Drugs.
Sitting on my dresser, plain as day, was the weed I smoked with Vinny before this whole debacle began. And now walking into the room, seeing this thing right out there in the open, I realized that it would be a mere matter of seconds before the cops spotted it. The cops were literally on my back. Well, their hands were at least.
I stepped into the room first. It took all of my might to resist the habit of flipping the light switch on. The darkness could aid in delaying the unwanted discovery. That discovery was still imminent however, as long as the bag of weed sat there on the dresser. My brain was awhirl, asking myself how could I dispose of this thing without making it blatantly obvious?
Should I just make a beeline straight for it? Will they be watching my every move? Should I play it cool, go and stand in front of the dresser to block it out, and then move it when their guard is down? As I debated the issue internally, I heard my bed creak and realized The Chief was now laying on my bed, five feet away from the dresser.
With no time left to think, I hastily settled upon a course of action: I would divert their attention away from the dresser, grab my bank cards, and get everyone to leave immediately.
I walked for the table that the cards were in, all while talking loudly to the police and trying to get them to keep their attention on me. Once I grabbed the cards I tried to shepherd everyone out.
But the translator had already begun going through all my belongings, looking for things of value. He was on a direct collision course with my dresser.
The bag of weed was glistening, begging to be noticed. I went and stood in front of it and, dear god it was fucking huge. The dresser had a mirror and I looked at my reflection and started gesticulating like I was fixing my hair. But behind myself, in the reflection, I could see both the translator looking for valuables, and The Chief with his head facing toward me, but eyes closed. It wasn’t a good one, but this would be my only chance.
In one fell swoop, I grabbed the bag, did a quick spin move, and with my eyes looking away from where it would land, threw the bag towards a tiny gap between the wall and my wardrobe. And then I blurted out, “Well, we should be going now, shouldn’t we?” holding up my bank cards. Everybody froze. I gulped.
I had no idea to what degree the bag was visible. The Chief’s eyes were wide open now, and fixated at the bank cards in my hand. Or maybe he was looking behind me at the bag. I gulped again. But then he closed his eyes and got a little cozier in my bed, boots on my sheets and everything. The translator resumed his search for treasure. I peeked behind me to see the weed nestled in the perfect place out of sight—just as I had buried myself in the famed crevasse hours earlier.
After wiping the sweat from my brow, I walked confidently to the doorway of my room and held my cards up again.
“Hello? Do you guys want to get paid now or what?”
And so we went to an ATM, and with the two men glaring over my shoulder, taking careful note of both my PIN # and account balance, I drew everything out of the account. I passed the stack of cash to the police, before they greedily stuffed it in a white envelope. In total I had 25,000 baht, less than half of what I promised.
Next they wanted me to do the same with my American bank account. Nevermind that I don’t use that account. Nevermind that there hadn’t been anything in there since I lived in Vietnam. They made me try several times to withdraw money that wasn’t there. And when I couldn’t do it, they took my card, punched my own PIN #, and tried to take out the money themselves. When that didn’t work, they brought me to what was ostensibly a farang-friendly ATM and had me try again, to the same result. With every last penny of my savings withdrawn and my pride long evaporated, I was deposited back into the monkey cage at the police station.
At least I was able to swipe a shirt and shoes at home, leaving me with a small shred of dignity. Through the thick bars lining the top of my cell, I watched as the red skies dissipated into black ones, into the final night of Songkran. Although this time, I wasn’t limited to just the view from my cell. The police had left my cell door open, and I was able to walk around the passageway connecting the jail cells. Being the curious feline that I am, I decided to investigate the blacked-out cell in the corner. I needed to see with my own eyes, just who was inside.
I tiptoed close to the cage and gazed in. I could see the silhouette of a man, but it was too dark to make out any of his features. I wiggled closer, to the point where I was now within arm’s reach from the steel bars. At last I was able to see inside clearly. The man was grizzled, dressed in tattered rags, and had a beard that overran his face like a heinous superflu. I could not see his eyes but I knew that I held his gaze. My heart raced. “I should say something,” I thought.
“Are you okay?” I asked in the local language.
