I met her in the Bangkok Airport, at a kind of diner-restaurant, when there were no seats except the one right across from her. She was quite pretty, with a Scandinavian face, light hair, and blue, but very sad eyes, and I made sure she saw my wedding ring so she felt a little less like I was trying to pick her up. She was wearing pretty Thai clothing and had a large satchel that I assumed carried everything she needed for her trip. She was, in fact, moving out of Thailand. Her name was Marta. I was simply going through Bangkok for a job interview in a small town, grabbing a meal and going on to my gate. Both of us, then, were suspended between flights at the airport.
She had been working at a place called Tiger Temple, a tourist resort run by a non-profit Buddhist organization, which had recently been taken over by the government. The government had moved in, closed it down, and removed the tigers, because, they alleged, some of the higher-ups were making money on the exotic animal trade. The government pointed to tools found in the rooms of the abbots, physical evidence, they said, of people taking advantage of the wild animals; this was illegal. The trade in endangered species was a sensitive issue.
The waitress came by and took my order, soup and Thai coffee. She gave Marta a quick look, as if she had already been sitting there, pining and not eating, for quite some time. She made no attempt to pressure Marta into ordering anything, and she didn’t. It was a typical airport diner, busy, noisy, an occasional spill of dishes and silverware in the background. One could hear boarding calls for flights to Asian cities: Kuala Lumpur, Singapore, Hong Kong. In the airport hallway right outside the diner, people walked by in a steady stream, pulling or pushing luggage, often a little more than they could capably handle.
Marta had grown up loving tigers, she said, and had fallen in with a group of people who worked at the temple to improve the lot of the tigers who lived there. They had, indeed, made a better habitat for those tigers; they’d spent a lot of time, and $1.2 million that had been given to them by tourists and other sources, making a “tiger island.” A lot of money apparently had gone through the place anyway; the abbots didn’t really need to be taking extra money, or making a few thousand on the side. That’s what I asked her. Don’t you kind of assume that these monks above you are living the monks’ life, keeping a minimum for themselves, and helping humanity by keeping these tigers going? She said that that was exactly what she’d thought, and she went about her business, improving the lot of the tigers, and more or less not keeping track of what people above her were doing. Honestly, she said, she didn’t know any more, if they were really corrupt, or if it was just the government, wanting to get back at anyone who they didn’t like.
In fact, the Buddhists had a long history of antagonizing the government in Thailand, acting like they had a corner on ethical behavior, and being, unlike the government, not in it for the money. It seemed to Marta that they were all in it for the tigers. Everything they said seemed geared toward making those tigers’ lives better, with more space, so they could co-exist with the thousands of tourists who came through each year, tourists who had the legitimate desire, if not need, to connect to the animal kingdom. Marta had rationalized the idea of working for a large zoo: it was better for the tigers to have people building an adequate habitat and maintaining it. It was better for society, when people could see them and come close to them without danger. Her own proximity to the tigers had caused her to feel very close to one of them, an older male named Baht (Baht was also the name of the money in Thailand) – and she now was upset over the future of Baht and his other tiger friends.
A couple of times I looked at her in the afternoon light coming in from out by the tarmac. She was an exceptionally beautiful woman, overcome by profound sadness, and all, it seemed, over this tiger who she’d never see again. It seems the government had hauled away all the tigers, and had assured everyone that the tigers would be well managed. But if she couldn’t trust the abbots, how could she trust the government? Somehow she was sure that the tigers were doomed to a pretty miserable life, until the whole mess was straightened out. I sipped my soup slowly; it was delicious, and the Thai coffee also was very good. Marta showed no interest in food, mine or any, and was completely morose.
Finally, she told the story of the police evacuating the premises. It was generally believed among the people she worked with that the police hated the abbots, and that the police wouldn’t find what they were looking for, so the workers pretty much let the police in, and allowed them to search the rooms. They sincerely didn’t believe the police would find anything of interest. When they did, some of the things were easily explainable. People in the past could have been using these tools, or storing the bodies of tigers – maybe to prove they weren’t selling them in the endangered species market? But when they found tools used to cut tiger fangs, and pelts, it was pretty obvious that somebody was making big money from these tigers, even now. Marta’s stomach tightened just talking about it, because she’d known at that moment that she’d never see the tigers again.
There was another man in this story, a slightly older monk who had taken more than a passing interest in Marta, who had spent considerable energy befriending her. Though it was pretty clear now that the head abbot was guilty, the guilt of some of the lower monks was much less clear, she said. But she wouldn’t miss him so much, or any of the other monks, or even the exotic setting. She would only miss her Baht, her favorite tiger.
