Half way to Hawaii

by Torben Sonntag

  Luckily he’s exactly where he was standing before my little brain vacation.

  My trip into the high-tech world ends rather abruptly as I’m swept up in the crowd that pours out of the train. Simply delightful, this fragrance of constipated people. Another minus point for big cities. On the way from the station, I pull off my sweater, turn it inside out and pull it on again. I’m now wearing a blue sweater in contrast to the gray one before. Also, I throw away my cap and put glasses on. I don’t want to make it too easy for Mr. Gray to notice his pursuer.

  Maybe I’m taking things too far: Mr. Gray never looks around. He probably has no reason at all to suspect he’s being tracked.

  On the road, he turns left and then right at the next intersection. He crosses straight through two side streets and suddenly disappears into the entrance of a skyscraper. I take off my sweater and drop it into a trash bin along with the glasses. I'm once again Tom Greenall in the flesh; without any disguise, I now follow my target into the building.

  "Tom, nobody knows your face here," I keep telling myself. After taking a deep breath, I enter the building through the revolving door into the lobby. I find myself in an office building and luckily you don’t need an ID to pass through reception to get to the elevators. Mr. Gray is just disappearing into an elevator. Thank God he’s the only one inside. Slowly, I stroll towards the elevators and keep an eye on the display. Just before I arrive at the lift, the display shows that my gray friend has stopped on the twenty-fourth floor.

  I get into an elevator. Next to the buttons are the names of the companies on each floor. I’m alone in my elevator and hit the twenty-five button. When the basket starts moving, I reach for my small digital camera and snap a photo of the names next to the button for the twenty-fourth floor.

  I get out one floor above Mr. Gray. Now it gets a little tricky: if I take the elevator down to the twenty-fourth floor, the doors will open and I’ll get served on a platter to whomever is behind the doors. It would be a hell of a lot easier if I just knew how the floor was laid out. I might simply step out into a hallway in front of some doors with company names hanging on them. Then again, I could also end up in front of a reception desk or find myself suddenly standing in the middle of an open-plan office. If I’m really unlucky, Mr. Gray has run into his boss and they’re talking right in front of the elevator.

  I have to decide: either punch out for the day and try to find out more about the companies on floor twenty-four; or somehow try to sneak onto the floor below.

  Internet research would be more relaxing, of course, but if my googling turns up nothing, it would be a waste of valuable time. Now that I’m already here, it’s time to act!

  A few feet away from me is a water dispenser. Beside the apparatus is a spare five-gallon container. So be it; I won’t get any better camouflage than this. I put the canister on my left shoulder and enter the stairwell.

  One floor down, I push the door open with my shoulder and walk onto the twenty-fourth floor hidden behind a transparent water tank. The container is indeed transparent, but the view is totally distorted, and I can see virtually nothing. But it's enough to know I’m standing alone in a hallway: no reception desk, no Asians in gray suits and no one else around, as far as I can see. So far, so good.

  I walk down the hall, still shouldering the water tank just in case. According to the information in the elevator, there should be six companies located on this floor. Each of them has a glass door with a private reception area behind it. Only the last two doors are made of wood, and they don’t have any signage.

  In the first office resides a software developer; behind door number two hides an insurance company; office three belongs to a textile distributor; and just when I want to inconspicuously read what business company number four earns its living with, the door flies open.

  A small secretary with a midriff-baring top and miniskirt, with a waist like a belt and remarkably high-heeled boots, almost bumps into me. Her braids stick out like Pippi Longstockings’. I can’t help but have the sneaking suspicion they shoot pornos here.

  "There you are at last!" she snaps.

  "Uh... of course," I reply. "Finally arrived!"

  "Stop joking around. Get in here!"

  Whoa, what's next? I imagine a porn scene where the waterboy gets seduced by the horny typist. The dialog would go something like this:

  Waterboy: "Should I leave the water here?"

  Typist: "I don’t need your water, I'm wet enough!"

  Waterboy: "Uh what? Never mind, give me a blowjob!"

  For the rest of the film, none of the actors needs to remember any more lines besides the occasional "yes," "lower," "phew, I’m so horny," "what are you doing with that plunger?" "I’m cleaning a dirty pipe," “oh, ah, oh, oh, oh...” and me in the middle of it all!

  The next thing I know, I'm in the office.

  "The thing’s been empty since yesterday," she complains, pointing to a water dispenser.

  "My colleague probably..." but, before I can continue, she cuts me off.

  "I'm not interested. Replace it and get out of my office!"

  Feisty. In a porn movie, she’d be a dominatrix in latex and leather, carrying a whip, that’s for sure.

  I place the canister next to the dispenser while the tenacious secretary returns behind her desk to file her nails without paying me any more attention.

  This is good, since I have no idea what to do next. I notice the top of my canister has a thread, so I turn the empty water tank on the dispenser. Lo and behold, it screws away from the dispenser. All right, on with the directions. A plastic cap covers the thread on the full tank, so I get rid of it. Now, however, it wouldn’t be a good idea to unscrew the canister upside down and screw it on the dispenser. It's probably the other way around. I grab the dispenser, turn it upside down, and all the paper cups fall out. “Smooth move, Mr. Greenall,” I think. The typist fires a condescending, annoyed look in my direction.

