Victor picked up the pile of papers, looked through them again. “I think I’m starting to remember, Jaidee. You were a good student. A really good student. Your reading proficiency—it was higher than most. You sat—oh shit.” Victor’s eyes flickered. “Now I remember. My best student. You were my best student! Sorry, so sorry! How could I, but yeah, I remember now. Sorry again, everything then was so hazy because . . . but yes! How could I forget. Please. I’m sorry, Jaidee. It’s just been a while and I’ve been preoccupied and I’m tired.”
Jaidee filled with hope. He sat up straight, forced a smile. “Thank you, Teacher,” he said.
“Ha-ha,” Victor said. “You were upset that last day. I remember now. Well, how about that.”
“You were my best teacher,” Jaidee said.
“Thanks. Appreciate it. People there, they were good to me. I was a bit immature, I think, but I still appreciated how well I was treated.”
“You were not immature. At least to me.”
“You were a kid then, right? Like, seventeen or so? Of course you didn’t think I was immature. But I’m nearly thirty now. Things are different. Priorities.”
“Things are different for me too.”
“I’m sure they are. UNL is a good school. I’m sure you’re doing very well.”
They sat for a while longer in silence. Outside, the wind had picked up; it howled against the side of the house. Jaidee reached into his mental reservoir of memories, sifted through them, tried to pick one that would resonate with Victor, but everything, sitting there, was colored with love, and he knew, then, that if he went that route, that explicit route, he would lose Victor’s interest. Victor was engaged! To a woman named Jane! Had Jaidee’s entire life post–high school been pointless? Had he come to America for no reason? But no. He’d known that something like this might’ve occurred, that years had passed and that a man as striking as Victor was bound to attract someone—male or female—whom he’d find suitable enough. Though he’d wanted to believe in the clarity and depth of their love, a love that crossed oceans, cultures, and races, he knew, pragmatically, that Victor was an American living an American life, and that he’d eventually want to settle down. Jaidee cursed himself for not contacting Victor earlier. If he’d secured Victor’s address before he’d come to America, he could’ve written him letters, could’ve stoked the interest over time—for that’s what he needed, Jaidee thought: he needed time. Victor still didn’t quite understand his desire, and he certainly didn’t understand his destiny. In movies, all the time, the protagonists, the lovelorn, they needed time.
“So you will get married soon?” Jaidee said, holding his breath.
“Eh. We haven’t set a date. I’m in no rush.”
“You aren’t?”
“We’re basically married now. But all the wedding crap—neither of us is looking forward to that.”
“Probably good to wait a little longer, then,” Jaidee said.
“Yeah, but not forever.”
Jaidee crossed his arms over his chest, thought about this woman, this Jane. It didn’t really matter that she was a woman. Love was love; it knew no boundaries, especially in the West. On an American talk show called The Bryanna Folger Show, he’d witnessed two women, both claiming to be attracted to men, engage in a long-term monogamous relationship with each other, citing that they’d fallen in love with the human and not the sex. The audience had booed and cried and jeered (both women had left husbands to be with each other), and one audience member said, in a rage, “You should be ashamed of yourselves! You guys are sick, sick, sick!” But Jaidee understood, and he knew, as soon as he’d seen the show, that his envisioned future with Victor was not only possible but ordained; he’d seen that particular show for a reason—all his efforts would eventually be rewarded.
“Hey, man,” Victor said, his eyes suddenly alert. “I don’t suppose, I mean, nah, but . . .”
“You don’t suppose what?”
“Well, we’re scheduled at the Quigley House on April twenty-seventh. Not much time, you know? And we have to have everything in by April fourteenth.”
“Not long.”
“Yeah. And I called them, told them my situation, and they said that because of the circumstances, meaning because we’d won this thing and there’d been press and everything, that if I could get a group of three, they could possibly supply a fourth, like, they have reserve people or something, I don’t know. Sorta fishy. But they said it’d just be someone from their list, and I guess I trust them, though who knows.” He moved in his seat. “And I was gonna go around the bank, ask again, and Jane was gonna call everyone she ever knew, though she’s done that already, but . . .”
