Trans-Pacific Crush

The glass of the Bangkok international airport's windows beamed with early morning light as Sam's international flight touched down. With his long winter trench coat slung over his shoulder, and computer bag tucked under his arm, he wound his way through security and out into an open concourse. The odd sensation he stood out like a sore thumb washed over him as he realized his tall stature stood above many of the people milling about. Furtive glances would catch his eye as he looked around. Despite Bangkok being Thailand's main tourist hub, it was clear the people in this section of the airport didn't see many foreign visitors. A young woman, maybe in her late teens, rushed up to him, his bag in tow, and a scrawled tag-board sign that read Khun-Sam in both English and Thai. "Khun-Sam...Khun-Sam..." she said breathlessly. She stopped, quickly raised her hands to her forehead and in the common gesture said, "Sawa'dee". Sam nodded, and with one hand gestured in much the same way, "Uh Swadeet..." "Sawa'dee" the young lady corrected, "You will do better as you learn Thai, "she said in careful English. "I'm Noa, President Koss hired me to be your assistant. Please come." "Noa, good to know. Where are we headed?" Sam gestured for her to lead and they headed for the front of the concourse. "Until we can find you permanent accommodations, we've booked you a suite in the Sukhumvit hotel across from GMR TV HQ." The two exited the airport to an awaiting car. The trunk popped open with a quiet clunk and before long they were driving towards the city center. Towering skyscrapers and novel architecture starkly contrasted with old world low slung buildings. Kids played in their neighborhood streets, a procession of Buddhist monks gathered offerings door to door, all the while traffic zoomed past on the clearly new ten lane highway. "You will have a meeting at eleven o'clock with Mr. Ross, here is your phone, and this is the current script translated." Noa handed Sam an open briefcase, a small smartphone lay atop a stack of stapled episode scripts. "These are the latest revisions I presume?" said Sam, as he pushed up his round glasses, pulled the scripts out, and rifled through them. "Yes, although frankly they're just a bit...how do you Americans say it, blah?" said Noa dismissively. "Sometimes shows just don't last once the story that's there is done. I mean boy love dramas rarely make it past two seasons anyways." said Sam. Shuffling the scripts around one title in particular stuck out, "Space? They want to do an episode where they go into space?" he said with incredulity, "what are these writers thinking?". Time flew by as he skimmed the scripts, his head only rising from the slump he'd slid into when the car came to a stop. Noa was already stepping out of the car giving Sam a glance of a clean lined unmarked yet modern entrance to the hotel. Warm humid air mixed with the cold air conditioning of the car fogging Sam's glasses. Stuffing papers into his briefcase, Sam clamored out of the backseat and onto the sidewalk. The two of them made their way into the hotel lobby. Tall tinted glass doors towered over him and swung open with ease, and a waft of cool air once again fogged his glasses. Sweat dripped down his cheeks and deep wet circles had grown beneath his arms. Noa looked Sam up and down and in an awkward way grabbed his bag for him. “Why don’t you have a seat in the bar,” said Noa, gesturing to an enclosed room just visible through privacy frosted glass doors, “you can cool off there while I check you in.” “Uh..oh..uh good idea,” said Sam. The doors slid open with a slight creak, and even cooler air hit him. “Oh thank yo-u, real AC...” he said aloud as he approached the bar. The bartender, wearing a rather regal uniform, bow-tie, classic vest, arm garter on each arm, looked up from his washing. “Ah, hello, what can I get you?” he said in perfect English. Sam, taken aback, fumbled his briefcase a bit before unceremoniously setting it down on the bar. “I..uh..water. Ice water preferably.” Without missing a beat the bartender pulled from a cooler a bottle of water, filled a glass with chipped ice, and poured the water for Sam. “So, uh, fancy place...” said Sam looking around. The long narrow bar snaked around the center of the lounge. Varnished and polished wood comprised the bar top while brass fittings offset the otherwise black button leather placard which lined the under wall and foot well. Along the outer edge of the room were secluded half crescent booths with similarly adorned button leather and brass fixtures. The elegant facade was dated, yet served its purpose to hearken back to a different era of business deals done over drinks, rather than the posh modern nightclubs and neonglitz one might expect of the city. “Yes sir,” replied the bartender, “a bit claustrophobic but we’ve got AC.” “And for that I thank you,” said Sam in a tired voice. Sipping his water he returned his attention to the scripts. Removing them one at a time and placing them on the bar, shaking his head in annoyance, disbelief, or just sheer exhaustion of their absurdity. “You’re a producer?” ask the bartender as he noticed the scripts. “No...uh...showrunner...oh what’s the Thai word? Oh..uh..nak wing...” he said in a very American accent. The bartender smirked, “Nahk weeing” he corrected. “Yeah, that...it’s just these scripts are so..so-o beyond wild,” Sam said, “I’m Sam Donahue, by the way, I didn’t get your name.” “Narong...” said the bartender, “Nerr-ung” At this moment warm air bellowed in through the opened frosted door to the bar. A scruffy man with wild unkempt hair, wearing dingy sweatpants and an inside t-shirt, barged in. