I’m very pleased to announce that my latest book, an anthology
of six short works called BUDDHA’S BAD BOYS, is available in paperback or any
eBook format, at
Some of these stories are purely fictional, while others are
based on real people and 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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