More than the number of hairs on my head, and you see how thick it still is, even if it’s white now. Back when I started the job, over forty years ago, I would leave Ca Mau at noon, when the roads were hot and empty, and wouldn’t reach Saigon until dawn the next day. The roads are better now, so I could make it in seven hours if I drove without stopping. Can’t, though—too old. Every two hours I need to break and take a dribbly piss in a rice paddy. Children bicycling past me while I’m stopped like to peek at the harmless, wrinkled remains of my cặc and giggle. “Too many women,” I’ll call to them. “It’s all worn-out now.” I usually grow sleepy somewhere between Soc Trang and Tra Vinh, so I’ll sling my hammock between the truck’s back tires and nap for a while. These days I only ever get hired for boring jobs. I mostly move motorbikes and the kind of traditional carved furniture that no one actually likes to sit on. Occasionally I make the odd coconut delivery and that’s about as exciting as it gets.
What do You think about The Frangipani Hotel: Fiction?
