It was a warm, quiet Christmas evening at the Art Box.  Or, for natives and residents of Thailand, just any other December night.  There was certainly more decorative lights and red pieces of flare than, let’s say, a September night.

With the population being primarily Buddhist, Christmas décor in Thailand was more a festive extension with the new year celebration that shortly follows afterwards.  For myself – being from the west – I did not visit Thailand because it was a mecca for Jesus’s birthday.  It was, in fact, the complete opposite.

I was here to escape home.

ex·​hale

The Art Box was an outdoor market in the Sukhumvit neighborhood in downtown Bangkok that gathered an eclectic collection of food vendors, bars, and gift shops.  I wasn’t alone, travelling here with my best friend, RQ, who we were then met by Gil, RQ’s cousin, who flew in from the Philippines.  We were frequent customers of the Art Box, particularly toward dinner time where we were ready to unwind from the day filled with visits to markets and temples, speeding on riverboats and Tuk Tuks, and admiring (then somehow ending up racing on the backs of) elephants.

The convenience of The Art Box was that it lounged around the corner of our hotel.  Its gravity were kind people, great food and art, and an energy that almost impossibly resembled the same feelings from when I’d spend my teenage years at a friend’s house solving the mysteries of how to talk to girls, and how to be a DJ (I was terrible at both).  Or hooping at the neighborhood park from the noon to dark, draining threes and airballing layups while avoiding jackers at the same time.  When a jacker did show up, it was a full sprint back with all my stuff in hand (wasn’t lucky every time) to the same house where we’d proceed with unsolved mysteries of how to talk to girls and how to be a DJ.  It even tapped into my roaring 20’s capsule, where there was nowhere else I would have rather been than being at my favorite bar in The City on a Thursday night with the boys.  No, I never became a DJ.  But I did reach half-decent levels with talking to girls.  The Art Box sparked a magical trifecta of these energies from various pockets in my life that had just enough of the unknown, anxiety, and danger that made it my kind of bliss.

Like the center of a multiverse where worry was non-existent in the dictionary.

But it wasn’t just this trip, this place, this moment that led to this decompression.  That Fight-Club-Tyler-Durden-just-let-go kind of moment, if you will.  Please allow me this opportunity provide some back story.

pre·face

For nearly a decade, I was in the mental fight for my life.  While very few people knew, I did not allow anyone to see or feel the extent of not only how completely defeated I was, but how much I actually chose defeat.  Like walking toward relentless speeding traffic with a blindfold on.  Doing the same thing over, and over, and over, and expecting different results.

in·​san·​i·​ty

It wasn’t until the second half of that decade circa 2014 – 2019, I decided to punch back.  I was rocked and brought to my hands and knees more than I could keep count and some days were too hard to answer the next round.  Some days pushed me three, four, five steps back while I only mustered one step forward.  But there was always a step forward, and that was all I allowed myself to control.  “I can’t win them all,” I convinced myself.  “But win some, and I’ll wise the fuck up along the way.”  I was content with this.

I travelled, a lot.  Some of it was for work, some of it had people on the other end of the destination.  But most of it was by myself.  Perhaps not the way I wanted it, but certainly the way I needed it during this time.

I took… things.  A lot (and I’ll allow you to piece together what you think that means – but I will say this – I’m sorry, mom).  Somehow I kept myself in enough fear of the things I took that I never fully succumbed to its hypnotism.  Staying scared saved my life, it’s strange hearing myself say that but it couldn’t be any more closer to the truth.  It was my darkest time, and while I wasn’t completely by myself, I couldn’t feel any more alone than I did.  Perhaps not the way I wanted it, but certainly the way I needed it during this time.

During this period I also became a runner and trained for dozens of runs, and on the wings of a miracle I was able to complete a full marathon.  Maybe this helped counter the things I took.

nope

But it made me feel like I was doing something healthy along the way.  What running did teach me was to fight back from a place I’m not comfortable in.  I’ll be the first to tell you that I am not built to be a long-distance runner.  I’m not light on my feet, I’m not skinny, and I’m not lanky.  My thighs and calves are the width of tree trunks carved to sprint, push, and lift heavy shit up.  On top of that, my L4 and L5 discs in my lower back are beaten to a pulp, running didn’t make this any better.  This five year period of running was, far and away, the biggest physical fight of my life.  But what was clear as day was that my running was less about my own health – no – and more about being in:

lim·bo

I was running from fears I didn’t have the strength to admit to, and chasing something I was never going to catch; end preface.

