Day 26: Die sorts grumpy Isaac
The die bounced on the sidewalk, washing away my dark, foul mood. Photo: www.carbonlifestyle.com
THOUGH awake, I'm really not as eager to get out of bed as Lindy, who has several errands to run before catching her flight back to Chiang Mai.
We went over what needed done so many times in the cab last night that I'm able to fill in the blanks for her while she's reviewing the plan. She needs to: pick up shirt for an upcoming hen party; pick up a pile of books; and have a slice of pizza from some Italian place.
It doesn't seem possible to get it all done, so we focus on the essentials – T-shirts first, then books.
Unsuccessfully, I try to coax her back into bed or at the very least let me stay in bed while she runs the errands.
It's raining. I grab an umbrella and wander out to the main road to hail Cab. However, the driver refuses to come back to the hotel with me, so Lindy and I walk under the umbrella together to the BTS station.
Time ticks by.
Finally, we're in the right shopping mall for the fun, touristy “Same, Same, but different” shirts that she needs, but we can't find them.
I'm walking about a half pace slower than she is, enjoying the general commotion for what it is.
“Sorry, I know I'm not much fun right now,” she says.
“No, it's fine. I understand,” I say.
I step up my game.
After asking a couple vendors, I track down the shirts. We quickly buy what we need and are back on the BTS.
We get off at Asoke Station, and attempt to flag a taxi. Lindy, who isn't a terribly patient person, is even less so at the moment. I point out that either way we need the taxi to carry the books, so a motorbike taxi isn't a solution this time.
The red light holding up all the traffic, and preventing us getting a cab, remains red. It remains red for ages.
Finally, we grab a taxi.
While Lindy runs upstairs to get the books, I have the woman at the center desk call us another cab. We're ready to go once Lindy and the books arrive.
Out on the road, we're stuck in traffic. Painfully, we watch time slipping by, Lindy eyeing the map on her phone as we crawl along.
She's not going to make it; it will be a miracle if she does.
Back at the hotel, I flop down on the bed and watch Lindy struggle with the decision of whether or not to even attempt to make the flight.
I suggest rolling a die.
Eventually, she crawls back in bed – she's exhausted.
I wake up around 3pm to find Lindy absorbed in finding new a ticket.
She's unhappy; I don't blame her.
This was probably the third time I'd woken from my nap to find Lindy struggling with the situation. Money is tight, and it's always hard to deal with money being thrown away like this.
I can't do anything about her mood. I've tried.
It hits me.
What am I doing? This is a waste of my time. We aren't playing dice games; we aren't even being happy.
I dress and say goodbye.
“I know it might not seem like it, but I've got my own work and stuff to attend to,” I say.
Out on the road, I get a blast of perky Facebook messages from Lindy trying to make things better. She senses that something is off, even if she can't figure it out.
The dark gray clouds of my current mood only grow darker as they pile up, like cars stuck at a red light.
Seriously. I came out late last night to basically observe her drunk friend watch a football match. I help get May home safely. I hold the umbrella all this morning, while helping with errands, and for what? All the doting and loving has been going one direction.
None of this has bothered me until now. But now, it does.
My negative vibes are a trickle of rain that get caught up in the turmoil of a river's rapids. It's unreasonable brooding that makes me feel taken advantage of, though that isn't the case.
The die says I need to attempt to take care of the CitiBank account again, now that I have my work permit in hand.
“No, I don't have an appointment,” I say.
I didn't bother dressing up this time. I have what I need to open the account.
I'm seated in the lobby, which is where the representative comes out to talk with me about my options.
While waiting, I pull a long, gooey booger out of my nose, reflecting on it before wiping it on the the lip of a seat cushion.
A formally dressed woman address me in the lobby – they clearly don't see me as their kind of client.
I explain that I have what I need to open an account.
She asks if it's alright to tell me what my options are.