  "Don’t worry, I’ll clean that up!" I assure her, and turn the assembled water dispenser around again. Looks like it could have used another turn or two, I realize, as water starts leaking out of the side of the thing. Before the dragon at the desk notices, I quickly try to correct the matter. Frantically, I turn the water tank, but since the thing is upside down, I unfortunately turn it in the wrong direction. Water starts gurgling unrestrained on the carpet now. What’s more, I’ve turned it so much that the tank separates from the dispenser and, to make things even worse, the entire contraption tips over.

  Trying to set the water tank upright, I slip and fall forward. The canister crashes to the ground and explodes, sending a wave of water through the paper shredder. The office is covered in water, cups and paper scraps are swimming around, and the secretary is screaming at the top of her lungs.

  "I'll get help!" I shout, intending to leave.

  "You stay here!" she barks and jumps up. She runs around the table towards me. The moment she passes the door to the head office, the door flies open. The force of the impact hurls her into a glass display case, containing some awards. Cabinet and secretary smash to the ground along with her completely befuddled boss, whose head roughly collides with the door.

  Loudly rattling, the showcase crashes directly into an aquarium, which also smashes. Now, the chaos is perfect: another 200 gallons of water gush into the office along with some ornamental fish. Apparently the boss loves these scaly creatures, as he frantically tries to save the struggling fish by putting them into paper cups. With flailing arms and legs, he shouts at his secretary to help him. As they are gasping and wriggling hysterically around on the floor, it's hard to tell who looks more desperate: fish or human.

  The overturned glass cabinet forms a barrier between me and the two animal lovers. Fortunately, their full attention is on the slippery little fish.

  I’m outta here! I run into the hall and into the stairwell. I hurry up three floors, exit into the hallway and repeatedly smack the ground-floor button. When I’m final
ly in the elevator, I pray that it doesn’t stop on the twenty-fourth floor; then my goose would surely be cooked. Breathing heavily, I stare at the digital display: 27, 26, 25… (is the lift slowing down?!)… 24… 23! Unimpressed, the elevator continues its way down.

  In the lobby, I try to breathe and walk as normal as possible. I imagine a doctor might rate my unobtrusiveness "quite well, considering the circumstances.”

  On the street, I immediately start running as fast as I can. I just want to get as far away as possible, turning left or right whenever the opportunity arises.

  "Ugh. This is exactly how you sneak around without being noticed, Mr. Greenall. Really brilliant performance, you idiot!" I think to myself.

  Chapter 9

  At the next street, I stop a tuk-tuk. Tuk-tuks are motorized tricycles and pretty essential for getting from point A to point B in Asia. I tell the driver where to go, and he quotes a price. Of course, it’s about five times what you should pay and he undoubtedly expects me to bargain with him. In Asia, you can’t do anything without haggling. After what just happened, I’m not in the mood, so I simply agree and make myself comfortable in the seat.

  As a student I went on a university field trip to Bangkok. Back then I mostly went out with five friends. Three people fit in a tuk-tuk, so we used to take two of them. Each driver was promised a decent tip if he arrived at the destination first. This is a good way to move through Bangkok as rapidly and adventurously as possible. We drove part of the way on two wheels, in the opposite lane or on the sidewalk.

  We bargained like champions. If the driver asked for three dollars, we negotiated it down one. In the end, we were so excited that we’d give a five-dollar tip.

  It’s a bit like this today. My driver asks for only two dollars for the ride - why should I bargain with that? In the end I’ll give him more anyways.

  We drive onto the Xikang Road no. 899. Here, the Yi Jia Hotel is very close to the exhibition center. I pay the driver five dollars and enter the hotel. I check in with my real name and pay for three nights with cash up front. My room is located on the sixth floor, with windows facing the street. The air conditioner hums loudly and it smells like wet carpet. Just beautiful!

  When leaving the room, I slide a piece of paper underneath the door and put a glass of water on it on the inside. In the hall, I slowly close the door while carefully pulling the paper together with the glass of water. After the door is closed, I pull the sheet of paper carefully away from under the water glass and hang the "do not disturb" sign on the knob.

  For the next three days, none of the staff will enter the room. If the glass is overturned and the carpet is wet, I’ll know I’ve had an uninvited guest.

  Test one: on my last day on Maui, I gave Christine the information for my hotel booking. If the floor stays dry, I’ll know I can trust her. If it’s wet, she betrayed me to Andrews.

  Outside the hotel, I stop another tuk-tuk to go back to Century Park, where I just came from. This time, the driver wants six dollars for the same route I paid two dollars for only ten minutes ago. No, no, my friend! Suddenly I’m in the mood to bargain over every buck. I tell him about my sick mother, my fourteen children and my lame leg.

  He laughs and says he doesn’t believe me. I feign intense indignation and wonder aloud if he’s calling me a liar.

  In the end, we agree on a dollar fifty, and, upon reaching the destination, I give him five. I love Asia!