His mouth moved, but the sound that came out was foreign. I put my face up to the bars of the cell and then asked him to repeat himself. “Bu-ree.” It was the Thai word for cigarette. He said it two more times in an almost growling tone. Luckily for him, ever since I had been locked up in here, cigarettes were a regular staple of my daily diet. Everyone gave them to me. The translator, the European guy… well I guess it was just those two. But thanks to one of those guys, at that moment I just happened to have a pack of Marlboro’s in my pocket. I opened the box and took out one of the two cigs that remained. I reached out to give him the cigarette and he snatched it out of my hands with the speed and ferocity of Smeagol reaching for the ring.
I lit it for him, then the last one for myself. I tried to have a conversation with the guy, but it was tough sledding. The single thing we had in common was our current housing situation. And even so, my cell was like a fucking paradise compared to what this guy had. This nigga was living in a black hole. This dude’s home was the Twilight Zone on bad acid.
But I tried to stay upbeat, and to convey things that wouldn’t make this guy want to hang himself in that cell. I confessed my crimes, and told him that indeed we DID steal that police car, but that I might still be getting out. If there was hope for me, there was hope for anybody! And then I did the Thai bow (the wai) to signal that I was going back to my cell, but he reached out, grabbed my hand, and shook it. He held it for much longer than one does, and I realized that I was probably the first human interaction he had where someone wasn’t beating his ass in who knows how long. He probably grew that whole damn beard in here.
Back in my cell, I found myself slouched against the wall. Half a day was all I had. All I had to get out of here and be out of the country. How that would happen now, after I failed to pay my fine, was beyond me. I would need some sort of divine miracle to happen. And as I contemplated these thoughts, the sound of keys jingling from outside the jail door snapped me awake. The door slowly creaked open and in came the police. This was all routine now. I got on my feet and followed the police downstairs and back into The Chief’s room.
I was completely taken off guard by who sat there waiting in the two chairs in front of The Chief’s desk: Simon and Chor!
CAN YOU BELIEVE IT!?
…I mean, yeah, you can probably believe it; you don’t even know who they are yet.
Simon (pronounced See-moan) was a French guy who I mentioned in a whole three sentences back in the beginning, but you don’t remember him because your memory sucks. Let me tell you about Simon. He was one of the few farang I ever came across who spoke tonally-perfect Thai. He had been living in Bangkok for a few years doing some sort of real-estate shit (don’t quote me on that) which enabled him to master the language. And that includes reading Thai, which is remarkable because written Thai doesn’t even put spaces between their words. I tried to learn it once and said, “fuck this shit.” Two things about Simon you could guarantee: his guarantee-ability, and he will always have a cigarette in hand. And if he is out of cigarettes, he’s on his way to buy some yesterday.
And then there was Chor. Chor, sometimes known as Chorita, was a Thai girl who could hang with the homies. Chor is a very wholesome person and certainly didn’t share the same hedonistic philosophy as me, but she put up with all of my antics and was able to balance me out. She was kind of like the angel on my shoulders… if the angel was underpaid, overworked, and eternally ignored. In addition, Chor was an excellent wingman. She had the habit of befriending girls that I would eventually sleep with, and ones that I already had. Then she was able to explain in a very effective way that those girls shouldn’t get their marriage hopes up with me. That Darby “wasn’t about that life.” So not only was she a wingman but she was a counselor to all of the girls I tormented with my penis.
Simon and Chor were my two best (or at least most responsible) friends in the country. They were also the two people in Thailand who knew me best. Maybe that’s why, sitting there in The Chief’s office, their faces did not look surprised. Not in the slightest. It was as if they thought there were nowhere else I would be during Songkran, but in jail.
I greeted them with a chipper attitude. “Guys! Hey!” I gave a quick brush to my hair and tried to look like I had bathed once in the last three days. Their expressions didn’t change. I had so many questions for these two. But it was the translator who offered an explanation.
“Your friends here offer to pay the rest of your fine.”
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod—I was going to be FREE!
Eventually. Of course, there were a few quick formalities to be taken care of. Papers signed. Money collected. Simon and Chor giving me the silent treatment. I’m sure it wasn’t easy for them to watch all of their money getting stuffed into a white envelope and handed to the fat lady from the court.
Once the court lady got up to leave (most likely to McDonald’s), I could sense the end was nigh. I offered handshakes to the police crew around me. They appeared quite glad to be getting rid of me. But there was one last thing they made me do before I could leave. They made me promise them a promise I already knew I would be breaking… one that was so asinine, that I thought they had to be fucking with me just by suggesting it.