In the process of talking about it, she’d recovered her composure, but the infinite sadness of losing a loved one forever hung heavy in the air. I remember wondering, as she talked, if people ever recovered from these things.
But suddenly, from within the center of the airport, a young child came walking toward the diner, and when he got to it, he came right through the little entrance and walked up more or less directly to Marta. It was as if he’d been looking for her, or had simply decided she was the best person for him to talk to. He was about three or four, Thai, and he spoke to her in Thai; she answered fluently. Now, I don’t know Thai, so I had no idea what they were saying, but I could tell you that her Thai was very good, and it appeared, based on what she said later, that he was lost, and needed to find his parents. She kept him talking for a while; he was a very gregarious young boy, and while she was doing it she managed to catch the eye of an airport policeman who was walking by, and who came to take the boy off to where they deal with such things. The boy did not appear to be afraid of the policeman; perhaps this had happened before. He had cheered Marta up a little, though, with his earnest three-year-old view of the world. And she, for her part, trusted the policeman entirely to do the right thing, and reunite this boy with his parents.
Later, on my way to my hotel in the small town I was going to, I encountered a Buddhist monk begging. He was a kid, about twenty, with bald hair, carrying a bowl into which I put some baht. I looked at his eyes, looking for indication of sincerity, or innocence, or anything. Unfortunately I am not a good reader of Thai eyes or expressions, and I realized that this didn’t bode well for success, if I should get this new job. If there was a God, and he was impressed by one’s donations to a monk, perhaps my luck would be better. I sent out a prayer for Marta, for the boy, and for her tiger above all.
(6-16)
Friday, June 10, 2016
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
Your Dead
Martin, aging, balding, a little overweight, drew anime characters for an online production in LA. He let people know what the next edition would be about, and sometimes people complained; since it was online, these complaints were often rude, sharp, and pointed, almost always anonymous to some degree. But one time a kid threatened his life; he said that “if you do that with the main character, your dead.” The bad grammar tipped Martin off; surely he was a kid, he thought; presumably, he was a guy. Perhaps he was a non-native speaker.
The fact that it was a death threat meant that Martin could have gotten the police involved, but instead, he decided to just find the guy (presuming it was a guy), track him down and yell at him if possible. He just felt like it was out of line for a fan to make death threats, and try to influence the creative process that way; of course, Martin hadn’t needed to read the comments at all, but he didn’t feel he could be blamed for reading them, since they were directed toward him and his creative process, and that was a sensitive issue. But “your dead?” Did this kid know where Martin lived? Or that Martin had loved ones? Or that Martin valued his ability to wake up in the morning and go about his business without looking over his shoulder?
The kid had written his comment anonymously, but in fact wasn’t hard to track down; he was the 15-year-old son of a prominent doctor in the city, Dr. Angelo, and his name was Marc Angelo. This Marc Angelo was in high school in the LA area, and Martin actually had the time that week to track him down and find him. Crossing LA often took the greater part of a morning and afternoon, or in this situation afternoon and early evening, but in this case, he figured, it was worth it, and he was grateful that the kid was at least in the same city, more or less. He got out his maps and planned his trip; he figured out what the kid looked like, and figured out what exit of the high school he would use, and when he would get out of school. It was like stalking, except that Martin felt a sense of vindication. The kid had, after all, threatened his life. He intended to make this kid uncomfortable, at least for a few minutes.
On the day he had picked out, he crossed LA and parked near the exit of the school where he figured the kids would come out, at about 3:20. Sure enough, out they came, by the hundreds, and being high school kids many of them ran for their cars, or did some other kind of activity that would make it hard for Martin to track down Marc. But, suddenly, he spotted the kid that had to be Marc; he was walking with another boy, and about a block from the school they parted ways and Marc started on the seven-block trip home by himself. It was a suburban neighborhood; houses were set back, hidden from the road by bushes, flowers and manicured gardens.
As soon as the friend was out of sight Martin drove up to the corner and turned, came back, and screeched his brakes in front of the kid, making sure he wasn’t blocking traffic, and jumped out of his Mercedes, steaming mad, accusing Marc of making a death threat online, and telling him he was going to pay.
Marc, skinny, tall, all Adam’s apple, lost all color in his face, and made no move to run away, or fight, or deny it. He stammered for a little while and then was quiet; he was shocked that an author would come and find him. Finally at one point Martin asked him, “What did you think would happen when you threatened my life? What were you doing?”
But it was pretty clear; Marc hadn’t really been thinking anything. He was a kid. He wasn’t even aware, really, that it was illegal, or a crime, and he begged Martin not to tell his parents or go to the authorities. He seemed to be very sorry he had done it. He admitted, at one point, that he hadn’t really planned it or thought about it much at all.
