Note: After the Minnesota Office of Recovery Services had my driver's license revoked for back child support (even though I was at the time paying $1600 per month) I decided I'd had enough of America for a while and went back to Thailand, where I had served my LDS mission, to teach English. The first time I attempted this was in 2003. As the following blog post from that year will testify, I did not have much luck . . .
Went for another job interview yesterday. Over at Lad Phrao, Soi 2. The idiot cab driver dropped me off on the wrong side of the street, so I had to play dodge ball with the murderous traffic and then walk about a mile in the blazing sun to the FunSpeak school. I was early. The place was shut up tighter than a clam. It almost looked deserted. I was mucky with sweat and sun and diesel exhaust fumes; I would have sold my soul to the Democrats for a cold shower and even colder bottle of Fanta right then. An air-conditioned barbershop sits next to FunSpeak. So what the hay, I’ll get a trim.
Things are different from my days as a missionary here. Back then the barbers were ugly old Chinese men who had big, glaberous hands that reeked of Tiger Balm. They not only cut your hair but liked to put wooden splinters in your ears to clean out the wax. Nowadays, though, the barber industry has been taken over by beautiful young Thai women, who sit languidly waiting for customers, showing a lot of leg, while reading the Thai version of Cosmopolitan. And the division of labor is quite to my liking. One gal does nothing but shampoo, rinse, shampoo, rinse, shampoo and rinse my hair. She is wearing one of those very tight white student blouses that University students are sporting this season; one good lungful of air and those buttons would start popping like champagne corks. I’d gladly risk having an eye put out to see that happen. There is something unsettling about a woman running her long nails through your hair over and over again. I wasn’t sure if I was going to tip her or ask her to marry me. In the end I do neither. I’m a shy cheapskate.
My lady barber is dressed in black leather bib overalls; they squeak like Xena in full armor whenever she bends over me. Once I take my glasses off and gaze at my reflection in the mirror I seem to look pretty dang charming. I’m thinking, maybe this gal is bored with her life of snipping follicles, maybe I can brighten things up for her with some dinner and a movie, and then . . . who knows? I smile at her. She smiles at me. Was that a wink she just gave me? Wait, am I winking at her? No, just some hair in my eyes. She finishes with a hot blow dryer, running it around my head and then down the back of my neck; that’s gotta be a come on! Let me just put on my glasses and pay her, with a generous tip, and then ask her what she’s doing tonight, would she like to go see the new Charlie’s Angels movie? Glasses on. My world comes crashing around my ears. Who is that homely person staring back at me, and when did I get that gigantic bald spot on the back of my head? Must be the size of a flapjack. And those bags under my eyes . . . I look like I’ve just escaped from some Russian Gulag. I’m not going to ask this gal out, instead I’m going to ask her where the nearest plastic surgeon is. Ah well, at least I’ve cooled off abit. Now to stroll next door for that interview.
A wiry little man with black curly hair pops up and pumps my hand. He’s Gustafo. I hand him my resume. He puts it underneath a pile of paper six inches thick. I never look at ‘em, he explains. He shows me a poster for FunSpeak; it shows Shakespeare down on one knee, emoting in Thai. Ah yes, explains Gustafo, we will be teaching English through the use of drama and theater techniques. How many students do you have right now, I ask. Right now, none. We haven’t started to advertise yet. But once we do we’re sure to get a bunch of students, maybe even more than we can handle. He shows me through the building; bare, stark rooms with no desks, no chairs, and unpleasant-smelling carpeting. He will be auditioning teachers in about two weeks. And the pay, I prompt. You can ask what you think you’re worth, he replies loftily. There are too many flies in the office where we talk, and the air conditioning isn’t working well; I can feel a fine, greasy sweat on my forehead. Suddenly I feel very tired and bored with Gustafo. When are you looking for teachers to start? Oh, perhaps by the end of August. Why am I not more enthusiastic about all this? I love theater and English, this could be a fun job. But the word “charlatan” seems written on the man’s forehead. Takes one to know one. My blood sugar must be low, all I had for lunch was a glass of Noni juice. Across the street I hear an odd rasping sound. I can’t wait to get out of there to go see what it is. I glance at my wrist, wishing I had a watch on. I need to get going I tell Gustafo. Of course, he says, and walks me to the door, where we both watch a group of men carrying huge bones into a courtyard. Must be a dinosaur I say. Whale says Gustafo.
