Mr. Aryff was looking sad and forlorn.
Instead of going up to the third floor for my free breakfast and coffee and cigarette session before taking the daily crap, I sat in the lobby and tried to hide my feeling of guilt.
I promised him the world and only used him once.
Surely if he doesn’t cover me in oil, this could work out.
‘High in cholesterol,’ he says,’ avoid chicken, pork and only eat bananas.’
That should fix my dodgy neck up, I think just as salesman walks past us and goes up to reception.
When he comes back to take a seat next to us, Aryff makes an observation.
‘Your fly is undone.’
That was the point of conversation for the next ten minutes. I couldn’t stop laughing. I shouldn’t be laughing at this shit. The coffee hasn’t even kicked in and this has become a ‘hot’ topic and is trending in my part of the world.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, to the salesman who is a Christian from Bandung who goes by the biblical name Jonathan. ‘The hot chicks will get turned on by it.’
Jonathan says the gospel singer, Guy Sebastian, from Oz, is a really good singer.
I said watch out for those preachers from Australia who flog off holy water.
‘They are only here to fuck your hot Christian women.’
It’s true, I say, after looks of what the fuck is this guy on.
I’ve seen the girl’s saliva glands work over-time as a well dressed Australian evangelist with blond hair and a bronze tan told the auditorium of a thousand horny Indonesian Christians that ‘his’ holy water was blessed by God.
They sold like hot pancakes and I’m sure it was laced by the devil. This Christian woman I picked up the ‘Meet Jesus’ fest fucked for hours under a few drops of it and was talking in tongues. Sometimes I really do like my fellow Australians.
The massage went very well. I only got briefly oiled up in the hotel foyer.
Two boisterous elderly Chinese check-in. One is laughing his guts out. I’ve got to meet him. His friend, a slim man with dyed black hair and a great set of falsies, says he’s 71.
‘I was born in 1971.’
Man, his maths sucks more than mine.
‘I know,’ he says, ‘but it was actually 1941.’
He almost tapped dance up to the second floor and on the way up, I poked my head in his room and spoke some choice Chinese phrases. I love you, was one of them. He and his other jolly geriatric friend laughed in chorus. I love representing my country. I’m under no illusion who we are, and nor were they, another fucked up Ozzie who washed up on their shores.
And I wasn’t even onto my second coffee.
The guy with the tattoo of a Chinese shrine on his calf knows his coffee. I don’t have the heart to ask if he’s spiked it. I’m coming back for more, I suppose that’s all that matters.
My massage guy fucks off with Jonathan the Christian who sells school bags. Perhaps he’s making sure his fly doesn’t come undone.
I still have to pay Ayrff. He’s a very good man. The second day I received 13 calls from him asking if I want a massage. I’m clued in and now leave my phone off.