The Slice

When Mikey died the other ex-pats were surprised to realise that out of all the lies, the fact that he wasn’t really a New Yorker most disappointed them. Everyone had loved Mikey. He was a huge guy with even huger hands and when they hit you on the back with a “how yous doin’?”, you were “in”--even the curmudgeonly Chester whom nobody wanted to pat on the back let alone embrace in a long held bear hug. Mikey had a permanent growth of stubble and deep blue eyes with lashes so long the Thai girls swooned with love and jealousy. Though he was a big guy whose former muscles had turned a bit soft, he never seemed to sweat in the heat. A scent of aftershave and soap trailed him, even after a long session of drinking.

Mikey had arrived with a Harley and one suitcase three years prior and soon had set up The Slice, a small pizzeria with an actual wood burning stove imported from China and beers from Belgium. He sold slices, which the Thais ruined with lashes of mayonnaise and fake crab reluctantly offered for free. The ex-pats filled up a long table and ate an entire pizza as they went through the night, a new slice with each new beer. And all the while, Mikey and his infectious laugh and banter kept the night going. When people left the table at The Slice either to fall into a long blissful sleep or to frequent the shadier locales, it was with a sense of camaraderie and brotherhood. Mikey and his loveable New York accent and Italian-American hospitality made him the heart of the mostly unhappy and depraved bunch.

Everyone who found themselves in the tiny gulf-side town had a story and it was a rite of passage to eventually give the narrative, often in the hours before dawn long after beer had been replaced by whiskey. Mikey’s story involved vague references to the war in Iraq and a book that had sold well. Though the story was generally accepted, more than a few people thought it strange that Mikey seemed uninterested in any topics beyond sport, motorcycles, and comedy. They figured he had mob ties and had escaped with someone else’s money or was even perhaps in a witness protection program.

Many people asked to read the book. After all, there wasn’t much more to do than drink. Mikey just laughed and said he didn’t own a copy and that it would probably put them all in a coma if they found one, which they wouldn’t “on account of I used a fake name.” On the contents of the book, he was even more close-lipped. “No way I’m going down that memory lane. Life is the here and now.” And then he’d ring a bell which meant that everyone would get a beer on the house.

Mikey’s big heart, which organised charity rides for the region’s orphans and made even the most cynical of the ex-pats smile, failed him on a particularly hot day when the lads were playing basketball against a group of nimbler Thai teens. He wasn’t on social media and only used email to order products for The Slice, so the consulate in Bangkok had a bit of work in tracking down his next of kin, who showed up three days later in the form of a travel-weary fidgety man named John.

John had managed to contact someone in the group and met them in the hotel bar. After the requisite questions about the flight and the accommodation, they began lobbing questions at the wiry man.

“Why did you call Mikey ‘Martin’ in your email?”

“Mikey? Is that the name he used this time? I always preferred Vinnie. More ethnic sounding. Mikey sounds like an adult retard.”

“What are you on about?”

“Which story did he tell you? Ex-baseball player who lost his career after an injury? Former pilot for a drug cartel? Or was it that he donated a kidney to an oil tycoon? That was my favourite.”

At this point, John was twirling his empty glass between his hands and his leg seemed to be shaking uncontrollably. He didn’t look at any of the men as he spoke.

“Martin is my younger brother. We’re from Iowa. He was a welder like the old man. I escaped to New York. Parents were killed by a drunk semi-truck driver. They didn’t even see it coming. We got a huge settlement. More than two guys in their 20s would know what to do with.”

“Are you taking the piss? Mikey’s from fucking Iowa? But the accent? And what about Iraq?”

At the mention of Iraq, John became very still and looked at the man with two empty eyes.

“He said he was in Iraq? That surprises me.”

“Why did he lie to us?”

“Why do any of us do what we do?”

John had agreed to let Martin/Mikey be cremated in the local temple. After the long service in which more than a few Thai women cried and huddled near the body, the ex-pats sat at plastic tables in the courtyard in their finest clothes drinking their finest whiskey. They cried at the double loss of their friend and their trust. John was nowhere to be seen.

The ex-pats eventually got on with their lives, finding a new table to gather round at the end of each workday and trying to create the bonhomie they’d once had. One day, Nigel came in, carrying a book and looking paler than usual.

“The book was real. And it wasn’t about Mikey. It was about John”

There he was on the back cover, huge arms folded and serious expression that fit the synopsis about a man from New York whose older brother went to Iraq, came back mentally ill, and destroyed the family.

“I knew he was bonkers! But why did we believe that stuff about Mikey?”

“Why do any of us do what we do?”