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes and it was clear he wasn’t in good shape. In sharp rapid Thai the man started barking orders and Narong began to work quickly. Followed close behind him was a well dressed man who also spoke in rather stern Thai to this man, well beyond anything Sam could understand. They argued in a long winded dance as the scruffy man marched towards a booth, only to be pulled back by the well dressed man. As the argument persisted Narong placed a whiskey sour on the bar and Noa entered into the fray. “Khun-Sam, please come, your...” “Chiya-ai!” said the scruffy man interrupting Noa as he flumphed back into a booth. Noa beckoned and Sam nodded, avoiding the confrontation playing out before them. He quickly packed up the scripts and briefcase and left with a nod to Narong. A short stroll and a loud crash from behind them later, they were both on an elevator. “Khun-Sam, you will be on the top floor. All that was available for long term stay was their last remaining penthouse suite.” “Oh, that’s alright,” he said. The elevator dinged and the doors swung open to a wide hallway. White-pink marble tile was laid in a staggered herringbone leading to two doors. Rich chocolate wallpaper met a wainscoting marked by a brass balustrade. “You are there,” Noa said as she pointed to the right while simultaneously holding the key to the room out. “Please remember to be ready for your meeting.” “Are you not...coming...” Sam turned to just in time catch the key and witness Noa, with a look of I’m not dealing with that on her face, disappear behind the sliding elevator doors. Sam stared blankly for a moment, bewildered at the shuttered disappearance of his assistant, before he turned, sighed, and opened the door to his room. The sprawling suite sported a mixture of contemporary furniture and Thai artwork. To his immediate right was the bathroom, stark, white, and western. “Thank you” he thought as he passed by. To the front was a sitting area with a chaise lounge, large flat screen TV, and small kitchenette. Behind a floor to ceiling folding divider was the bed which sat opposite a large sliding glass wall that lead to a balcony. Sam slumped to the bed, his luggage slowly slumped to the floor next to his feet as he laid half on half off. A lightly shaded teal ceiling fan whooshed overhead and he smiled. “New starts leave little rest for the already weary,” he said aloud. Groaning, he stood, stripped off his very ripe clothing, and strode to the bathroom for a shower. “For a writer, not bad” he thought as he looked at himself in the defogged mirror. A long scar ran across his chest, barely visible abs lead to slightly fluffy love handles. He blow dried his hair with haphazard gusto and returned to dress. A light natural linen sun suit was his choice, forgoing his neckties lest he suffer in the hot and humid air. As he fixed his collar he stepped out onto the balcony. A glass table with deck chairs adorned the center, and two potted succulents marked each corner of the balustrade which ran along the edge. Sam panned the skyline, a cityscape, crested by tall buildings and accompanied by the music of traffic and chatter below. As his eyes wandered his gaze settled on the balcony next to his. A dirty ramshackle duplicate with empty beer bottles, cigarette butts, and empty take-away boxes strewn about. “Whoever it is next door to me is a freaking slob,” he thought. He shook his head just as his phone alarm beeped. With gusto, or as much as a man without sleep for twenty-seven hours might muster, Sam crossed the street to the GMR TV HQ building. Tinted glass gave way to a cavernous reception area, art deco and minimalist furniture framed a seating area for guests opposite the receptionist desk. The tall ceilings were divided by suspended industrial bare bulb lights that were hung in a wave. Betwixt the seating area and the receptionist desk was an abstract sculpture which hid the hallway behind it from the direct view of the doors. The receptionist looked twice as he entered, first by glance, and then straight on. “Hello, sir, how can I help you?” she said, unsure of what to make of him. “I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Koss...uh Khun-Koss…” fumbled Sam. “O-oh...one minute please,” said the receptionist as she jabbed a button on her phone, picked up the receiver, and spoke rapid fire Thai. At the same moment Noa appeared and waved Sam over. “Mr. Koss is waiting for you in his office, please come this way,” she said and gestured towards two elevators. Sam nodded to the receptionist, who, to her credit, acknowledged him with a curt yet dismissive smile. The elevator ride seemed to take longer than expected. The typical elevator he was used to was replaced by K-pop and some Thai singers Noa tapped along, head bobbing, lost for a moment in the seclusion of the cramped space. As the lift dinged the doors opened she righted her self, smoothed her skirt, and walked out followed by Sam. The office into which they stepped was lined by glass walled offices with a sprawling cubicle layout in the center. A cacophony of phone calls, video meetings, clacking of keyboards and the subtle sounds of videos playing over headphones hit Sam like a brick. The buzz of the office only amplified as they reached Mr. Koss’s office. The glass walls vibrated with a thrum and as Noa opened the door multiple sound woofers blared. With deep bass thrum reminiscent of Gregorian chants rattling every item in sight, and Sam deep in his chest, there sat Mr. Koss meditating. An older gentleman, Mr. Koss had deep circles under his eyes, graying black hair, and deep furrow wrinkles across his forehead, if it weren’t for a disheveled necktie and suit, one might have thought him a monk. In rather loud Thai Noa yelled, “Mr. Koss...Khun Koss...”