They wanted me to come back to Thailand after my trip to Vietnam. Like, they actually, truly believed, that I would in some way in hell want to return to the place I was just jailed and tormented and at the most miserable point of my life.
“Two weeks,” The Chief said in English, making a V-sign with his fingers.
“Sure Chief,” I said with a wink. “Once I clear things with my Vietnamese baby mama, I’ll hurry right on back.” He nodded, signifying that he understood nothing I said, and then pointed to the door. “Out.”
And… that was it. My path to the exit was unobscured by police, handcuffs, manual transmission, pervie Frenchies, chastity belts, or anything else that served to restrict me. I blew a kiss goodbye, and walked right outside the exit. I looked back at Simon and Chor from the bottom of the stairs, and flashed a big, guilty grin.
“You stupid mother fucker.” Simon’s first words to me were… just as I expected.
“Oh, come on, don’t be like—“
Both Simon and Chor shushed me harder than I’ve been shushed since I’d talk during naptime in the 1st grade. Fresh outta jail, yet still in trouble. I kept my mouth shut and followed them to wherever it was they were leading me. An execution site, perhaps? In what I would describe as a well-calculated move, they took me not to the neighboring Khao-san Road, but to the less in-your-face, yet still nocturnally active street, Soi Rambutri. It’s usually where you go when you wanna get a late night snack, or a quiet beer, or a foot massage.
Chor and Simon marched right up to a roofless night-cafe donned in neon lights and with a few customers scattered around its many wooden tables. We took the table furthest away from other humans, presumably to conduct a surreptitious conversation. Also since I’m unable to hold a regular conversation without screaming.
Simon spoke first, and he echoed the same thing he said outside the police station: “You dumb mother fucker.”
Yes. I was. And I was so, so sorry I had done it. I learned not to steal cop cars, and I promised it wouldn’t happen again. That was what I said, at least. Chor looked like she wanted to decapitate me, hoist my head to a rope, and slap me across the face back and forth as if she were playing tetherball with my severed head.
After a long, grueling berating from the both of them, wondering how I could be so stupid, I was finally allowed my first question. My question was,
“How in the fuck did you guys find me??”
What Chor and Simon proceeded to tell me was a story that even after all I had been through, seemed way too far-fetched to be real. But rather than tell you what they told me then, let’s add a splash of modernity to this year-old tale, and hear what they have to say about it now. Unsurprisingly, being 6 years ago, some of the details are fuzzy, and some of these things we remember completely differently. Who’s right? Who’s wrong? Who knows. You can make up your own mind. But what I present before you is Simon’s take on what happened on that 3rd day of Songkran. From this point, Simon the writer takes over (don’t worry, I’ll be back).
Simon’s Story:
11AM (or 2PM ?): The realisation.
It’s day 3 of Songkran, and I just woke up after a night out.
It’s a terrible morning: I caught the flu after dancing my head off in a freezing cold club while soaking wet and my left foot is the size of a pork knuckle. I’d sprained my ankle slipping on the wet stairs of that very same club. Getting ready for a very rough hangover, I roll over in my bed and look at my phone: 5 messages from Nancy (colleague of Lux) sending me pictures of a Thai newspaper.
My Thai is good, but not THAT good. I asked ‘what does it say?’. She answers, ‘Two foreigners got arrested last night for stealing a police car’. My first reaction was obviously ‘Hahaha what a bunch of dumbass tourists, Bangkok has you now’. She doesn’t seem to partake in my sarcasm and she says ‘It’s Lux. My manager called me, he’s been to jail, his embassy got him out, he’s flying out of the country tonight’. My hangover kinda disappeared in a second and the sarcasm quickly transformed into a ‘WTF?’ This part of my memories is a little fuzzy, I can’t remember if Nancy told me, or if Chor did, but here’s what matters: the second foreigner that got arrested was no one else but our dear fucking Darby. While Lux quickly made bail, our dear Darby couldn’t (or as I found later didn’t want to) pay bail, so he was still being held in the Khao-san Police station.
3PM: The organisation
Chor & myself are chatting, mostly swearing at Darby and how dumb he is, but we did manage to organize ourselves a little trip to Khao-san police station to try and help. Now, I want you to picture this: we’re still in the middle of the biggest damn water fight in the world, in Khao-san, epicentre of said water fight. I’ve got the flu, a sprained ankle and my friend is the dumbest motherfucker on earth. I’m in no mood for that shit.
