I’m very pleased to announce that my latest book, an anthology of
six short works called BUDDHA’S BAD BOYS, is available everywhere fine books
are sold. You can buy it now, in paperback or any eBook format, at
Some of these stories are purely fictional, while others are
based on true events.
Blurb: There are many reason why Western men turn to Eastern
religion—searching for inner truth, lost love, loneliness, fleeing the law,
hopelessness, alcoholism. Some travel halfway around the world in an attempt to
overcome their particular dissoluteness, only to realize that improving
yourself is like polishing air. What they eventually discover, nevertheless, is
one of the Buddha’s most significant lessons: enlightenment comes to those
whose singular focus is on helping others less fortunate.
Six stories, six troubled gay men trudging down the road to enlightenment.
What they each find is that last thing in the world they expected.
The
first story in this anthology is called Monk
For A Month and is about two men, Reece and Doug, are almost done with the
“Monk for a Month” program at the temple in Chiang Mai, where they have been
living like Buddhist monks. But on the same night that Reece finds that Doug is
having an affair with another Thai monk, there is a murder lose in the town. Reece
sees the killer hiding in the temple and goes about trying to help him escape
the police. In the process, a love affair begins.
Excerpt:
I
sat at the bar sporting saffron robes and a 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 bartender said. He spoke English, but with the usual Thai
singsong clip that I had come to adore. “He kill American expatriate named
Warren. Tony Warren.”
I
had seen a dead body only once, a gruesome spectacle. It took an effort to
settle my nerves as the bartender glared at me, as if, also being an American,
made me an accomplice. 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 Warren?” I asked, my voice scarcely a whisper.
The
bartender 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 bartender’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
bartender prepared our drinks while the customer moved to the stool beside
mine. He introduced himself as Ty Poe, and did not shake my hand, as it is
considered 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.
“I
overheard your talk about the murders.”
“Why
haven’t they caught him yet?” I asked. “Chiang Mai’s a small town.”
“They
have him trapped within the walls of the old city, but you should know how it
is,” Poe grunted. “We’re talking about an American expatriate and his whore who
got themselves killed by a homeless gay kid. I mean, there are limited
resources available to the police department. The police force, as a rule, is
not well trained. Officers have to buy their own uniforms, their own guns. They
are poorly paid. Not much would be happening now except that this dead girl
happens to be the daughter of an army major. The army is doing what they can
but they do not know the town as well as Somchai.”
Poe
was right, I thought. What could anyone reasonably expect of this situation?
The unvarnished fact was that in this country, any given police station’s cases
were ranked according to priority. And priority in Thailand had to do with
wealth and status. Those on the low end of the spectrum were unlikely to
receive much attention. And for a homeless gay kid with no family who happened
to murder a bit of riff-raff, then it was probably the victim’s fault. Why
bother figuring out all the sordid details?
I
felt thankful that I came from a country where every death warranted respect,
every victim merited justice, no matter how far down the social and economic
ladder that victim might fall. At least I liked to believe that bit of hype.
The
bartender placed the beers and shots before us. I lifted my shot in a toast to
Poe and knocked my head back, taking the drink in one hot swallow. Poe stared
at me in obvious surprise.
“I’ve
never seen a monk do that,” Poe said.
“I’m not really a monk. My partner and I paid
good money to enroll in the Monk-For-A-Month program here at Wat Phra Singh.
He’s on some damned spiritual quest that I, frankly, don’t understand. Me, I’m
just an IT geek along for the ride.”
“So
you’re not alone,” Poe asked, exhaling a stream of smoke.
“Technically,
no. But it often feels like I am.”
The
bar stood only a few doors down from Tha Phae Square, which spread before one
of the four main gates of the old city, and where two of the town’s chief
avenues collided. The square was bordered by the city wall, built of ancient
brick, and butted against by the city moat on the north and south sides. The top of the wall was wide enough to walk
on, and just then a flock of children scampered along the wet brick, heedless
of the danger of slipping. Among them ran Archer, my adopted son, also sporting
a shaved head and wearing the saffron robes. The children looked down on the
tourists who gathered in the square, clutching their umbrellas in case the
rains returned.
It
must be between six and seven in the evening, I thought.
Another
shower started and people in the square ran for cover.
Archer
hopped down the wall steps and dashed across the road like a fleeing deer. He
entered the bar and huddled against me, giving Poe a cautious glance. Archer
was a handsome seven-year-old with a round face that gave way to a large jaw
and a brilliant set of teeth. He had an impishness and good humor in his eyes,
and was strong for so young a boy. But what I admired most about him was his
gentle and trusting disposition. Unlike most boys, he was incapable of hurting
anything. His only flaw was that he was fathered by two gay men, which made him
an outcast back home, someone to be pitied, stared at, whispered about, laughed
at, and occasionally beaten up by his peers.
Strokes
of lightning lit the sky, coming so close together that they seemed like a
ceaseless illumination. The thunder was continuous. The noise burst like metal
fireworks, and then would immediately rise again; its modulations grew less and
less defined as the shower let up, until there was only the sound of rain
striking paving stones.
“This
rain will last all night,” Poe said, lighting another cigarette from the butt
of his previous one.
Moments
later, the shower stopped. Poe left his stool and pointed at the leaden sky,
patched with massive blotches of somber gray so low that it seemed to brush the
rooftops. “Don’t let that fool you.”
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