Papa John
It's not expressing a colonial view of cultures, only saying some don't take the Buddha thing too seriously.
And it's dog eat dog too. You hear them yell at night. And the neighbours' dogs too. Agony. Dogs fighting each other and barking at people passing by. Next day the little girl is running after Little Guy with a stick in her hand. Its a big whitecolored and he is the most shamefaced of the two guard dogs. The smaller black one I call Big Guy.
Maybe Little Guy, the big dog, is too eager to please his masters, so he is barking around the mail delivery guy, and he is being beaten again.
How the hell would he know? – he is only trying to do his job. He's nine, so maybe the family thinks he should have learnt by now to know the good guys from the bad guys, and they beat him for his ignorance. And then it happens – the dog obeys to the beating from the little girl, head down in shame. He thinks he did something wrong and must be punished for it. He just doesn't know why.
Papa John had also been beaten several times, by life itself. But then again, he had been around for some time. He could still do the quick step and he wouldn't take shit from anybody. He had faced death before, maybe it was when he spent a few years in jail, I forget for what, I think he had said something about a fight, and he had an almost arrogant attitude to the cancer that had been chewing on him for years now. He looked fresh.
”You look better than last time I saw you.”
”Oh, fuck off for Chris' sake!”
It was a funny thing to say considering he converted to Islam many years ago. Maybe he was not taking The Holy Quran too seriously either. Last year he had commented on the subject: ”It's just in case – seventy-two virgins you know, think about that...” He winked at me. I thought it was a joke and he did too.
He told me he had turned eighty.
”Eighty? You don't look it. You look like eighty-seven.”
”Fuck you!” Papa John made a move to get up from the chair. We were at The Boutique. I had a draft in front of me and Papa John had stopped drinking. He looked a bit like Bad Santa – the white beard, the what the hell care attitude and behind those John Lennon glasses the eyes of a Border collie. Actually, he used to dress up as Santa here during Christmas, walking around the bars on Sok san Road. Now he was wearing a loose green shirt and white linen trousers. He always wore something green. He was from Ireland. ”I have a tuk tuk waiting for me – so, where should we meet to morrow? I'll bring the ukulele.”
Last year when I asked him about the suicide bombings, truck attacks and all the violence against the civilian community, he said, ”Those are fucking idiots! It has nothing to do with Islam – they are nutjobs. They believe in the Quran to the letter, they form their own local groups where they think they are better than everybody else.”
”Do you know what the Quran says about the infidels?”
”Fuck the Quran! Fuck The Holy Bible! I don't care. I have always gone my own way. It's my interpretation that counts – not what those extremist motherfuckers say. I hate those fuckers! They can go and fuck themselves, what do I care. But, and this is important – you should never hurt anybody else. And that's also in The Quran.”
”Where?”
”I'll show it to you.” Then we forgot about it.
We did a tour. I was playing the ukulele and we were singing. It started at Karma, then Mc Cool's and ended at The King Kong Bar. It was a hit – people were singing along, clapping their hands, strumming at the tables. We all loved Papa John's style and his wide toothless happy grin. He would say, ”Play Johnny B Good!” so I did and the crowd cheered. Then – What A Wonderful World, Somewhere Over The Rainbow, Underneath The Mango Tree and One More Time. I went behind the bar and got a new beer from the tap, and they still wanted more. So we played more. It was a tremendous success and I loved it.
When Papa John was going back with his friends, Swedish Olle and beautiful Monia from Italy, he handed me the ukulele and said, ”Keep it for now, I can't play anyway.”
”She hasn't got a name.”
”You'll come up with something.” They took off in a tuk tuk. I stood there with the ukulele. It was the big one, the orchestra version. What should I call her? I walked back to the bar and socialized with the crowd. ”Play some more, please”, said the happy girl from Melbourne. She and her boyfriend were sinking margaritas and now he was at the other end of the bar talking to somebody.
I played We Gotta Run Away. I was remembering most of the words.
