The Last Hurrah.

[MANICHAEAN]

The Last Hurrah.

Some men are born and die young, whilst others cross the Jordan: in their dotage, in their bed, unmourned, unfulfilled, unloved and unknown. This story is not of such an individual, but of one that quite simply, refused to lie down.

He had been blessed by fate, and the ability to both recognise opportunities, combined with a stubborn streak in his character to play life's cards as they were dealt.

So from where does the tale begin? In a rough bar in Hertfordshire in England is as good as any. He had been assigned to a new project in Vietnam and was currently in the process of
getting through the logistics of; medicals, visa applications and the other paraphernalia of current day expatriate mobilisation.

The job had been described in what euphemistically had been termed " challenging." In other words it was a c**k up. His predecessors in the new position had numbered three, all now banished unwept into the wilderness of a career graveyard. The site, a new petrochemical refinery 200 miles south of Hanoi had already sustained a number of industrial fatalities and a a safety record, not quite bordering on the last "War of Independence " as it was called in local parlance, but not exactly anything to be proud of either.

So, this was, at the current juncture, the twilight zone; this bar at home base, where he sat perched on a stool wondering what the future held. A new country, like a new woman always holds a fascination to those possessed of a fervid imagination. It was therefore understandable; that, a degree of equanimity had infused itself into his persona suitably reinforced by the imbibing of the genius of draught Guinness followed by multifarious Jack Daniels and coke.

[omferas]

It is a beautiful romantic text. Thank you.

[Neilson Black]

Grabbed me from the off. I really felt for this guy. It was like a snapshot of his life's thoughts, and I was with him all the way through. Very experienced writing too

[WolfLarsen]

Interesting story.

I like the photo even more.

[Steven Hunley]

I really like the start of this, it's chock full of foreshadowing, and unlike some writers, I know you have the skill to carry it off.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 2:

Her supple brown body lay beside him, adorning the bed as if the roseate glowing memory of moments before. He had tasted of the perfumed valley of her thighs, and inhaled gently, almost imperceptibly, the smell of the long dark hair as they had attained the apogee in their love making.

Perhaps the first time is always more conclusive than formative, for it sets the relationship on an emotional semi-stasis foundation. He loved Vietnam and he loved her.

Outside, the heat was relentless and would last till July when the rains arrived. Later, when she had emerged from her condition of somnolence, they would cross the road to the restaurant on the beach and eat; squid and fresh grilled prawns. Lights on the small islands far out in the Gulf of Tonkin would share their magic and a breeze from the sea would complete their weekend.

Although they had grown closer during preceding weeks, she still had about her, more the look of a panther than of a woman. It was in the way she moved and the occasional glance when she thought she was not being observed.

[Pompey Bum]

Welcome back, Manichaean! Haven't seen a "supple brown body" 'round this place in the longest time!

[MANICHAEAN]

Hi Pompey. Nine weeks now since I hit the ground in Vietnam and only now, just sufficient time to catch up on Lit Net Forum.
I trust all the usual suspects are in fine form?
Best regards
M.

[Pompey Bum]

I'm sure you're in form. I'm stuck in the States for the moment, but no one wants to be in Taipei this time of year--or I don't anyway. Vietnam must be a challenge, too, but I'm sure you're coping. Glad to see you're okay.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 3:

Cool porcelain arms wrapped around him. Comfort given and received; a constant willingness to please.

The transient echo of whirring helicopter blades, in a scramble to reach the American embassy roof.

No, just the rotating ceiling fan set in a white ceiling, observed from the bed below as they cling together.

How can a land so steeped in history be so timeless? Where are the recent ghosts?

[wrc]

I really enjoyed your descriptions and you turn a phrase like a pro. Very creative. But I missed dialogue because it would have created fuller characters. I was reminded of Literature of the Past. That's Literature in all caps. Some dialogue would open it up and created 'rounder' characters.

I was envious of most of your descriptions. Wanna do a mind meld?

Good work. Have a nice writing day.

[MANICHAEAN]

I suppose Jack's bar just across the river from the Bangkok Peninsular Hotel is as good a place as any to pick up the story. Vietnam had been an intellectual wilderness for the last four months and I could not even conjure up a single phrase of any significance. You might have thought different considering. It had been a new country, like a new woman, lying there seductively imploring to be explored. And yet nothing came.

Bangkok gave the big kick. You could not ignore it. My kind of town. Never slept. One great big sprawling metropolis, unending traffic, limitless patience,boundless tolerance, as if the falang was almost asThai as the Thais.

But as usual, I digress. Hemingway would have loved Jacks bar. It was a kind of rickety wooden extension out into the river, with gaps in the floor that a chair leg could easily disappear into, throwing the occupant through the flimsy handrail into a polluted watery domain.

Much to ones surprise, a gin and tonic there was quite presentable and accompanied by shrimp fried rice proved to be the kind of joint one could unwind in. Well it must have been, as lo and behold the juices started flowing.

