God Bless Cambodia

by Randy Ross

  I turn to the copyright page: “Random House.”

  I worked in publishing for fifteen years. I know how hard it is to get a book deal with Random House.

  I flip back to the author bio:

  “In 2001, Wallace Pittman was a divorced, unemployed architect, who at age fifty was forced to move back with his parents. Then, he embarked on the journey of a lifetime and has never looked back. Today, he runs the All-American Language School in Ho Chi Minh City, previously known as Saigon.”

  Some douche named Wally pulled this off?

  I jump to the Author’s Preface:

  “Traveling the world on your own is easy, deciding to go is hard. Are you ready to go eyeball-to-eyeball with life? Some numbers to consider:

  • 95 percent: The number of people who will read this book and not take the trip. (I’m OK with that—I get paid either way.) You 5-percenters have an open invitation to visit me in Saigon. I will make it worth your while.

  • 70 percent: In travel as in life, experts are right about 70 percent of the time. The other 30 percent of travel and life is a crapshoot. It’s what’s known as magic, experience, and destiny.

  I check the price of the book: 50 percent off. Destiny.

  At home, I Google “Wallace Pittman” and find a glowing review of his book in the New York Times. The reviewer refers to Pittman as “an original.” On his website, there are quotes from athletes, writers, and celebrities: Tom Brady, Paul Theroux, and Bruce Willis.

  But who has time for a life-changing trip? I consult my Day Planner: Nothing in May. Nothing in June. Or July, or August. No meetings. No interviews. No dates. The only item on my to-do list is to apply for Social Security in twenty years.

  If I left in September, I could go for four months, hit the five continents listed in the itinerary, and return in time for the holidays. I feel better already.

  But there’s one glitch: I’m neither an adventurous person nor an experienced traveler. I once went to France. For five days. And I couldn’t wait to get home to my own six-inch, pillow-top mattress.

  I call Abe and for once he answers on the first ring. Good omen?

  “Abe, you wouldn’t believe the fucked-up thing that happened to me in the bookstore today.”

  “What?”

  “I found this book on vaginal thrush and I’m thinking of taking a trip around the world. It would be cheaper than moving to New York.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? When you travel the only thing you enjoy more than complaining is coming home.”

  “You’re taking that out of context.”

  “Is that one of those books that promises world travel will change your life? You’ll come back cultured, experienced, the world’s most interesting man? Eyeball-to-eyeball with life and crap like that?”

  The phrase “eyeball-to-eyeball” sounds familiar. Did Abe read Pittman’s book and chicken out? I say nothing.

  “My uncle took a trip like that,” Abe says. “It changed his life all right. He drank some bad water in Africa and got this three-foot parasite, a guinea worm. It traveled around under his skin for a year, then popped its head out of a blister on his foot. The cure? Some witch doctor had to grab the worm by the head, wrap it around a stick, and spend nine hours pulling it out, inch by inch. He’s never been the same.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  I try Rachel.

  “I’m thinking of going abroad for a few months. A little adventure might do me good.”

  “What’s it going to cost?” she asks.

  “The guidebook says I can do it for ten grand. I have my severance, and I’ll go to less-developed countries where things are cheaper. I can stay in some hostels to cut costs. And when I get back, I’ll hang on to the Honda Civic for another ten years.”

  “That’s a lot of money. Today’s Journal said the economy is in a tailspin. Did you know Josh just got laid off? When was the last time you looked for a job?”

  “Late nineties. But the trip will look good on my résumé: international experience, familiarity with other cultures, and ethnic diversity. We all know how important diversity is. And I’ll stick out from other job hunters: Eighty percent of Americans don’t even have a passport. None of you guys have one.”

  “You know we’re behind you no matter what you do. By the way, what did Ricki want?”

  “Blood. Money. More blood. She read my blog post about getting canned and sent me a sympathy note. In other words, she wanted to rub it in my face.”

