yamaha recently washed and glare at her. In similar manner, she approaches, moves her lips close to mine opens and closes her mouth just barely enough for me to see the pink that exists within her.
“Sukumvit sam sip tap nuguen,” she says this and I can almost smell her breath. Impressed that she knows a little bit of my language, I give her what she wants. I breathe okay all over her. She gives me a nod, removes her sunglasses for a brief deep look into me. In that second, for the first time I see how scared she is. She gets on, grazing my hips briefly as she wiggles into sidesaddle form. Then I tell her what my mother used to always say to me: “Don’t let go, or die.” She smiles, but I say this in Thai, so I have no idea if she understands.
My father’s from India, but from what I’m told he didn’t do right by her and stayed on his side of the race fence. Had a wife and some kids with his people. She always referred to him like that: “he’s with his people and you’re with me. We’re our own people.” And we were, she and I. He taught her English and she kept learning for me, so that I could figure out my father’s people if I wanted to. I learned enough from her to help me with the Western customers.
Mom would always drive the motorbike in skirts and dresses. They never flew up because I stood in front of her and this would invariably hold them down. As early as two I’d stand upright in between the steering column and the driver’s seat, my head barely high enough to reach my mother’s waist. To me, this was the magic they spoke of when they lit incense and talked about Buddha, the feeling in between my mother’s warm legs, on a motorbike, going 70 kilometers. I had to be at least two because I remember when I’d get nervous or excited as she drove, I’d pee in my diapers. She’d always yell as she started the ignition “don’t let go, or die,” and I always believed her, everything that she said, until she failed me and let go.
It was the way that she left me. We were driving down Rama IV, the traffic had recently opened up and her speed picked up. I was five, so instead of standing in between her, I sat. She controlled the steering, but I pretended it was me. My mother was an artesian in her driving; she’d see five moves ahead in her traffic dodging. There seemed to be a rhythm in her head that lane changes were in tune to. This was my place to feel bigger than life; my time to dream with my mother’s smell behind me— her fingers and hands right in front of me. Sometimes she’d whisper into my ear. More or less they were sweet nothings left over from some good mood. She’d tell me how beautiful I was, how the sound of my laugh helped her, that she loved me; and, I’d feel the squeeze of her knees against mine always glad for traffic. This was my time with her.
So since traffic had recently cleared we were driving fast, maybe faster than normal because it felt like the shackles had been lifted. It was late December and the air was less humid and the faster she drove the more we felt it. I think she must have been drunk on the air because she should have braked when we approached the stopped cars at the light, but she waited till the last second and when that second came I wasn’t scared. I was in the womb of her legs. She was my Buddah. But the bike was old and badly maintained, not that I knew this—I was five.
We hit the stopped car. “Don’t let go, or you die,” and I listened.
The force of the impact jolted me and my legs brought me down to a squat in my five-year old position. My mother let go and flew above me like an angel with clipped wings because she splattered onto the cars in front of us. Everything seemed to bend around me. It was hot, the bike and street. As if the cool air had been tainted, as if her essence was absorbed, the humidity seemed to increase. When I wiggled myself out of the bike mold, I tried to swallow all the air to keep her with me. I sat on the curb, hugging my knees, so mad at mom for letting go. That’s how she left she me.
***
She’s trying not to touch me, but not doing a very good job. I can tell that she wants to hold on and not die. I can feel her knees lean up from her sidesaddle lean. It’s nice. She smells like Jasmine.
“Where you from,” I ask.
“USA, California, Hollywood” she yells but doesn’t need to. She’s right by my ear.
“But I live here,” she continues yelling. “ Chan Pen Kru.”
Then her touch disappears when we reach the stop light; I turn my head towards her and watch her navigate the sidewalk in her heels. She hands me money and says something that I don’t understand. This is the way she leaves me, the way they all leave me.
The Way They Leave Me
She walked up to the line, an American. She had on a light brown knee length skirt, a sleeveless blouse and heels too high for Bangkok. I'm third in line and this means she will not be my fare, but I watch her anyway as she gets really close to the first driver’s face and seems to stay there for insurmountable moments and reasons. With her Western authority, she simply shakes her head no and moves on to the number two guy in line. Same thing. Her flared nostrils leans her forward and then she leans back with a frown. Then it's my turn.
