A Tiger's Stripes

The street awakens at dawn. Those who continue to sleep think it’s the roosters who start it all, but actually women unfold the day as they light fires, fill buckets, soak rice, mop floors, hang wash, and chop vegetables. So it seemed to Tom who was walking through the winding streets having finished his fourteenth beer a half an hour earlier. He still wore the uniform of the English teacher—khakis and a polo shirt—but he’d long lost the scent of a shower. He had a class in three hours but was in no hurry. Strong coffee and a steamed bun would get him through the two hours of basic conversation and he’d go back to his unfurnished apartment and collapse onto the mattress on the floor. He found that he actually taught better hungover or slightly drunk, his brain and mouth working more slowly and limited in a way that was easier for the students to understand. No witty asides or tangents today.

As he neared the 7-Eleven, he saw a man lying on the curb of the street. Blood was seeping from a gash on his forehead. Tom stopped and stared. The man was in plain sight, yet no one seemed concerned. Motorbikes, people young and old, and the soi dogs all went around him careful not to hit him, but not bothering to stop. Tom caught the eye of a woman who was washing some dishes in a plastic bucket nearby. He pantomimed dying and pointed to the man. She pantomimed drinking and pointed to him, “Same same you!” and cackled as she dumped out the water.

The water ran down the street and pooled around the man’s feet. Tom, still drunk and unsure of the cultural etiquette this situation called for, went on to the 7-Eleven and headed home for a long shower and leisurely breakfast.

At the school, he told the story to his colleague, Jam, who was much revered for his kindness and philanthropy. Jam would teach all day and then spend the evening volunteering at an orphanage, making merit at temples, or giving students extra help for free. But despite Tom’s impassioned plea that they had to help the man, he scoffed and made a brushing away motion with his large bony hand,

“He’s a loster.”

“What? He’s lost or he’s a loser?”

“Both, Tom. A loster. Some people like him we cannot help. Everyone—his brothers, the monks, the shop owners tried every time. But he always choose the wrong way.”

After class, rather than go home, Tom stopped at a few shops for supplies and went to search for the man. He was in the same spot but sitting up, smoking a cigarette, and watching the people go by. The blood was a thick brown crust covering his right cheek. Again, people swerved around him but didn’t stop or look. He had open sores on his legs and his feet were bare.

Sitting down, Tom pulled out two cans of Leo and offered one to the man who grabbed it with a toothless laugh. Tom pointed at himself and said, “Tom” and pointed at the man. The man pointed at himself and said, “Tom”. He tried again but with the same result. Tom gave up and set about cleaning and dressing the wound which wasn’t as bad as it looked. The man stared straight ahead and Tom could hear the sound as he drank the beer in long gulps.

The people on the street stopped and stared at the foreigner playing doctor to the drunk. Some pointed and laughed and more than a few shouted angrily at him. He figured they were calling him an enabler, but he didn’t care. When they’d finished their beers, Tom stood up and shook the man’s limp hand and turned to leave, but the man followed him. He mimed that he was going to sleep but the man just laughed and copied the motion. He wanted to run, or at the very least, start walking quickly, but the cruelty of it made him feel more nauseous than he already was. But when he realised that he could drink all day and do a random act of kindness, he laughed and draped an arm over the man’s bony shoulders.

They sat at a concrete table on the beach making a pyramid of the empty Leo cans and putting their cigarettes out in a Styrofoam container that once held some barbecued pork. With the help of pen and paper in his bag, Tom discovered many things about the man, who drew quite well, despite his shaking hands. His name was “Ton”, which means “tree”. Earlier he hadn’t been just repeating what Tom said. His parents were farmers. He was too. He liked Manchester United and hated frogs. He’d had a family but they died. The man drew tears but his eyes were dry.

Eventually, he stood up and curled up under the shade of a tree and immediately fell asleep. For a moment, Tom envied sleeping with the feeling of the wind and the sound of the surf until he remembered the ants and flying cockroaches and small children who would love nothing more than to poke and prod a slumbering foreigner.

The next day at school, Tom told Jam about his afternoon with Ton. He felt sure he could convince Jam to help him.

“He’s not a bad man. He’s had bad luck. His family died and he’s all alone. Isn’t there any way to help him?”

“Did he tell you the story about how his family died?”

“No, but I’m guessing it was some kind of accident or illness.”

“His family died, yes. But because he was drunk and driving. And after that, he didn’t stop. He’ll never stop. Some tigers cannot change their stripes.”

Tom suddenly could smell the 36 hour drinking session on his breath and radiating from his skin, despite his shower. Jam looked at him carefully.

“But Tom, you can.”