  “That’s weird. Why is she suddenly reading your blog? Does she miss you after two years?”

  “I doubt it. You want to know the really fucked-up thing? I was actually happy to hear from her. Don’t tell Abe.”

  After hanging up, I run a quick tally: Abe “no” and Rachel “yes—sort of.” I need a tiebreaker: Lenny.

  I met Lenny a few months after Abe and Rachel ten years ago at the same Minuteman bar. Abe, Rachel, and I were having dinner. Lenny was sitting a couple of stools away and hard to miss: He was wearing white gabardine trousers, drinking Green Chartreuse, and ranting to the bartender.

  He ranted about Boston women: “If you see a woman in a bar wearing a blazer, she’s hiding fifteen pounds. For a black blazer, it’s twenty.”

  He ranted about marriage: “I’ll tell you why married people go to bed early: All the arguing, all the stretch marks you have to ignore, all that effort to make it work, it just wears you out.”

  He ordered another Chartreuse, looked at his watch, and then down the bar at us. “It’s after ten, you guys must be single. Can I join you?”

  Soon after, the four of us started the “The Chronic Single’s Club” and began throwing monthly parties at the Minuteman. Our first event had fifteen people; the second had forty; our third more than a hundred. We later added Josh, a friend of Lenny’s, to our inner circle. We had some good times.

  A few years later, Josh met a woman and they stopped coming. Last year, Abe met Amy. Without Abe, attendance dropped back to fifteen, the same fifteen who had come to every event including the first one. We put the club on hiatus.

  Since Rachel met Arturo two months ago, Lenny and I have been living in unspoken terror that one of us will hook up and the other will be left behind to field last-minute drink invites from the married people.

  Lenny recently joined a dating service that charges $5,000 a year. “It’s kind of like a prostitution ring, but at least I have a date Saturday nights with a different, smoking-hot girl.”

  I thought of joining. But spending twice that on a world trip now seems less desperate.

  Lenny picks up on the second ring.

  “Hey, Lenny, I’m thinking about, maybe, traveling a little. Maybe overseas. Maybe for a few months.”

  I hear him sigh.

  “Let me ask you something,” he says. “Don’t you always joke about putting two layers of paper on public toilet seats?”

  “You joke about using three.”

  “But I’m not going to spend months crapping in squat toilets that have no toilet paper, much less seats. Are you prepared to wipe your ass on the ground like a dog? What about the guinea worms? You’re going to miss all the fall parties. Who will be my wing man?”

  “I’m going to places known for partying: South America, Southeast Asia, South Africa, Europe, Australia. I checked the CDC site. Those places don’t have guinea worms.”

  “Who said there’s partying?”

  “This guidebook I just bought.”

  “Isn’t South Africa Ground Zero for AIDS?”

  After we hang up, I go outside, trade a homeless guy a dollar for a cigarette, and head to the Public Garden to smoke and fume.

  I thought friends were supposed to encourage you to take risks and bust out of your comfort zone. I should’ve known better. Abe’s last big adventure was a trip to Boca Raton. For Rachel, it’s dating a guy named Arturo. And Lenny? It’s joining a prostitution ring for $5K.

  Back home in front of the double-wide,
I realize all three of them have points. I also realize that it’s happy hour and reach for some Klonopin.

  The next week has its ups and downs.

  Monday

  After four rejections on Match, I consult my cousin Joey who met his wife while skiing in France.

  “Bring a load of rubbers,” he says.

  OK, I’m in.

  Tuesday

  Receive an offer for a seventy-five-dollar-an-hour editing job. Send e-mails to three women on Fish in a Barrel. Create a list of things I hate about traveling.

  • I don’t like sightseeing.

  • I don’t like foreign accents.

  • I don’t like spending money.

  • I don’t like loud noises or weird smells.

  • I don’t like crowds, strangers, or people who sweat.

  The trip is off.