I sit on my manual Yamaha recently washed and glare at her. In similar manner, she approaches, moves her lips close to mine opens and closes her mouth just barely enough for me to see the pink that exists within her.
“Sukumvit sam sip tap nuguen,” she says this and I can almost smell her breath. Impressed that she knows a little bit of my language, I give her what she wants. I breathe okay all over her. She gives me a nod, removes her sunglasses for a brief deep look into me. In that second, for the first time I see how scared she is. She gets on, grazing my hips briefly as she wiggles into sidesaddle form. Then I tell her what my mother used to always say to me: “Don’t let go, or die.” She smiles, but I say this in Thai, so I have no idea if she understands.
My father’s from India, but from what I’m told he didn’t do right by her and stayed on his side of the race fence. Had a wife and some kids with his people. She always referred to him like that: “he’s with his people and you’re with me. We’re our own people.” And we were, she and I. He taught her English and she kept learning for me, so that I could figure out my father’s people if I wanted to. I learned enough from her to help me with the Western customers.
Mom would always drive the motorbike in skirts and dresses. They never flew up because I stood in front of her and this would invariably hold them down. As early as two I’d stand upright in between the steering column and the driver’s seat, my head barely high enough to reach my mother’s waist. To me, this was the magic they spoke of when they lit incense and talked about Buddha, the feeling in between my mother’s warm legs, on a motorbike, going 70 kilometers. I had to be at least two because I remember when I’d get nervous or excited as she drove, I’d pee in my diapers. She’d always yell as she started the ignition “don’t let go, or die,” and I always believed her, everything that she said, until she failed me and let go.
It was the way that she left me. We were driving down Rama IV, the traffic had recently opened up and her speed picked up. I was five, so instead of standing in between her, I sat. She controlled the steering, but I pretended it was me. My mother was an artesian in her driving; she’d see five moves ahead in her traffic dodging. There seemed to be a rhythm in her head that lane changes were in tune to. This was my place to feel bigger than life; my time to dream with my mother’s smell behind me— her fingers and hands right in front of me. Sometimes she’d whisper into my ear. More or less they were sweet nothings left over from some good mood. She’d tell me how beautiful I was, how the sound of my laugh helped her, that she loved me; and, I’d feel the squeeze of her knees against mine always glad for traffic. This was my time with her.
So since traffic had recently cleared we were driving fast, maybe faster than normal because it felt like the shackles had been lifted. It was late December and the air was less humid and the faster she drove the more we felt it. I think she must have been drunk on the air because she should have braked when we approached the stopped cars at the light, but she waited till the last second and when that second came I wasn’t scared. I was in the womb of her legs. She was my Buddah. But the bike was old and badly maintained, not that I knew this—I was five.
We hit the stopped car. “Don’t let go, or you die,” and I listened.
The force of the impact jolted me and my legs brought me down to a squat in my five-year old position. My mother let go and flew above me like an angel with clipped wings because she splattered onto the cars in front of us. Everything seemed to bend around me. It was hot, the bike and street. As if the cool air had been tainted, as if her essence was absorbed, the humidity seemed to increase. When I wiggled myself out of the bike mold, I tried to swallow all the air to keep her with me. I sat on the curb, hugging my knees, so mad at mom for letting go. That’s how she left she me.
***
She’s trying not to touch me, but not doing a very good job. I can tell that she wants to hold on and not die. I can feel her knees lean up from her sidesaddle lean. It’s nice. She smells like Jasmine.
“Where you from,” I ask.
“USA, California, Hollywood” she yells but doesn’t need to. She’s right by my ear.
“But I live here,” she continues yelling. “ Chan Pen Kru.”
Then her touch disappears when we reach the stop light; I turn my head towards her and watch her navigate the sidewalk in her heels. She hands me money and says something that I don’t understand. This is the way she leaves me, the way they all leave me.
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