The first option is the super supreme net worth (SSNW) account, which requires a minimum deposit of 3mn baht, but comes with a list of benefits that I do not care to recount. The next account is merely for the wealthy, requiring a 1mn baht balance. Lastly, we get to the account I'm interested in, which requires a 100,000 baht balance.
There will be monthly charges if the balance dips below 100,000 baht the lady informs me.
Fair enough, but what about linking it to an American address so I can use PayPal – this is the crux of being able to accept donations for the project.
She doesn't know anything about PayPal, but if I can contact PayPal and ask them...
“Stop. I'm here, asking you about your services. Can you please go see whether or not I can link PayPal to this account?” I say.
The woman disappears.
This is not improving my mood in the slightest.
“I'm sorry sir. I think it's best you contact PayPal and...” she says.
I cut her off.
“What do you mean? Is it possible or no?” I ask, getting a bit heated.
“No, we can't actually connect your account to PayPal,” she says. It turns out CitiBank Thailand can't even connect to a CitiBank Account in the US, though I could transfer funds between the two accounts free of charge.
“Wait? So you just told me to go waste my time finding out information you already have?” I say, seizing the moment. “Do you have no respect for my time? What's wrong with this place?”
The woman tries to apologize, bowing and waiing, but I'll have none of it. I storm out of the bank, ignoring the unhelpful receptionist, but thanking the security guard who holds the door for my exit.
Lighting flashes in the dark sky of my mind.
The whole time, I've been going back and forth about whether or not to even bother with Lindy. She ended up sending me a message that was basically a send off, a preemptive attack on me shutting her down. I had not replied to her happier messages.
I throw the die, giving her a fifty percent chance.
Disgusted with the outcome, I pick up the die and message Lindy back. I'll meet her for the Vietnamese food and a massage.
She clearly wants food first, but gives me the option. I'm honest, I want to get the massage first.
She beats me to the massage place, which is full, so tells me to meet her at Saigon Recipe.
I've been walking the wrong direction, thanks to Google Map.
I turn around, find the right street for the massage place, which still looks ages away. I'm under the impression that Vietnamese restaurant, which Lindy told me to plug into Google Maps, was next to the Dr Foot.
At the corner is a motorbike taxi stand. Too tired to deal with walking, I jump on the back of a bike and we take off. Pretty far from the massage place, I catch the sign of a Vietnamese restaurant from the corner of my eye. I check the name in my phone.
Wow, that's lucky.
I pay the confused motorbike taxi driver and walk to the restaurant we passed: Saigon Recipe. Lindy's beautiful smile is already there.
“What's going on?” she asks. “Is it something I did?”
I give in and just explain the situation. Prefacing with the fact that most of the stuff is just circumstantial, but sucked nonetheless. The bottom line, is that I was not having fun. All of the stuff I was doing would be fine, if I were her boyfriend. But as it is, it's too much and too one-sided.
She took it well. My grumbles aside, she'd already planned on treating me to the expensive Vietnamese food as a way to thank me for helping this morning.
Within ten minutes, I am feeling better, much better.
After another round of massages at Dr Foot, we part ways with the plan to meet back up for Now You See Me 2.
Too tired to go out with friends for another round of drinking, Lindy ditches her other plans and follows through on watching the movie.
“I don't have to stay at your place tonight,” I whisper in the dark theater, as we begin munching on our popcorn.
Like the first night, Lindsay invites me back to her place, but cuddles only.
Holding her in my arms, I think about telling her I love her. Not because I do, but because it would freak her out. It would be hilarious to watch her panic as I utter those three little words.
“Wouldn't it be hilarious if I said 'I love you?” I say, wanting to share the pleasure of the idea of freaking her out without actually doing it.
“I wouldn't hesitate to throw you out of this room,” she says in a soft, sincere voice.
“You wouldn't,” I say, but not wishing to press my luck any further, I let the conversation go.
And to think that there was a 50 percent chance that we wouldn't have been given the opportunity for such a lovely resolution.