. One blurry eye, then another, opened and Mr. Koss looked up at the two of them, picked up a remote, and silenced the voluminous sound. “Khun-Koss, Sawa’dee. Khun-Sam is here for his meeting,” she said. “Oh...good, good, yes,” he said, standing and half limping, half hobbling to his desk. Noa and Sam took seats opposite him, or more accurately, yoga balls. The new-agey vibes continued throughout the office. Crystals lined a top shelf that ran the length of the only solid wall. Beanbag chairs sat against the interior of the glass wall of the office, while a large TV was hung opposite the desk. Incense wafted from a censor which smelled of honey dew and cinnabar. The outside wall was a bank of floor to ceiling windows that looked out onto the city. “Have you looked at the latest revisions of the scripts?” asked Koss. “Uh...well, yes I have...” said Sam carefully. “They are...what is that word you Americans use...Xụ,” he said looking to Noa. “Crap, is the polite translation sir.” “Yes, crap! They are crap,” said Koss, waving in a wild gesture of disgust, “That’s why we brought you here.” “I mean, I can certainly do some rewrites, it’s just the direction this show is going, it doesn’t...” said Sam as Koss cut him off. “We want you to be the new showrunner,” said Koss, “Our former showrunner quit when he learned a foreign writer was being sourced to fix the direction of the show. We need somebody to fill in and you are it.” “I-I see...” said Sam as he crossed his arms, “It’ll take some time to rework several of these episodes.” “You have one week. Shooting starts this Saturday for the first episode of the season,” said Koss, “get it done.” Sam slumped out of habit, knowing full well that writing a full hour long script and getting it translated would be anything but easy in a week’s time, in doing so he leaned too far back and with a flutter of papers and rather hefty thud landed on his back. “Son of a b...” he yelled just as one of the large speakers thrummed in response to being struck. Noa knelt down next to Sam, a hand lifting his head. Simultaneously, a handsome young man rushed in at seeing the events unfold. Cool green eyes were ever so slightly covered by well kept bangs. “Sting, Ch̀wyh̄elụ̄x k̄hæk k̄hxng reā” barked Mr. Koss as he pointed to Sam. Sting looked dazed for a moment at the order before bending over Sam. Sam looked up, head throbbing, and grasped Sting’s hand. Their gazes looked for a moment a zing shot up Sam’s arm. Moments passed before he was standing again, dizzy, and slightly confused. To Sam the grumble of noises around him were beyond comprehension and before he knew it he was being guided out of the office and onto the elevator. Strong arms held him up as he felt the floor drop out from under him and blackness set in. Sam awoke to a paramedic taking his pulse, an oxygen snorkeled into his nose, and a worried Noa. Rapid fire Thai swirled around him in a jumble when Noa finally spoke to him directly, “You’re okay, just a mild concussion. You should go back to your room and rest, Sting will take you.” “Sting?” mumbled Sam. It took forever it seemed to stand up, but when he did Sam felt more stable. His head throbbed and the bright midday sun hurt his eyes. A similar feeling from before washed over him as the strong arms wrapped under his and began to guide him out the door. Stairs, precarious he thought as they took one step at a time. The street’s hot...why is it so hot he thought as they crossed the street. Cold, I love the cold he thought as they entered into the air conditioned lobby of the hotel. The elevator ride rocked his weary legs which rubberbanded around, and eventually the two of them made it to the penthouse level. A quiet voice spoke to him, first in Thai as he felt a hand group around his pockets, then it spoke again in broken English, “Where...is...card?” Sam shook his head at this unsure what was being asked. Sting shook his head as well before walking Sam to his own door, waving his key, and letting them in. Half leading half dragging, Sting finally plopped Sam down onto the bed. Sam flopped backwards, head spinning still and quickly fell asleep. Sting promptly took of his shoes placing them by the door and in due course took of Sam’s shoes and shirt. No point in moving him now he thought. Hours later Sam awoke groggily, cold sweat drenched his face and the room was dark. He clambered out of the bed and wandered to the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar and the overhead light was on, the sound of a shower running grew louder as he approached. He swung the door open, half in need of the toilet half confused by who could be in his room. Steam billowed from the door and there before him was a naked Sting. “Who are you, what’re you doing in my room?” asked Sam, in a stifled tone. Sting stood stalk still one leg already in the shower. “I-I, this is...” Sting then stopped, looked down, and quickly covered himself with his hands, “It not….” Sam, furious, confused, back out of the bathroom and turned on a light only to see a much messier and lived in space the mirror image of his own. His shirt, shoes, and pants were neatly folded on a chair, and it was at this moment he realized he was also mostly undressed. Embarrassment crept in splashing red across his cheeks as he gathered his suit and shoes. Sting, having wrapped a towel around his waste, came to the bathroom door. “It not...Mạn mị̀chı̀ s̄ìng thī̀ dūh̄emụ̄xn..” Sam looked at him and rushed out the door which slammed shut behind him. He wrestled with his pants to find his key card and let himself into his own room. With the door closed he slumped to the floor, heart pounding, tent pitched, and his head throbbing with pain.