RQ returned to Thailand in July of 2022, only to find that The Art Box just another victim to the pandemic that stole so much from us.  It’s now a under construction for a new high rise of luxury apartments, a sight all too familiar in The Bay.  Once a place that gifted me my biggest moment of clarity and escape weakened under the greedy patterns under my own home soil, thousands of miles away.  The best things in life are always designed to be fleeting.  This was a just a reminder.

iro·​ny; bitch

Travelling can never be bad for the soul, I truly believe that.  But this alone wasn’t the left hook that knocked out the other version of me that gave this version of me the win I was looking for.

It was a warm, quiet Christmas evening at the Art Box.  Or, for natives and residents of Thailand, just any other December night.  There was certainly more decorative lights and red pieces of flare than, let’s say, a September night.

For two particular Filipino women – Joy and Grace – both who worked at one of the food booths at the Art Box, it meant just any other work night. RQ’s Tagalog is fantastic. Mine not so much, and he decided to speak to them in our people’s native language. They also spoke English fairly well, but maybe hearing Tagalog greased the conversation enough to lean more genuine and less stranger danger. It probably also helped that this wasn’t their first conversation with each other. At first it was small talk – “hi, how are you, what a nice night it is tonight, How was your Christmas Eve, your eggplant fries with salted egg dust are so good!”

ma·sa·rap; de·​li·​cious

After a while their conversation began to pick up steam, with body language on both sides that resonated more than just your run-of-the-mill employee and customer talk.  I observed from afar, remembering to look up in between bites of eggplant fries with salted egg dust, seeing more smiles, more blushes, more giggles.  Then, RQ started to talk with his hands.  And when RQ talks with his hands, it’s a different ballgame.

“RQ knows how to talk to girls… I wonder if he learned how to DJ, too?”  A glancing thought.

Right at this moment my mind began to formulate ideas of what he was trying to do – as I’m sure you might be doing the same, too – though I assure you this story is nowhere near down that path.  The Art Box was closing soon, with other businesses wrapping their night up, and RQ came back with some unexpected intel to my ears.

“So, I invited Joy and Grace to eat dinner with us after they’re off work in a bit.  They said okay, but they’re shy.  Gil’s knocked out at the hotel, he won’t be coming.  Where should we go?  What do you feel like eating?”

I was hesitant to agree, since my interests here did not align with what I initially presumed were his.  But I can’t leave my guy hanging by himself, right?

“The ladies should pick, and I’m not picky.  I’m down for anything,” I said.

“Okay, I’ll go let them know, and we’ll just hang out until they’re done.  By the way, it’s not what you think.”  I am Jack’s current when it serves.

Joy and Grace were hesitant, I could tell, and that made it surprising to me that they agreed to grab a meal with us.  I still had my hesitations, too.  I was not yet privy to the bigger picture.

“So, you’re both from America?” Joy asked.

“Yes, we’re from California,” I replied.

“What part?”

“The San Francisco area.”

“Oh wow, that’s so expensive.”  We (more so RQ) learned that money was extremely scarce for them.  The way they described having the same shared meals for lunch – often that same meal split as their dinner – and never in any amount that fulfilled their appetite or required nutrition was enough to paint the picture.  The difference between their wages and mine was the size of the Pacific Ocean, so hearing this made me feel embarrassed that I ever complained about, well, anything.  But Joy didn’t say this with intent to make me feel guilt.  It was an honest reaction, one and I didn’t have any good reply or comeback to ease the awkwardness.

di·gress

“What’s another good place to eat around here?  What are you in the mood for?”

They hesitated again, and gave each other a concerned look before one of them provided their shared admission.

“There’s nothing here we can afford.”

RQ steps in, “Oh we’re paying!  Please, let us.  We wouldn’t ask you to pay.  This is nothing more than a Christmas dinner with kaibigans [English translation: friends].”

Still with hesitation, still with a concerned look toward each other, Grace shared, “What if you just run off after dinner when we get the bill?”  I mean, that’s a pretty damn valid concern, right?  At this point RQ and I were still just two creepy ass Americans trying to have dinner with them.  I assured them that’s not who we are, while RQ reinsured this in Tagalog.  That might’ve been the key in easing their anxiety as Grace said with comfort, along with a few steps forward, “there’s more restaurants down the block here.”

