If Motorcycles or Pitbull’s have taught me anything, it’s that it’s not “If”, but “When.”
I discovered my place upon the “If-When” continuum on New Year’s Eve, 2011.
I was in Thailand.
Alone.
A strange man in a strange place.
My profile picture said a lot about my attitude at the time, but it was all posturing.
Truth be told, I reeled from a series of major and minor thumps to my ego.
My life sounded like a country song.
Of my two best friends, one had taken my job, while the other started dating the lady who broke my heart.
In a weird way, they did me a favor.
I hated the job and didn’t have the courage to quit.
And the girl wasn’t The One…
But it sure didn’t feel that way at the time.
At the time, the rejection slash embarrassment hurt.
Most negative things in life are like this.
Difficult to digest, at first, but blessings in the long run.
Flush with cash from years of selling my soul to the overlords of Corporate America, I chose take a Grand Tour (i.e.. run away from any serious responsibility or commitments for a solid two years.)
To kick off my ‘Great Hiatus’, as it were, I spent six months in a Muay Thai Camp in Phuket (Pooh-ket), Thailand.
Living on less than $20/day, in paradise, free from responsibility or cares sounds idyllic.
But in reality, amounted to just working out excessively to dull the pain of a crushingly lonely and truly narrow existence.
*****
For most Thai, the moped is their primary means of locomotion.
So I rented one to scoot around during my stay.
On New Year’s Eve, I rode my wannabe vespa down to Mama’s, a restaurant at the end of Chalong road, where I enjoyed a pineapple filled with fried rice.
While riding back to the hotel, in the fog a carbohydrate induced coma, I didn’t notice a rock in the middle of the road.
My front tire ran it over, the handle bars wobbled and I laid the scooter down.
I slid about ten feet.
The scooter, on the other hand, slid for twenty and domino’d a bunch of parked mopeds.
I got up, limbs intact, save for a road rash that Strawberried up and down my leg.
I wasn’t worried about the destruction of my scooter because I was insured. And thankfully, the owners of the scooters I’d downed, were remarkably calm, unaffected and more concerned about my well-being, than the minor damage to their own bikes.
As fate would have it, I preformed this dog and pony show in front of a fire station.
Seconds after crashing, a fireman ran up to me, tended to my wounds and gave me a pair of crutches free of charge.
I bowed slightly, hands in prayer position and thanked him in Thai, “Kob Kun Khrap”
“Swadde Krap” the fireman replied.
(Translation: You’re welcome)
“How can I repay you guys?” I ask, gratefully.
“We sell firework!” The fireman informed me.
A Fireman selling Fireworks is my favorite form of “make work” slash job creation since Oregon outlawed pumping your own gas and Hunter Biden started serving on the boards of Ukrainian Oil Refineries.
The firemen peddled four classes of fireworks.
Extra-Small, Small, Medium and Large.
With a lordy sense of philanthropic generosity, I ask, “Which firework is most expensive?”
The fireman tells me that the extra-small firework was the priciest.
I found this odd.
The bigger the firework, the bigger the bang.
The bigger the bang, the bigger the expense…. Right?
My naïve brain aswirl with possibility, I ignore my instincts and purchase the extra small firework, which amounted to a 4-inch by 4-inch cardboard box with a harmless fuse dangling out of the top….
A fuse that begged to be lit.
I return my broken moped to the Scoot Scoot store and hobble, acrutch, back to my hotel.
When the clock struck twelve, New Year arrived.
Crippled, yet celebratory, I decided to light off my tiny firework.
I limp into the middle of a Chalong Road, a street flanked with thatched roofed homes, pop up petrol stations that sold gas out of wine bottles and Chicken Coups…A seemingly endless stream of chicken coups.
(I think we all know where this story is headed.)
I place the firework in the middle of the road and lit the fuse.
I back up what I thought was a safe distance, five feet, and watch innocently, as the fuse reached the base of the firework.
A deafening, “BOOM!!” rang out.
I jump back reflexively.
A mortar round launched itself a hundred feet into the air and exploded.
My ears rang.
My stomach churned.
“Holy shit! They sold me festival grade fireworks!” I thought.
As the embers floated over the thatched rooves, I notice the firework had been laid on its side and pointed, menacingly, at a series of chicken coups stacked on top of a porch.
If I wanted to retain what remained of my already 9.5 fingers, I’d have to stay put and watch tragedy manifest.
The 2nd mortar round boomed out of its 4×4 container and lodged itself directly into a chicken coup.
An ominous silence descended over Wat Chalong.
Time stopped.
Seconds felt like minutes.
Paralyzed with fear, I stood helplessly as the mortar exploded, precipitating a wake of feathers, smoke and Thai Screaming that billowed across Chalong road.
Shocked, I picked up my crutches and hoofed it back to my hotel, not stopping to see if there was a 3rd round in the chamber.
Fortunately, there wasn’t.
I rushed back to my hotel and stayed up all night peering out my window, paranoid, like an Isletonian meth addict.
Every few minutes, I’d move the curtains back and forth, absolutely certain The Authorities were here to arrest me…. The One-Legged Chicken Assassin.
But the cops never came.
Six hours later, I taxied to the airport, boarded a flight to Singapore and flew the coup, a Thai fugitive.
But Karma being Karma, I didn’t escape Thailand unscathed.
Two days later, my road rash turned into Staph.
A week after that the Staph turned into MRSA, and forced me to spend 24 hours in a Singaporean hospital convinced my leg would have to be amputated.
Moral: Never trust a Thai Firework.
Or more importantly: Never trust a Pineapple filled with Fried Rice.
They’re deadly.