by Jack Rylance
“Check you out, Mr Moderation.” It was a woman on a neighbouring bar stool who made the remark. Also American by the sound of it. A little older than me and wearing glasses with oversized blue frames.
I let out a laugh at the wrongness of her claim. “Merely doing penance for what I put myself through last night.”
She pulled her chair closer. “Go on. Do tell.”
I was glad to oblige and started dishing the dirt on myself with a full account of this latest disgrace. Which was nothing unusual for me – going into excruciating detail, mostly for laughs. Putting myself down, if not without a certain wry charm, until my talk resembled a stand up routine. But in making a song and dance of my failings I often came to relish them, and it’s only now I can see that in being so eager to joke about my fuck-ups I made a convincing case for them sticking around.
Jane was the name of my new bar buddy and together we embarked on another long night, talking freely and openly. Indulging in the type of conversation that often occurs on the road (spurred on by anonymity and the gossipy ambience of a far-flung locale). Regarding her own situation, Jane was a ruby on rails programmer originally from Akron, Ohio, who’d not long ago completed a freelance gig in Singapore. A digital gypsy (she preferred the term to nomad), her own real life complications mostly related to her fiancé, and their long distance engagement, and all the difficulties of conducting a meaningful romance when the number of time zones separating you and your beloved is one or more (although the next day – “Praise Be.” – they were scheduled to rendezvous in Bangkok).
With the bar closing early, we flagged down a tuk tuk and headed for a dense complex of tiny drinking dens off the Tha Pae Road, one or two of which stayed open later than most. It was there, as I finally switched to Jack Daniel’s, that my self-criticism became less amusing and more earnest. The confession wasn’t dark or doom laden exactly, but nonetheless it was clear. And freshly inspired by last night’s act of self-sabotage, I think I gave myself away as being thoroughly lost.
At the end of that rambling monologue, Jane looked at me closely rather than offering any flip words of advice. Then, finally, she nodded to herself the once, appearing to hit upon some form of remedy. “You know, I’m pretty sure you could do with a change of scenery and so I’m thinking to put you in touch with a friend of mine.”
“Who? A shrink? I’m all for a short stay in a progressive facility, although I draw the line at a padded cell.”
She smiled. Took a small pen out of her bag and peeled away a beer mat until a writing surface had formed. On it she wrote nothing more than a first name and email address. Then I turned the beermat around to get at the information and read the following there:
Dan
[email protected]
“And who is Dan when he’s at home?” I asked.
She frowned. “Who is he? That’s a tough one. As to where he’s most at home – that’s a lot easier to answer: on a small island off the Cambodian coast which I’d encourage you to go see.”
“This is a place you’ve visited yourself I take it?”
“I have. Several times.”
“And you found these visits worthwhile?”
“Much more than that,” she answered. And there was nothing in her voice or face to suggest this was an exaggeration. Never mind a lie.
“All very mysterious sounding,” I told her.
“Well Dan asked that I only bring it up with those people I instantly warm to – which isn’t that many – so you should take it as a compliment. The fact I could actually see you flourishing there.”
“Flourishing no less.”
“Maybe. Let’s see. Who knows? But you should write to him at least.”
Remote - An Island Mystery - Chapter Three
The next day I did write to this curious character, or at least I began composing the email in question, but it was not until the following afternoon that I was happy enough with the results to hit Send and take my chances.
It felt strange making such an approach to somebody I couldn’t put a face or a surname to. Even by the end of the night, Jane had shared precious little information about this Dan person, but as she’d somehow formed a good impression of me at short notice, I guess I hadn’t wanted to pester her with too many questions (and just as she’d warmed to me quickly, I thought it wise to take her at her word). So there really was not much to go on.
Regarding the man himself, he was also English, in his early thirties, well travelled. As for the nature of any stay on the island, should it come to pass, it was to take the form of a work exchange within a kind of eco-complex known as Metanoia. Although again, and here she repeated herself, spending time there would amount to much much more than that. If this glowing recommendation smacked a little of cult membership – with Jane’s faraway look and hushed tones – then she was quick enough to correct the impression. “Don’t get me wrong, the island is thankfully short on gurus and prayer beads or any other type of spiritual woo woo; but it definitely is a place to grow.”
As for the idea of a work exchange, I wasn’t against it. If it wouldn’t add to my depleted coffers then at least, by spending nothing, I would be better able to conserve what little I had left. Just as importantly I might acquire some useful skills, bolster my self-discipline, and hit upon some of that personal growth Jane had alluded to, whatever this turned out to be.
Probably she’d prefaced my email with one of her own, vouching for me a little, although I also had to consider the possibility that Dan would be receiving my message out of the blue. For which reason I gave a lot of thought as to what tone I should aim for. But despite my careful planning the first couple of drafts were too windy, elaborate, and eager to please. So then I deleted a large portion of them and tried to keep it simple as could be.