I reach Khao-san first, and make my way to the police station. Of course, in less than 30 seconds, I’m drenched to my bones and I’ve been hit in the eyes by a couple super soakers. I enter the police station, and here’s the spectacle: Police officers drinking beer, in Hawaiian shirts and shorts. Yup, that’s Songkran for you. At least it was a little less intimidating. I start talking to the the officers and tell them I’m here for Darby. They didn’t know any Darby. Here I am, realizing Darby wasn’t his legal name. Now I felt like a dumbass.
After a couple descriptions that may or may not have included how freakishly tall he is, the officer eventually understands who I’m talking about, has another sip of beer and asks me to wait. While I’m waiting, Chor eventually reaches the police station, amidst the chaos. Here we are, the saviors of Darby Fucking O’Connell patiently waiting in the middle of the Khao-san police station.
5PM: The negotiation
We’d been waiting for a while with Chor, and I probably smoked my way through a couple packs of cigarettes. While we were waiting, we learned why Lux got out and Darby didn’t. He had involved his embassy, and his parents had paid 70,000 baht to get him out ($2,200). Seems like the logical thing to do when you’re stuck in a Thai prison right? Well, not for Darby. The officer told us that Darby refused to pay, refused to call the embassy and refused to involve his parents. If he was a 12/10 on the dumbass scale, he’d officially made it to 20/10.
The waiting continued. Sitting in that police station, you see some really weird stuff. Most of the offenders were actually ladyboys that were caught stealing, illegal workers, with a splash of dumb foreigners. At some point, I decide to make way across the street to buy some beers for the police station, thought I’d make friends. And hell, worse case scenario, if they didn’t want it, god knows I needed a drink at that point.
After a couple hours of waiting with Chor, the police officer mumbled something to us, and all hail, what do we see? Darby looking like shit making his way down the stairs where the cells are. We barely get to talk to Darby, and the officer sits the three of us down explaining the situation: ‘Your friend paid bail, Darby needs to do the same. We have his ID, if he wants to get out, he needs to pay: 70,000 Baht’.
Chor and I are talking with Darby, trying to convince him to pay and just get out. To any rational human-being that would sound like a reasonable deal? Pay $2,200 and avoid criminal charges for stealing a police car? Sounds like a steal!
Unlucky for us, Darby is neither rational, and sometimes I seriously doubt he’s a human-being. Motherfucker says no, goes ahead and starts negotiating. In my mind I’m like ‘THIS IS NOT A FUCKING BARGAINING SESSION. PAY THE MONEY AND GET OUT!’ Chor and I are at a loss. How stupid can you be? But against all odds, after a solid 20 minutes of back and forth punctuated by long silences, the bail went down: 50,000 Baht.
I’ve lived in Thailand for a long time. And I knew you could always find a way out, avoiding criminal charges for the right price. But this was out of this world, I was witnessing a live negotiation of a convict with the police in a police station.
The conversation stops for a bit, and I see a weird look in Darby’s eyes. Not the good kind of look. Probably the kind of look he had before getting into that police car. He’d spotted his ID card on the officer’s desk. What would a rational human-being do in that case? Most likely leave the card be and carry on the negotiation. Well, not Darby Fucking O’Connell. Motherfucker goes on and steals his ID from the police officer who has him detained in the police station. My mind went from a rather hopeful state to a level of anger I’ve rarely experienced before. ‘YOU’VE GOTTA BE FUCKING KIDDING ME? WE’RE BOTH HERE TRYING TO GET YOUR ASS OUT, AND YOU FIND NOTHING BETTER TO DO THAN STEALING YOUR ID WITH BOTH OF US SITTING RIGHT THERE?’
Of course I couldn’t yell in the station, so I said that in a very low voice, but I guess the look in my eyes spoke for itself. He put the card back. The officer told us a lady from some office would be here momentarily to deal with us. It took over an hour for the lady to get in, but when she finally arrived, negotiations started again.
From that point on, we were not able to negotiate much more than this. Chor and I helped to complete the payment that Darby could not—sorry, would not complete by himself. We put all that dough in an envelope and gave it to the lady. At this point everything went super fast. The guard gave him his ID back and sent us on our way. No paper signing, no nothing. We’re outside the police station, I light a cigarette and look at Darby: ‘You dumb motherfucker’.