With the work pressure off, I had begun to unwind that spring that was within. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, I knew that I was slowing down. No longer moved with any urgency, but sauntered through the back streets, not really caring where my legs took me. Later I had intentions to go for the daily massage near the hotel where strong hands would grasp and knead my flesh through a scented barrier of warm oil.

The heat lay heavy across the city, but once seated with a breeze conjured up by some obscure river God, it was a pleasant,enveloping kind of warmth.

Life for the moment was at peace and I was part of it.

[MANICHAEAN]

Greene had proffered advice to fellow travellers; that it was important in a new country to get into a routine, and who am I to treat that advice with disdain?

Thus I had in the last week, since arriving in Thailand, been a bit here, a "soup son" there, trying out where I was most at ease. Five star hotels are great to return to and wake up in, but they lack the dynamic that exists at street level. And Bangkok was at that dynamic, one huge never ending carnival. Geriatric retirees with svelte girlfriends, ladyboys with long chins and immaculate makeup preening themselves to whoever was drawn and appreciative. Sidewalks blocked by street vendors produce, in addition to the additional burden of mankind itself.

And behind it all, behind the initial obscure curtain that is ones introduction to the Far East; the desperation to survive, to put behind the poverty that lurks like a sinister spectre in the shadows of a nearby alley, or crouches half hidden in an ignored unpopulated section of a unfeeling concrete underpass.

Tonight it was the daily massage, followed by taking two of the girls to a German themed beer Keller to let off steam Bangkok style. Apprehension and foreboding were wandering
emotions, somewhere out there in the background of a tray labelled "Pending."

[MANICHAEAN]

Last night at the Beer Keller remained with me, despite it now being Sunday afternoon at my favourite watering hole. What exactly it was that made it such an impressive evening I cannot even now put my finger on. It had started off quietly enough with a foot / leg massage down the road from the hotel, a fish meal dinner in the next door restaurant, then out with two of the girls to indulge the night

Traffic was light getting there, as by then it was about nine in the evening, and the joint upon arrival was jumping.

Let me try and explain the initial complicated set up of relationships in this saga. Well first of all there is Omm, who has massaged me every day for the last week. She must know about every inch of my body but it's all a little bit formal with her in control. That is until she gets a few beers inside her and the tables are reversed, with me massaging her, albeit seated on two bar stools. Never married and finds it difficult letting go. Her companion on this trip was Joy, a sweet thing with an open smile and nature,separated from her husband and baby up north in Issan. You give her a hug, and she reciprocates, clinging to you and never wanting to let go.

I had, up to last night, poo pooed all stories of Bangkok as some kind of sexual paradise. But then reality crept in. The floor show was in full swing, ladyboys preening and dancing, the German beer flowing, the Thai clientele shoulder to shoulder determined to enjoy a Saturday night.

I became increasingly aware of other ladies in the immediate vicinity. One tall, well built lady with an unbelievingly short dress, a great *** and superb legs. Her friend was model material; slim and seemingly detached. On the periphery to the other side, a young, fresh girl dressed with no intention of taking prisoners, and endowed with what, in Nelsons day, would have been described as " a fine neck."

Well I suppose that boys being boys, ( my excuse anyway), I went for it. "Great ***" with very little English, gyrated her assets in an impromptu dance, thereby more than compensating for her lack of a classical education. The model upon being engaged in initial conversation moved from: "I've finished with my boyfriend," to " Are you in Bangkok alone?" and " What is your hotel?" The young lady guarding the perimeter was primed for the offer, but what could I do in such circumstances?

Is there a moral to the story, perhaps even a happy ending? Ah, that would be telling.

[MANICHAEAN]

The meaning of life?

I really wonder whether it is relevant, either now in my dotage, or even when I was the proverbial callow youth. Ambition I can understand, though the end of that in my own case came as a great relief.

Now it's a question of keeping it together mentally and not going quietly into the night physically. If it still works, use it; whether an ability to move, to drink, or even to love as if it were yesteryear.

Which begs the question " Is introspective reflection worth the effort?" As little as possible is my own judgement, though there are those doubtless who would disagree.

Hours of meditation, fasting, prayer, are I suppose, at some stage of life of some value. But no, not now, not yet; let me still live and indulge the appetites.

In the eastern section of Bangkok, a figure in a white shirt on a balcony, indistinguishable against a backdrop of other high rise condominiums stood. The City of Smiles was about to take one of its own; an end of the line retiree from the West seeking paradise on earth, yet
discovering the Valley of Hades wrapt in a transient glow of drink and superficial liaisons.

He swung his legs over the balcony and sat there. It was quiet in the late afternoon heat, and he was quite calm. It had been a long time coming and he no longer had fear.

" I give you peace, my peace I give you."

Then he leaned forward and fell.