  Next, I need to find a hotel close to the tower where I freed a dozen fish a little while ago. I need to find out more about the tenants of the last two offices; my welcoming committee from the airport must have disappeared into one of them.

  Relatively quickly, I get a hotel that suits my needs and check in as Steve Schneider. Again, I pay for three days in advance, this time using Steve's credit card.

  Test two: this will determine if Andrews is able to track credit cards. I demand a room on the fifteenth floor, facing the street and actually get one. I pull the curtains to the side, repeat the trick with the water glass behind the door and hang the "do not disturb" sign on the knob.

  Afterwards, I cross the street, enter the hotel on the other side and rent a room under a fictitious name. This time I pay in cash and ask for a room on the fifteenth floor overlooking the street. The courtyard rooms are quiet and much more popular, so they can easily fulfill my wish.

  From my new home, I can watch the room on the other side of the road, which I paid for with Steve's credit card. I can even see the water glass behind the door. If the glass gets knocked over during the next three days, I’ll know Andrews is able to check the credit card.

  Now it’s time to focus on one of the many culinary delicacies that Asia has to offer! On the street, fried cockroaches, mealworms and fried ants are offered. Cockroaches and mealworms will have to wait their turn, but a bag of ants with chili powder are right up my alley. I didn’t have the guts to try cockroaches the last time I visited Asia, but the mealworms actually tasted pretty good. The key is to not think about what exactly is in your mouth. I have fond memories of deep-fried ants: they taste like delicious flavored chips.

  The cook shops on the street are not necessarily bad, but it would be stupid to get food poisoning on my first day. I need to be in top form for the next few days.

  So I go to a fancy restaurant for dinner. On the menu, I discover a beer called "Lone Star" and have to grin. To me it sounds like "lone hero" and I’m pleased how well the name suits my trip. There are stars printed behind each of the dishes on the menu. The waitress explains this indicates their spice severity level.

  Politely smiling, she defines the following classification:

  No rating = mild for Europeans

  One star = medium for Europeans

  Two stars = mild for Asians, final destination for Europeans

  Three stars = average for Asians

  Four Stars = spicy for Asians

  I can’t possibly let her get away with this, so I order a four-star dish with rice and duck, and two Lone Stars as a precaution. This was actually a good idea, because the second the first spoonful reaches my mouth, my tongue catches fire. With a hidden nerve that’s somehow spared for a fraction of a second from the great fire in my mouth, a delicious taste momentarily registers in my mind, but then it's all over.

  Well blow me down with a feather - I didn’t know anything could be so hot! A large gulp of beer helps temporarily. Just when the pain subsides in my mouth, my lips start to burn. The pain is worse than before, but can be healed by the pre-chilled beer glass. But as soon as I remove the glass from my lips, it feels like they’re suddenly made of raw minced meat with a sunburn.

  In any case, the two beers don’t last long. They are empty even before I’ve even finished a quarter of the duck. As an immediate life-saving measure, I need two new Lone Stars.

  When leaving the restaurant, my nose is running like hell, my hair and shirt are soaked and I feel a little tipsy from the repeated lip cooling.

  But my plate was empty! “Final destination for Europeans at two stars” - my ass!

  It's just 7 p.m., but feels like midnight to me. My biorhythm is a little confused by the time difference.

  Next on my list is Internet research and emails. Internet cafes are too stressful, plus I can‘t download or save anything there. Instead, I decide to surf the Internet comfortable and relaxed in my hotel bed, wrapped up in blankets, with the Lone Stars I took with me from the restaurant on the night table.

  The hotel room has Internet access, but my computer is back on Maui. The cheapest way to get online and be able to save data is with a netbook. Those things don’t cost much and are capable of even less; but for emails and surfing the web, a netbook should be sufficient.

  I enter one of the countless small electronics dealerships and look around. Several different manufacturers and models of netbooks are on display. They all look the same: rectangular, small, but made of a quite thick, black plastic. Certainly not attractive, but, to be ho
nest: butt-ugly. A little further to the right, the latest iPad is on display: stylish aluminum design, touch screen, flatter than a writing pad - sexy!

  For a while, I stand in front of it and think. In fact, I'm just looking for a reason to buy myself the iPad. I'm usually really good at putting lipstick on a pig. This time, unfortunately, I simply see no advantage in buying the iPad, apart from the sleek design. Something I once read in a newspaper comes to mind: "For Apple, the iPad is a great success. People buy it even though applications for the device have yet to be invented."

  The iPad doesn’t have a network plugin, nor can you burn CDs on it. Typing is cumbersome, and if you want to watch a movie, you have to hold it in your hand or build a stand. On the plus side, there’s the 10-hour battery life, more compact dimensions and its sexy design. Hmm, still more heavily weighted on the minus side. Pity.

  In my office and at home, I’m all for Apple. MacBook, iMac and iPhone are my companions in the digital life. Apart from the exceptional ease of use, I’m of the opinion that you should always buy yourself a decent and good-looking computer. I don’t want to sit all day in front of a clunky, ugly computer. I want to be happy when I get to the office and sit down in front of the computer I’m going to be spending the next eight hours with.