I can feel the anxiety slowly melt away from Joy and Grace with each step.  RQ has that type of voice that can do that.  After two long city blocks we get to a quaint, well-lit court.  Forgive my memory here – there was restaurant blah, restaurant hmm, then the third option was Korean BBQ, and you can see their senses drool over Korean BBQ.  Before making this final decision we studied the menu alongside the entrance door.

“I think this is it, you can’t beat bulgogi!” RQ exclaimed.  Joy’s anxiety kicked back in like a sudden gust of wind.

“This is too expensive.  It would take months of work to have a dinner here.  We can’t eat here.  I can’t accept to eat here.”  I was halfway around the world, maybe this shouldn’t have been a surprise to me.  For me, it’s without question the cheapest Korean BBQ restaurant if this exact place were rooted in The Bay Area.  For Joy, this restaurant is the most expensive place that she’d never dare to walk in.  There’s struggle, then there’s third world struggle, and seeing the latter at ground zero you easily start taking less things for granted.

“Joy,” I said as I pulled out my wallet to hand to her, “You and Grace are not paying tonight.”  Two thoughts immediately came to mind.  First thought was, “I wish I knew how to say that in Tagalog.”  Second – “if she takes my wallet, gives me a right cross/left hook/leg sweep/curb stomp to the nuts combo and sprints off in what would have hoodwinked me into the most massive twist of my life up to that point, then Buddha, let me willingly take this L.”  A few days prior I rode piggyback on a man while riding a motorcycle, only to find out after we got to our final destination that he was missing his right eye, and his left eye wasn’t holding on too well either.  Suffice to say I was feeling lucky, and this was no different with attempting to hand over my wallet to a stranger.  After a moment of stand still, RQ sneakily and smoothly opened the door encourage them in.  Joy did not take my wallet, but my offer still stood.

Nothing shuts people up better than good food.  And soju.  But we did not shut up – we spoke comfortably and fruitfully for hours as we ate and drank like we were royalty.  Regardless of where anyone is from, people find common ground on challenges, ideas, and endeavors.  It struck a chord with me to hear that Joy sends money to her daughter in the Philippines without receiving a receipt of gratitude.  Every phone call between them started with her daughter saying “did you send the money yet?” even before “hi mom” was seemingly formulated as a thought.  “But that’s my daughter.  And I’ll always send her support,” Joy said with a few tears.  Before getting her work visa and permit in Thailand, Grace worked tirelessly in Macau trying to earn enough money to replace her dad’s boat that was completely wrecked in a storm back home, with the only piece of the boat her dad was able to salvage was a splinter of its former self the side of his hand.

As I process their stories and emotions my mind began to race through endless avenues.  Some new, mostly old, but even going down these familiar roads I noticed a shift in my mind’s eye.  Still in the driver’s seat, but thinking less about the control and more about the ride.  That Fight-Club-Tyler-Durden-just-let-go kind of ride.  Even after absorbing their heartbreaking stories, I knew they were better off than me and it had nothing to do with money.  Sure, money can solve an abundance of problems, and solving problems makes you happy.  But in order to solve problems you need to have purpose.  Something these two women have – which I completely and utterly lacked – and finally understood what I envied more than I could ever describe on this warm, quiet Christmas evening.  Or, just any other December night in Thailand.

Our conversation slowed and settled in sync with our buzz, plates empty but our bellies and minds full of good. We kept our promise and paid the dinner tab. If I could Michaelangelo the shit out of this moment I would paint the looks on their faces – soft, kind, with more than enough belief that worry was non-existent in the dictionary – and everyone would have called it a masterpiece. We walked back toward the direction of our hotel, where their bus stop was conveniently nearby. As their bus approached we gave each other a hug, and I knew we would never see Joy and Grace again. But the memory of them will continue to serve as a beacon of truth that life isn’t intrinsically designed to be cruel.

Joy and Grace safely got on the bus, RQ and I went back to our hotel, and we called it a Christmas night.

It’s taken me four years to share this story. I’ve often wondered if this was something RQ practiced on a regular. Maybe it doesn’t have to take place on Christmas or any other holiday, or in another country – but the way he quarterbacked this entire dinner out of thin air has always made me believe that this wasn’t the first time. He denies this notion in his signature nonchalant manner that only makes me believe the complete opposite. This is a debt I owe RQ I can never repay for a lesson in purpose orchestrated through a simple meal with two other perfect strangers that led to the most important night of my life.

The very last night I chose defeat.

pre·​vail