  Wednesday

  Learn that the job is in Cleveland. At the gym, the personal trainer with the sparkly navel asks what I’m doing now that I’m unemployed. I imagine telling her, “I’m taking a trip around the world,” instead of, “I’m collecting.”

  Bring on the thrush.

  Thursday

  The current issue of the Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report discusses hemorrhagic dengue fever outbreaks in South America and Southeast Asia. Hemorrhagic dengue is like the flu only it turns your insides to strawberry yogurt and causes bleeding through the mouth, eyes, and other orifices.

  Off again.

  Friday

  I receive two rejections on Fish in a Barrel. I haven’t heard from my friends since Wednesday. In my experience, people are usually there the first few days of a crisis. Then they return to their lives and you return to the double-wide.

  A quick tally shows that three days out of five this week, the trip was on.

  Everyone can kiss my ass: I’m out of here.

  Saturday

  I’m haunted by images of bleeding orifices. On. Off. Stay. Go. I’m making myself crazy. Time to apply my foolproof method for making big decisions: Take the advice of the next person who calls.

  Sunday

  The phone rings. It’s a local number I don’t recognize. Probably a telemarketer.

  The phone rings again.

  I need to be open to all possibilities and all sources of input.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, is Mr. Burns there?” The speaker has a Russian accent.

  “This is him.”

  “Mr. Burns, this is the Robert Mapplethorpe Institute and we have an opening we’re looking to fill.” The speaker now has a Spanish accent. He coughs. Something about him sounds familiar.

  “I’m very flattered,” I say, “but I just accepted a rear-entry position with the Moulin Pink Ballet.”

  My Caller ID flashes.

  “Hey, Abe, let me call you back. My mother is on the other line.”

  In my family, we like our space: We’re spread around the continent and communication is usually limited to quarterly updates of no more than 140 characters. So, when one of us calls, we answer.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, Randall. Your father saw your post about the layoffs. How are you doing?”

  Something rings on her end. “This is probably your father at the door with my new printer. Excuse me for a second, dear.”

  Since retiring five years ago, my mother and stepfather have been keeping busy. She’s writing a cozy holocaust mystery and bartending at The Blue Hare. He has 50,000 Twitter followers.

  “I’m back,” she says. “How’s your social life? Ever hear from the morose one?”

  My social life is my dating life. The morose one is Ricki.

  Something dings on her end. “Hold that thought,” she says.

  She’s probably in the kitchen. Mother in the kitchen, father doing the heavy lifting. I’m a middle-class cliché: Divorced mother, a biological father I never see, a stepfather I can’t talk to, and an evil stepsister named Harriet. Moody insists my childhood was “atypical and worth exploring.” My cousin Joey says most guys would be jealous. I’m not sure what to think.

  “I’m back,” my mother says. “So what’s new, dear?”

  “I’m thinking about taking a vacation,” I say.

  “Sounds nice.”

  Swipe, swipe, click. She’s fiddling with some kind of touchscreen device. I open a beer.

  “A long vacation, Mom.”

  “Be sure to post.”

  “Actually, I’m considering a four-month, solo trip around the world—you know, third world countries, squalor, hemorrhagic fevers, human trafficking.”

  “Will you be back in time for Chanukah?”

  Chanukah is the one time of year we all get together: me, my parents, Harriet, her daughter, and a husband when she has one. Every December, we have a reasonably nice time together, and then disperse for another twelve months.

  A washing machine churns in the background. Then something else dings.

  “I’m so sorry. One second, sweetheart.”

  I catch myself getting angry. So she’s a little distracted. So she’s a little oblivious. She’s better off than most of her relatives. After forty, her side of the family, the Pascals, hits a hereditary wall. Brain chemicals flow in the wrong direction. The Dark Place comes for an extended stay. At forty-nine, she had a six-month affair and my stepfather took her back. Other Pascals weren’t so lucky. Some did time in prison, rehab, mental hospitals, or homeless shelters. Two others offed themselves. Ever since I turned forty, I’ve been looking over my shoulder, dodging cracks in the sidewalk, picking up lucky pennies.