“But?”
“I mean. Is it weird if I ask you? I mean, sort of nuts, huh? You already live in Lincoln. And you’re my former student, which is simultaneously nuts and awesome, and it’d be a bonding experience for sure. I know we haven’t talked much, but I get a good feeling from you. You seem levelheaded, and you know that the only group to win was Asian, not to stereotype or anything.” He paused, shook his head. “Sorry, dude. That’s too weird, isn’t it. It’s just that we’ve really been asking everyone, and here you just show up and—”
“Yes, of course I’ll do it.”
“What?”
“If you want me to do it, I’ll do it.”
“I mean. Really? Like, really?”
“Yes. It could be fun. And like you say—a bonding experience.”
“Oh man. Oh man. If you’re serious. If you’re really fucking serious, you’ve made my day. You’ve made my month. You know how long I’ve been stressing about this? And here, you just plop down out of nowhere, like, from heaven.”
“What will I need to do? Will I need to stay with you to prepare?”
“Stay with me? No. Nothing like that. But we should probably exchange numbers. Dude, you’re unbelievable.”
“I have yours,” Jaidee said.
“My what?”
“Your number.”
“You do? How— Oh yeah. You found me in the phone book.”
“I’ll give you mine.” He scratched his dorm number down on a napkin. “Here.”
“Oh man. It’s like a weight has lifted. I’m serious.”
“We should talk regularly. Every day?”
“Every day? No, I think that’s overkill, but yeah, regularly. Holy shit. Jane’s gonna flip.”
“Maybe every other day?”
“Like once per week, okay? We have, what, a month? A little more. I’ll mail you the paperwork—it’s at my office. Be warned, it’s long. You have to get a physical, include the results in the paperwork. And don’t be freaked out by the waiver. It’s just to cover their asses. But really, they’ve assured me, in all its history, nobody has ever been seriously hurt. I think it’s all part of the scare factor, make you think you’re signing over more than you actually are. I mean, I don’t think it’s even legal to waive away your right to not get killed.”
“Killed?”
“They say that shit, you know? It’s hype. I’m sure you’ve seen the testimonials in the magazines, right?”
“I’m not that familiar—”
“Just don’t worry. You can fill out everything, and get your physical, and, well, I’d suggest between now and then, maybe exercising a bit? You’re not gonna get seriously hurt, but it might wind you. That’s what they say, anyway.” He sipped his coffee. “Holy shit. We’re going to the Quigley House. We’re going to the fucking Quigley House!”
He sat back, beamed, and Jaidee felt momentarily happy.
Exhibit 10: Letter Written by Leonard Grandton (Defendant) to Boonsri Pitsuwana
Summary:
Letter dated March 13, 1997, addressed to Boonsri Pitsuwana c/o The Spider, Bangkok, Thailand.
Letter returned to sender.
Content of Letter:
Dear Boonsri,
I’m suffering suffering suffering. I have bad bad dreams, and sometimes there’s violence and I wa
ke up and I don’t know where I am and I won’t know where I am for a long time even though it’s my own house and I’ve lived here for years. Sometimes I look around this house and I imagine you sitting there, at my table on my couch in my bed and I swear to god sometimes I actually see you there with your smile and your hair and your beautiful skin and in those moments I feel happier than I’ve ever felt. It’s like I understand all the secrets of the world when I see you, it’s like it’s all there laid out for me.
What I’m saying is that it’s not just love but worthiness that you make me feel and I’ll say I’ve felt so unworthy for so much of my life and I don’t know what it is but being with you makes everything right so please answer please please please please I’m begging you. This is my life we’re talking about.
I love you more than anything in the world.