Things are different from my days as a missionary here. Back then the barbers were ugly old Chinese men who had big, glaberous hands that reeked of Tiger Balm. They not only cut your hair but liked to put wooden splinters in your ears to clean out the wax. Nowadays, though, the barber industry has been taken over by beautiful young Thai women, who sit languidly waiting for customers, showing a lot of leg, while reading the Thai version of Cosmopolitan. And the division of labor is quite to my liking. One gal does nothing but shampoo, rinse, shampoo, rinse, shampoo and rinse my hair. She is wearing one of those very tight white student blouses that University students are sporting this season; one good lungful of air and those buttons would start popping like champagne corks. I’d gladly risk having an eye put out to see that happen. There is something unsettling about a woman running her long nails through your hair over and over again. I wasn’t sure if I was going to tip her or ask her to marry me. In the end I do neither. I’m a shy cheapskate.
My lady barber is dressed in black leather bib overalls; they squeak like Xena in full armor whenever she bends over me. Once I take my glasses off and gaze at my reflection in the mirror I seem to look pretty dang charming. I’m thinking, maybe this gal is bored with her life of snipping follicles, maybe I can brighten things up for her with some dinner and a movie, and then . . . who knows? I smile at her. She smiles at me. Was that a wink she just gave me? Wait, am I winking at her? No, just some hair in my eyes. She finishes with a hot blow dryer, running it around my head and then down the back of my neck; that’s gotta be a come on! Let me just put on my glasses and pay her, with a generous tip, and then ask her what she’s doing tonight, would she like to go see the new Charlie’s Angels movie? Glasses on. My world comes crashing around my ears. Who is that homely person staring back at me, and when did I get that gigantic bald spot on the back of my head? Must be the size of a flapjack. And those bags under my eyes . . . I look like I’ve just escaped from some Russian Gulag. I’m not going to ask this gal out, instead I’m going to ask her where the nearest plastic surgeon is. Ah well, at least I’ve cooled off abit. Now to stroll next door for that interview.
A wiry little man with black curly hair pops up and pumps my hand. He’s Gustafo. I hand him my resume. He puts it underneath a pile of paper six inches thick. I never look at ‘em, he explains. He shows me a poster for FunSpeak; it shows Shakespeare down on one knee, emoting in Thai. Ah yes, explains Gustafo, we will be teaching English through the use of drama and theater techniques. How many students do you have right now, I ask. Right now, none. We haven’t started to advertise yet. But once we do we’re sure to get a bunch of students, maybe even more than we can handle. He shows me through the building; bare, stark rooms with no desks, no chairs, and unpleasant-smelling carpeting. He will be auditioning teachers in about two weeks. And the pay, I prompt. You can ask what you think you’re worth, he replies loftily. There are too many flies in the office where we talk, and the air conditioning isn’t working well; I can feel a fine, greasy sweat on my forehead. Suddenly I feel very tired and bored with Gustafo. When are you looking for teachers to start? Oh, perhaps by the end of August. Why am I not more enthusiastic about all this? I love theater and English, this could be a fun job. But the word “charlatan” seems written on the man’s forehead. Takes one to know one. My blood sugar must be low, all I had for lunch was a glass of Noni juice. Across the street I hear an odd rasping sound. I can’t wait to get out of there to go see what it is. I glance at my wrist, wishing I had a watch on. I need to get going I tell Gustafo. Of course, he says, and walks me to the door, where we both watch a group of men carrying huge bones into a courtyard. Must be a dinosaur I say. Whale says Gustafo.
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