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You Try Coming Up With a Title For This One

For the last month, my home has been a small, modest room in Saigon's backpacker district. Dirty walls and a small bathroom. Curtains in a brown that hasn't been fashionable since the 70's. It's not a place you'd want your mother to know you're living, but it's cheap and it's not all bad. It's a room with a view, and then some. From my window, you can watch the Saigon circus parade by every night. The streets are full of Western tourists and the menagerie that follows wherever they go: peddlers and prostitutes. It's certainly not a dull neighborhood. Nor is it a quiet neighborhood. With several bars within one block, I am treated nightly to the sounds of Guns & Roses, Shakira and imported American pop culture.

So it's not much surprise when I'm woken at 4am by the sounds of Dixie Jazz. Peddlers play Christmas music from their carts, why not Dixie jazz? Just ignore it, go back to sleep. But the volume keeps getting louder and I find myself wishing for the soothing sounds of Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit. My sense of reality has already gotten up and left the bed. Standing by the window he motions to me to come over.

"Dude, you gotta see this. You're not gonna believe this."

Seriously, man, you have failed me my entire life. Why do you have to drag me out of bed now? But it's no good arguing, might as well see what he wants. I go over to the window to join him but he bolts.

"Sorry dude, I'm outta here. This is way outta my league. You're on your own with this one."

Great, just great. Exactly the drama I need at 4am. And then I see it. My window has become a TV screen and appears to be showing an episode of America's Weirdest Videos. It's a parade. With a live Dixie band. At 4am. No, wait, that's not it. A parade would still have the slimmest connection to reality. About 40 people, and they're carrying something in the middle. A float? No. A wooden box, two feet by six feet. Flowers. Lots of flowers. What the... is that... No. What? No. Is that a... coffin?? I desperately want my sense of reality back with me but that bastard's always leaving at the worse times.

an eerie procession
The somber look on the mourners' faces sits in stark contrast to the upbeat Dixie tune, and I find my feet tapping to the music uncontrollably. I could almost imagine the exchange. "No, sorry maam, that's the going rate for a funeral band. Yeah, I'm sorry for your loss and I'd love to help out but, we just can't get the price any lower. Hold on... there may be one thing. Yep, looks like we're running a special on Dixie bands. Half price."

The sound of the funeral procession fades as they make their way down the street and I'm left in a state of shock. Is my American culture so different that I would find this so alien? A quiet knock on the door wakes me from my reverie.

"Hey, it's me. Can I come back in now?"

You bastard, you can sleep out in the hallway tonight.

Comments

Unknown said…
Your writing is such an inspiration to read, keep up the awesome work.
March 7, 2010 at 2:35 AM
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