Love,
Leonard
Exhibit 11: Email Written by Leonard Grandton (Defendant) to John Forrester
Summary:
Email dated April 27, 1997, 9:16 p.m. from [email protected] to [email protected].
Subject: ?
Content:
You gonna call me?
LG
Leonard
Leonard wrote Boonsri letters. In them, he expounded on the tedium of his life back home, about how he couldn’t stop thinking about her, how—as grossly premature as it was—he couldn’t help but see a future together, perhaps in the States, but perhaps in Thailand. The sooner he could get things arranged the better, he said, since his life in Nebraska—alone, alone, alone—was not a life that any man should have to endure, especially after having met someone with whom he so fiercely connected.
I don’t know if you heard me on the platform that last day, he wrote. But if you did, I meant it.
He’d taken pictures of her, and in his bedroom, above his small desk, he taped her face to the wall. Every time he passed the picture, he flooded with pride, because: Look at her! What pristine beauty! What remarkable joy! Those slim cheeks, those almond eyes, that smooth brown skin—any man would be proud to be seen with such an exotic enchantress. He imagined people seeing the pictures and saying, Leonard, who is that? to which he’d reply, Oh, she’s my girlfriend. We’re doing a long-distance thing for now. Nobody, of course, came over, so he was the only one to see her there, smiling out at him from his wall, and that was fine.
He started his weekly binge-drinking again with John Forrester. When he told John about Boonsri, John’s eyebrows shot up.
“Oh?” he said. “You’re staying in contact?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Leonard said. “It’s different than that.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” John said.
“I understand the situation,” Leonard said, shaking his head. “I understand how it looks.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“And you?” Leonard said. “I read somewhere that there’ve been declines in visitors at Quigley?”
“Ridiculous,” John said. “We’re doing the best we’ve ever done.”
“Well,” Leonard said. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“Of course I’ll be fine. I’ve been fine this whole time. The press is just showing its petty evils right now. But we’re good. Everything’s golden.” John swigged his whiskey. “And you,” he said. “It seems like you’re also golden. A long-distance Thai girlfriend. Isn’t that something. This trip was good for you. Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I call it?”
“You did,” Leonard said, red-faced, beaming. “Yep, you sure did.”
Winter descended. Leonard wrote and wrote and wrote. A couple times, he even called the Spider. The woman on the other end, speaking over the blare of the music, shouted something in Thai. He replied, slowly, “Boonsri. Boonsri. I would like to speak to Boonsri.” But she continued yelling in Thai, and finally hung up. When he called again, nobody answered.
So he wrote. Every day he constructed a letter, all of them at least five pages.
Are you there? he wrote. Ha-ha. Just kidding. I know you’re there. I just wish you’d reply.
And: You’ll leave there soon. I’ll get you out. The Spider is no place for someone like you.
And: It’s so hard to picture you with other men. I know it’s happening, but you have to know that it kills me to think about it.
His grocery store had an Asian section, and he took pictures of the shelves, asking if there was everything she needed here to make her food (but don’t expect me to cook that stuff ha-ha I can barely make a sandwich!) and he took pictures of his neighborhood, his car, the Claymont Hotel, and various other parts of Lincoln. He even took a picture of a group of Asian people he saw downtown. I live in a very diverse place, he wrote. You will feel at home I am sure of it.
Every day after work he ran to his mailbox, hoping to see a blue envelope with a red stamp bearing the words “Air Mail,” a response of some sort, perhaps something in Thai, something he could get translated, but day after day, week after week, his mailbox overflowed only with inanity: bills, reminders, advertisements.
He took more vacation, went to Thailand again, this time at the end of January, and sat with Boonsri in his hotel room, a cheaper, smaller place three blocks from Nana Plaza. It was the end of Thailand’s cool season, and the air was lighter, crisper, but still quite warm. They sat on the bed, facing each other, clothed. The comforter was damp from the air-conditioning. The room itself was dim and gray, the sun outside refusing to retreat. She brushed her hair from her shoulder.