Martin was aware, for a split second, how much power he had. He could strangle the kid, and probably would be let off. He could let the authorities ruin the kid’s life, or tie him up for years with legal costs. Or, he could be lenient, and hope that he’d taught the kid a lesson. He chose that last one, and finally, convinced that Marc was scared to death, he let him walk home from school, and drove away. When he got home he realized that he’d invested maybe six or seven hours into the process, and wondered if it was actually worth it. He was just a kid, all Adam’s apple, so afraid.
He actually ran into the kid about two years later, at a convention meant for fans of anime and similar arts, where he’d been asked to present something. He was dressed in his finest suit, as a presenter, and Marc was in a flannel shirt and jeans. Now, he looked at the kid, a little older, and the kid recognized him too. Martin awkwardly offered to get Marc a coffee or a soft drink, and he accepted. They sat in an open foyer of the convention center with overpriced drinks and Marc apologized again, profusely, for what he’d done. Apparently he hadn’t done anything like that since; he was a genuine fan, and really appreciated the hard work of the artists. Perhaps Martin had made him aware of that.
But as they were talking, another thing came out. Marc’s parents had divorced a year and a half ago. It was a dramatic, terrible divorce, involving a lot of anger on everyone’s part. Finally his dad, the doctor, Dr. Angelo, had killed his wife, Marc’s step-mom, and there was this big dramatic arrest and looming court case, with thousands of dollars flying around, most of it going to some lawyer. Martin listened in horror as the kid told of the complete destruction of his family. But he actually seemed calmer now than he had been, a couple of years ago; somehow, with his dad in jail, his step-mom dead, and him in the hands of still another relative, everything was easier.
Now, Martin felt a sense of responsibility in the kid’s case. He was, after all, one of the few adults in the kid’s life, and what had he been doing? He was busy making stories about killing, and drama, and violence; that was Martin’s life. Others were actually playing out the stories, killing each other, manufacturing drama. The kid didn’t have a whole lot of other adults in his life, outside his high school, and now even that had changed. And Martin saw where the kid had gotten his pent-up anger and hostility, addressed at an anime author who had just done something he didn’t like. He’d been living in a war zone.
Martin saw, suddenly, how important it was that he be nice to Marc. Marc had survived it all somehow; it wasn’t clear what had happened to his biological mother, or what was going on with the people who were housing him now. Marc was into anime as a way of keeping his head down, keeping his imagination alive, keeping his soul. Martin’s characters were extremely important to him. Marc said that he was trying to draw some of his own, and showed them to Martin. Martin impulsively complimented him, but as he looked carefully at the detail, he had a flood of mixed emotions. Anime was, in fact, a way to express one’s feelings of violence, betrayal, and passion, and Marc was pouring himself into it, however basic his skills. Martin was not ready to be a teacher, and was still mad at him, looking at him, in spite of everything, as a kid who once threatened his life. He realized how self-centered he was, to still be so sensitive about his own work.
And, advice that could be interpreted as criticism, how would that be taken? He looked at the fragile soul across from him with admiration and respect; and suddenly, he had nothing to say. He wished Marc well in his high school studies, and left quickly, since he’d felt the urge to say something sarcastic, or let out the feeling he had, still now after two years, his hostility at what had happened, at this kid who had threatened his life. He smiled weakly and shook the kid’s hand. He really did wish him well, and hoped to see him again, perhaps at the next convention.
6-16
The fact that it was a death threat meant that Martin could have gotten the police involved, but instead, he decided to just find the guy (presuming it was a guy), track him down and yell at him if possible. He just felt like it was out of line for a fan to make death threats, and try to influence the creative process that way; of course, Martin hadn’t needed to read the comments at all, but he didn’t feel he could be blamed for reading them, since they were directed toward him and his creative process, and that was a sensitive issue. But “your dead?” Did this kid know where Martin lived? Or that Martin had loved ones? Or that Martin valued his ability to wake up in the morning and go about his business without looking over his shoulder?
The kid had written his comment anonymously, but in fact wasn’t hard to track down; he was the 15-year-old son of a prominent doctor in the city, Dr. Angelo, and his name was Marc Angelo. This Marc Angelo was in high school in the LA area, and Martin actually had the time that week to track him down and find him. Crossing LA often took the greater part of a morning and afternoon, or in this situation afternoon and early evening, but in this case, he figured, it was worth it, and he was grateful that the kid was at least in the same city, more or less. He got out his maps and planned his trip; he figured out what the kid looked like, and figured out what exit of the high school he would use, and when he would get out of school. It was like stalking, except that Martin felt a sense of vindication. The kid had, after all, threatened his life. He intended to make this kid uncomfortable, at least for a few minutes.