In the end I went with the following:
Hi Dan,
You don’t know me from Adam but recently I met a friend of yours called Jane Fante (from Akron, Ohio) in a bar in Chiang Mai. There I happened to mention I’m currently drifting without much of an aim, which should mean that my experiences are random and varied and interesting, although somehow I keep finding myself in the same handful of situations time after time (many of them drunken). And so your name popped up, along with your email address, and it was suggested I might benefit from getting in touch and maybe visiting your neck of the woods.
It might sound as though all I need is a dry out cure, but this is not the case, and instead of being a drain on your island resources I like to think I could be of some help, even if my skillset is a little vague.
Reading this back, it seems a bit crazy, approaching you this way. But I’ll trust to my instincts, and Jane’s intuition, and fire this off all the same.
Jack
As soon as my message had flown out into cyberspace, I began anxiously awaiting Dan’s reply. That first afternoon and evening I accepted the lack of any answer graciously, but by the next morning my anticipation was already heightened and I began checking my inbox every hour (even though I was in range of the hotel’s wi-fi signal and had push notifications set up on my phone). Still I was unable to summon a response from the mystery man. The next day found me equally impatient, as did the day after that, and then I started to lose heart and became increasingly resigned to hearing nothing at all.
At which point Dan wrote back to me.
Jack,
Great to hear from you and apologies for the time lapse. At the moment we are without a signal on the island (and have grown to like this state of affairs). Now I’m in a nearby town gathering supplies for the new non-rainy season, meaning I should be reachable for the next few days, and so I suggest we make use of this time to get a better sense of one another, and what we’re both looking for, and see whether these things are in synch.
Your faith in Jane’s intuition is well placed as she’s always struck me as an excellent judge of character, and so for her to make this referral is a definite feather in your cap.
A couple of opening questions then:
Do you know Cambodia at all?
Are you pressed for time in any way?
Avanti!
Dan
I answered him back within the hour, giddy with a renewed sense of possibility and thrilled by the prospect that was now opening up (even if it still needed confirming). I also resolved to do everything within my power to secure an invite to Metanoia, despite my limited understanding of what that meant.
Cambodia I hadn’t visited, I told Dan. India, Sri Lanka, and a good deal of Thailand I had. As for time limits, nothing was waiting for me in England, and homesickness was one complaint I didn’t suffer from, and so I would be in a position to stay as long as proved agreeable to both parties and otherwise play it by ear.
Now our correspondence flowed, and the emails came thick and fast, only a little slower than instant messaging. In this way we both spent a few thousand words sounding each other out. But rather than describing the island to me in glorious detail, Dan made a couple of sobering disclosures next, as if doing his best to put me off.
Maybe I should start with the dangers as we do have a full quota of slithery things, and creepy crawlies, as befits a jungle domain. Most of the the risks involve irritation rather than toxic peril, but it’s worth mentioning these creatures up front, and if you have any kind of phobia which would be triggered by their close proximity, I can state with confidence this island is not for you.
There’s also the fact we share our corner of paradise with a small military presence, as the Cambodian army retains a mostly dormant facility on the opposite end of it, although they are every bit as eager as we are to keep themselves to themselves (thankfully the terrain is long and wide enough to easily accommodate both parties). Because of this there are rumoured to be land mines on their side of the wire, although these – if they do exist – can be safely avoided by observing the big red signs (please find attached).
I clicked on the attachment and found a picture of a lurid skull and cross bones daubed in red paint on a wooden board. The words Danger – Keep Out! written in English, German, and Spanish underneath. The crudeness of the artistry only served to enhance the sense of threat, but if I flinched at the image, it lasted no longer than a second before I batted my alarm away. Similarly – although I was no fan of spiders, snakes, or scorpions – none of these critters was going to scare me off. By then I was sold on the island, and committed to this proposition, and nothing was going to deter me from going there if I had my say.
In Dan’s next email, he harked back to my original message.
You started off by admitting that your skillset is a little vague, but vague skillsets are the least of our worries, and I actually thought it was a good thing that you acknowledged as much. What I’m hugely sick of is people banging their own drum, booming out their past achievements. The less proclamations the better in my experience.