“I respond soon yes,” she said, breathing deeply.
“All you need to do is tell me you received the photos,” he said. “That’s it. Just a simple note saying you received the photos. And you should really get an email account. It’s free.”
“Email?” she said.
“Yes, email! It’d all be so much easier if you just got email!”
She shook her head.
He put his hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “Don’t get upset. I’m just trying to make this as easy for you as possible.”
“Make it easy?” she asked, and he saw something hard in her eyes.
“The transition?” he said. “Your move? Everything I’ve written in my letters? Everything you seem to agree with?”
“My English,” she said. “Not good.”
He stood up. “Your English is fine. It’s way better than you think. Are you taking lessons? Someone’s paying for that, I suppose, right? Someone else? You can tell me. I’m an adult. I know what you do,” he said.
“What?” she said.
He shook his head. “Nothing. I just need you to respond to my letters, okay? I need to start making arrangements.”
She folded her hands in her lap, drew in a deep breath. Then she went to him, dropped to her knees, unbuttoned his shorts.
He returned from that trip confident in their renewed vows. At the beach, at the mall, at the markets, in bed, he’d asked her, over and over, if she was serious about visiting—he would make arrangements, he said, but she needed to assure him that she was sincere about it all. She’d said yes, yes, yes, and he’d taken her words at face value, so he rearranged his apartment, learned Thai recipes, bought a Thai-English dictionary, studied it. He told her, through letter, that sooner was better: it was still cold and snowy, yes, but wouldn’t she want to experience that? She’d never seen snow, and she’d never experienced cold, so what better introduction to America than an American winter! He sent the letter off, FedEx. She’d receive it within a few days.
A week passed. Then two. Then three. No letter, so Leonard wrote more. Winter deleted visibility, reddened faces, chapped skin. A young Thai man, covered in snow, came into his hotel, slept on his couch. Leonard took this as a sign.
Corporate, during this time, called and called. Leonard, it seemed, had spent more time writing letters and making plans than managing his hotel, and when housekeeping or kitchen or front-desk staff came in to inquire about supplies,
or schedules, or technical problems, Leonard would shoo them away, tell them he’d take care of whatever it was later. The problem, of course, was that he didn’t take care of anything until it was too late—until a customer complained, or an employee quit, or the computer system crashed—and so the Claymont lost more business. Leonard received a warning. Then another warning. Then a threat of dismissal should another warning occur.
“This is on you,” Corporate said. “We’ve seen what you can do, so we’re not losing hope yet, but if you don’t turn this around . . .”
He asked for a raise. They laughed.
“How do you expect me to turn this place around on my salary?” he said. “I deserve this!”
“Leonard,” Corporate said. “Are you for real?”
He grew despondent. Boonsri had fallen for another man—he knew this.
What if this won’t work? he thought. What if none of this works?
His meetings with John became more frenzied, more animated. He ranted, informed John of the inherent unfairness of the entire corporate system, how he felt like a stupid cog in some giant, malevolent machine, how there was no empathy in the hospitality business—You know this, right, John? You know this business—how all those corporate know-nothings sounded the same: clipped, robotic, big-haired blowhards. And John sat back and listened to Leonard, stroking the stubble on his chin. Sometimes he’d ask follow-up questions, most of them pertaining to Boonsri. She hasn’t responded? You should keep trying. She’ll come through. It’s just difficult, the language barrier and everything. One time, he asked about Mary. Leonard turned red.
“Mary can suck my fucking nut,” Leonard said.
“You’re over her?” John said. He sipped his whiskey.
“Of course I am. I’ve moved way beyond that.”
“Because of Boonsri.”
“No. I mean, sort of. But—listen, even if Boonsri hadn’t come into the picture, I would’ve gotten over that hateful bitch. This distance from her has made everything clear. She was fucking toxic.”
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