The rest is history.
End of Simon’s Story
Oh, that newspaper headline that Simon received? Right here, bitch:
When Simon and Chor explained to me, post-bailing me out, that the crime we committed made it to the front page of the newspaper, this of course elicited one overarching emotion—pride. I felt my eyes water and my stomach twist. “Wow, there are so many people I have to thank for this moment…”
Just like me and Lux being arrested and brought back to the police station at the EXACT same time, allowing us to corroborate a fake story on the spot, fate—or just really, really good luck—had been my savoir.
With big watery eyes, and beginning to value my life just a little more, I looked at Simon and Chor, and stated, “You… you two saved my life!”
“And you,” Chor added, breaking her naturally polite demeanor, “are a big fucking idiot.”
I gasped. It was her first F-bomb ever. Then I gave those two a hug for what might’ve been the sweatiest, slimiest, filthiest hug any of us would ever receive, this side of Syria.
I would, in fact, be leaving the country tomorrow. Or would be attempting to, at least. I mean who knew? What if the cops decided to troll me, and that money went right into their pockets? What if the “lady from the court” was actually “the lady from the donut shop”? What if the passport stamper guy at the airport would check my name in a database and I’d set off an alarm and go right back to jail?
It did not.
The next day I got on a flight to Vietnam and I never looked back. I closed the book on Thailand, one of my favorite places on Earth, knowing that I were never to be welcomed back.
But hey, I had my freedom, and that’s better than any so-called “world’s biggest water festival”… right? (*cries*)
So what’s the lesson here? Crime doesn’t pay?
Well, that would be presuming that what I did was a crime, and “taking a police car for a joyride in a foreign country while drunk and crashing that car” is certainly not a crime.
Rape. Murder. Lèse majesté. That is a crime (the last only in Thailand). I just made… a common mistake. I mean, come on. It could happen to anybody!
And I would say I certainly paid sufficiently for it. Nothing even compares to the psychological torture of being locked in a grimy jail cell for three days. Nothing! It fucking sucks. It is an absolutely soul-crushing experience. By the end of the third day in there, I knew I was incapable of going even one more night. On day 4 I would’ve staged a break out. Me and the guy from the dark cell. Just… killing police with cigarettes.
So not only was there that torture, there was the equally torturous act of having to watch the Songkran party festivities happen right outside my window. Double torture. So having to go to “Locked up Abroad” style Thai prison for months, more likely years, would be a little excessive. You can’t deny that. That’s fucking science right there.
Now it’s time to ask the important question: was it worth it?
Pfft. Was it worth it? Was it WORTH IT??
You bet your sweet sugar tits it was worth it. And that’s for one reason, mostly:
For I have gained this story, and this story is a treasure. The “cop car” story, as I’ve come to affectionately label it, has been a beneficial proponent to my life, in so many ways. It is a story with powers. Hypnotizing powers. Ones that can transfix and transform all those who are (un)lucky enough to hear it. Sometimes when I meet people for the first time, I end up breaking out this story, you know, kinda like a party trick.
Golly, you should see their faces. It’s typically a free-forming flow of emotions. It starts with smiles, elevates into raucous laughter, is met with heavy doubt, earns looks of sheer horror, before finally leaving listeners in a state of paralysis, where they are left re-questioning everything they’ve ever known in life.
It works best when somebody at a party is telling their “cool story”, and I’m like, “Bitch, your cool story ain’t even that cool. Gather round children, and let Darby tell you a cool story.” Game, set, and match.
Also, having this story has caused me to realize what life is REALLY all about: it’s about having stories! Creating memories. Collecting experiences, not material goods. You have a nice car? Great. How are you living your life differently? How are you making your impact on this Earth? I’ve since striven to live a minimalist-lifestyle, where I am low on goods, but high on stories. Who knows? Maybe at some point this will cease to be my best story, and be relegated to being my second-best story?
Until them, I’m going to keep living, and constantly be on the path to live out more great stories. Stories to keep you animals entertained. And to keep myself breathing. To keep myself ALIVE. So I hope you enjoyed this story. And I hope someday you have a “that story” of your own.
Reach for the stars cop cars kids; and you can do anything.