  My mother returns. “So, where were we? Have you spoken to Harriet?”

  “Not lately, I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

  “Oh, right. Are you asking my opinion about this trip, sweetheart?”

  “Mom, I’m a grown man.”

  “Now, honey, you’ve been in Boston for, what, twenty-some-odd years?”

  “Some very odd years.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  This has always been her stock line for skinned knees, broken hearts, and lost jobs. I toss the empty beer can into the trash. Fuck the five cents.

  Monday

  Arrange emergency session with Dr. Moody.

  “So, you’re considering a four-month, solo trip around the world?” Moody asks.

  “You always say I’m too passive. This might be a good kick in the pants for me.”

  “Let’s parse this out. You worked for the same company for fifteen years and just lost your job. Your friends are settling into relationships and you’re feeling alone, abandoned, and angry. Whenever you get depressed, you become passive and then, to avoid sinking into the Dark Place, you explode with a flurry of misguided activity.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “You need to be aware of your process, a process that may not be working for you. You may want to consider sitting with uncomfortable feelings before making impulsive decisions.”

  “So, I shouldn’t take the trip.”

  “I thought we agreed that you were going to start making your own decisions—good or bad—without looking outside yourself for answers and advice.”

  “I’m not really asking for advice. I’m just a little confused.”

  “Confusion masks the obvious.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’ll have to answer that yourself.”

  “So, I shouldn’t go?”

  “I can’t tell you what to do. But it might be good for you to learn how to have fun, go with the flow, worry less about outcomes, women, and dying alone.”

  “So, I should go?”

  “Perhaps, but there is no pressure to do it now when you’re depressed, vulnerable, and confused.”

  “But fall is the cheapest time to travel. I either go now or wait a year and burn through my severance.”

  Moody and I engage in one of our ritual staring contests.

  I break the silence: “I’m feeling angry because I’
m imagining that you’re toying with me, holding out on me. And I’m paying you a lot of money.”

  “I understand you’re feeling angry. You are paying me a lot of money and you feel like I’m toying with you. I am not toying with you.”

  “How do I know that? Just because you’re the shrink doesn’t mean you’re not a rotten, sadistic person.”

  Moody scribbles on his yellow pad of paper. I always try to read his comments but never can.

  “Getting out of Boston never hurt anyone,” he finally says.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Maybe it’s time for you to see the world, how other men your age are getting along. There may be other ways of living that you’re not aware of. Find some guys who aren’t ‘settling.’ You also may learn about yourself if you travel alone. You may learn to sit with loneliness, make peace with the Dark Place. You’ve been in a horrible drought with women. You may even get laid.”

  Another staring contest.

  I break the silence: “I heard from Ricki.”

  He holds his stare and asks: “How are you set for medications? There’s another sleeping pill you may want to try instead of Ambien.”

  His phone rings. “My next patient is here. Don’t make any hasty decisions. Bon voyage.”

  What a dick.

  Using the instructions in the Solo Salvation guidebook, I spend five days filling my Day Planner with action items. For the first time in weeks, I sleep without chemical assistance. The following week, I embrace my destiny.

  Monday: Buy Gear

  The book recommends saving money by traveling like a backpacker. I decide to skip the bandanas and tie-dyed pajama pants, and go for the backpack. As fate would have it, the sales clerk at a local camping store has just backpacked through Southeast Asia. He’s wearing a Bob Marley T-shirt. I wait for him to finish dripping Visine into his eyes.

  Me: “I’m traveling around the world and need a sixty-liter pack and a waterproof cover.”

  Clerk: “No problem, dude. Check out this men’s large. Hey, don’t know if you’re hitting Bangkok, but if you are, I recommend Tug’s for the Asian massage.”