On the day he had picked out, he crossed LA and parked near the exit of the school where he figured the kids would come out, at about 3:20. Sure enough, out they came, by the hundreds, and being high school kids many of them ran for their cars, or did some other kind of activity that would make it hard for Martin to track down Marc. But, suddenly, he spotted the kid that had to be Marc; he was walking with another boy, and about a block from the school they parted ways and Marc started on the seven-block trip home by himself. It was a suburban neighborhood; houses were set back, hidden from the road by bushes, flowers and manicured gardens.
As soon as the friend was out of sight Martin drove up to the corner and turned, came back, and screeched his brakes in front of the kid, making sure he wasn’t blocking traffic, and jumped out of his Mercedes, steaming mad, accusing Marc of making a death threat online, and telling him he was going to pay.
Marc, skinny, tall, all Adam’s apple, lost all color in his face, and made no move to run away, or fight, or deny it. He stammered for a little while and then was quiet; he was shocked that an author would come and find him. Finally at one point Martin asked him, “What did you think would happen when you threatened my life? What were you doing?”
But it was pretty clear; Marc hadn’t really been thinking anything. He was a kid. He wasn’t even aware, really, that it was illegal, or a crime, and he begged Martin not to tell his parents or go to the authorities. He seemed to be very sorry he had done it. He admitted, at one point, that he hadn’t really planned it or thought about it much at all.
Martin was aware, for a split second, how much power he had. He could strangle the kid, and probably would be let off. He could let the authorities ruin the kid’s life, or tie him up for years with legal costs. Or, he could be lenient, and hope that he’d taught the kid a lesson. He chose that last one, and finally, convinced that Marc was scared to death, he let him walk home from school, and drove away. When he got home he realized that he’d invested maybe six or seven hours into the process, and wondered if it was actually worth it. He was just a kid, all Adam’s apple, so afraid.
He actually ran into the kid about two years later, at a convention meant for fans of anime and similar arts, where he’d been asked to present something. He was dressed in his finest suit, as a presenter, and Marc was in a flannel shirt and jeans. Now, he looked at the kid, a little older, and the kid recognized him too. Martin awkwardly offered to get Marc a coffee or a soft drink, and he accepted. They sat in an open foyer of the convention center with overpriced drinks and Marc apologized again, profusely, for what he’d done. Apparently he hadn’t done anything like that since; he was a genuine fan, and really appreciated the hard work of the artists. Perhaps Martin had made him aware of that.
But as they were talking, another thing came out. Marc’s parents had divorced a year and a half ago. It was a dramatic, terrible divorce, involving a lot of anger on everyone’s part. Finally his dad, the doctor, Dr. Angelo, had killed his wife, Marc’s step-mom, and there was this big dramatic arrest and looming court case, with thousands of dollars flying around, most of it going to some lawyer. Martin listened in horror as the kid told of the complete destruction of his family. But he actually seemed calmer now than he had been, a couple of years ago; somehow, with his dad in jail, his step-mom dead, and him in the hands of still another relative, everything was easier.
Now, Martin felt a sense of responsibility in the kid’s case. He was, after all, one of the few adults in the kid’s life, and what had he been doing? He was busy making stories about killing, and drama, and violence; that was Martin’s life. Others were actually playing out the stories, killing each other, manufacturing drama. The kid didn’t have a whole lot of other adults in his life, outside his high school, and now even that had changed. And Martin saw where the kid had gotten his pent-up anger and hostility, addressed at an anime author who had just done something he didn’t like. He’d been living in a war zone.
Martin saw, suddenly, how important it was that he be nice to Marc. Marc had survived it all somehow; it wasn’t clear what had happened to his biological mother, or what was going on with the people who were housing him now. Marc was into anime as a way of keeping his head down, keeping his imagination alive, keeping his soul. Martin’s characters were extremely important to him. Marc said that he was trying to draw some of his own, and showed them to Martin. Martin impulsively complimented him, but as he looked carefully at the detail, he had a flood of mixed emotions. Anime was, in fact, a way to express one’s feelings of violence, betrayal, and passion, and Marc was pouring himself into it, however basic his skills. Martin was not ready to be a teacher, and was still mad at him, looking at him, in spite of everything, as a kid who once threatened his life. He realized how self-centered he was, to still be so sensitive about his own work.
And, advice that could be interpreted as criticism, how would that be taken? He looked at the fragile soul across from him with admiration and respect; and suddenly, he had nothing to say. He wished Marc well in his high school studies, and left quickly, since he’d felt the urge to say something sarcastic, or let out the feeling he had, still now after two years, his hostility at what had happened, at this kid who had threatened his life. He smiled weakly and shook the kid’s hand. He really did wish him well, and hoped to see him again, perhaps at the next convention.
6-16
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