Anyway, what we’re after is not so much a particular skillset as a specific frame of mind. One which is wide open to new experience and prone to fellowship. The problem of course is that everybody thinks themselves capable of these things, and few are reluctant to trumpet the fact, which is why we often get to witness the disconnect between a person’s self image and their actual conduct on the ground (as you can imagine this has happened more than a handful of times). But we are trying to build something of substance here, without clinging to any one orthodoxy, which is why we’ve every need of committed individuals. Unfortunately, it’s always difficult to speak of these ambitions without sounding like the leader of a cult. Maybe the greatest trick the devil ever played was to make every righteous inclination sound like the ravings of a madman. But anyway, here we are…
One which is wide open to new experience… I had shown little evidence of this frame of mind lately, and most of my problems could be traced back to the same glaring lack. But the fact deterred me no more than the wildlife warning or the army base. Truth was, beneath my jokey self-criticism, there lay a smouldering self-belief and I had not written myself off at all. Still I felt that if I could only identify the right opportunity, it would see me prise open my huge potential and blow every shortcoming away. As if all these flaws of mine – so frequently demonstrated – were no more than growing pains not long for the world. Little wonder then that Dan’s thoughts on the subject sounded like more music to my ears.
Then came the kicker:
This is the year we ramp up our efforts to bring Metanoia to wider attention. If the last couple of years have been about constructing our foundations on the quiet, now we move forward with spreading the word and extending our capabilities and finding a way for the venture to pay for itself. In many ways that makes it a perfect time to drop anchor and join the troupe.
As for the question of us and you, really there’s no way of knowing if we’re a good match in advance, but if I add Jane’s stamp of approval to your own emails, I think we should give this a go, so the ball is now firmly in your court and you are welcome to join us just as soon as you like.
There it was. My green light. And my heart leapt at it. The very next minute I expressed my willingness to head there in person. And within the hour I had a ticket booked to Phnom Penh. And while describing it as my last chance – which I did, to myself at least – may have been a slight exaggeration, it really did feel as though everything rested on me grasping this opportunity and making of it what I could.
Remote - An Island Mystery
Available via Kindle & Kindle Unlimited HERE
Reaching Paradise was the easy part . . .
After losing his way in Thailand, Jack Sizemore stumbles upon a remote tropical island where he falls under the spell of charismatic entrepreneur, Dan Orison. With its close-knit group of digital nomads, secluded beaches, and breathtaking scenery, Metanoia looks like heaven on earth. But the project is founded on deep dark secrets and a sinister history of foul play. And when a mysterious young woman shows up and starts digging around for answers, Jack knows that following his heart will mean risking everything, including his own life.
Dog Rough - Chapter One
It was five to midnight according to the wall clock and I was staring death in the face. It took the form of a skinny young man in a white lab coat who was heading in my direction. He wore a nasty smile and was wielding a large hypodermic needle. A needle that was loaded with a lethal injection meant for me.
“Good doggy,” he said slyly, stepping closer, squirting poison from the needle’s tip.
Now no man in his right mind is going to appreciate that kind of comment – being called a “good doggy” – however much of a doggy he appears to be. But playing dumb was my ticket out of here. It was why, for the last month, I’d been acting like the daftest stray ever to end up in a research facility and be judged a total failure as experiments go.
It was also why, even now, I was panting happily and letting my tongue loll out of my mouth like I was on the verge of something truly wonderful. At the same time wagging my tail so that it thumped against the hard stone floor. All this, so that my executioner couldn’t have felt less threatened or more inclined to follow standard procedures, such as closing the laboratory door.
Stopping directly in front of me, he shook his head and gave a laugh that was every bit as mean as the smile before it. Then he dropped to a crouch and looked me in
the eye.
“You know, most dogs get awful jumpy at this point and seem to have a good idea of what’s coming to them. But you seem to be missing the point in a pretty big way.”
It was only then, with the needle poised, that I set him straight on one or two matters – including the fact that I’d slipped my leash.
Leaping off the floor, clear of the metal pole, I knocked the man flat off his feet. Trapped in the body of a French bulldog, I was sorely lacking in brute strength but the element of surprise worked in my favour, causing him to lose his balance and topple backwards.
Sprawled on the concrete, I leapt up onto the scientist’s chest and put my forepaws up against his shoulders. Free to express my feelings at last, I let out a low growl and bared my teeth at him. Then, confirming his worst fears, I gave him a nip at the base of his neck, breaking the skin around his collarbone. Shocked by the bite, his eyes flooded with fearful amazement, but that was nothing compared to the man’s horror when I started to speak.
“Let’s keep this short, Nigel – I don’t need to recount all the nasty viruses you’ve pumped me with lately, so you might want to think about rustling up an antidote before setting off any alarm bells here.”
I paused for a few moments to let the threat sink in and see what he made of it. The lab assistant’s eyes were bulging out of their sockets. The result of being assaulted by a talking dog that was full of the pox.
“Do you get me, Nigel?” I continued. “Are we on the same page? Can I take that as a yes or do I have to go for the jugular?”
The research assistant was still unable to form a sentence, but he did manage to shake his head repeatedly. Then he nodded it over and over again, in complete agreement with my point of view.