8:13am, Saturday March 17, 2007

It’s tough to get to sleep right after a 12-hour shift. I need time to decompress.

Thing is, there’s no place to do that here.

I trudge through the lobby of the building and up the marble staircase. The railing is gone, so I walk close to the wall. The steps break apart under my feet, making a familiar crunching sound.

I drop my gear in my room. Forty pounds lighter, I shuffle back to the top of the staircase and sit down.

I light a cigarette.

This is as good as it gets. From 25 feet above I watch the men downstairs drink coffee and shuffle papers. They mill about, seeming unsure of what they’re doing. My legs dangle over the edge of the stairs.

I pull a piece of paper from my pocket. It’s a letter I got from my wife a week ago. I read the whole thing just to get to the bottom where she’s written,

“Come home safe!”

I read that several times, knowing there will be too many long days like this before I’ll see her.

Suddenly I hear voices below me. A man elbows his way into the lobby. He’s screaming, and the coffee drinkers run from him, scattering about like young girls being chased by a boy with a worm.

The man is wearing a thick vest, and he holds something in his right hand.

I know exactly what he’s doing. I let go of my cigarette and my wife’s letter. They float down toward the floor of the lobby.

“Allah akbar!” he screams, and then, squeezing and shaking the item in his hand, shoots his arms into the air as if he just won a race.

The room falls silent, and the man looks down at his vest in disappointment.

As he angrily pulls at the vest, my cigarette hits the ground.

At the same time, my weapon breaks the silence.

Presented as told to me by an American Soldier

I feel like I’m back where I belong.

There is no one in this picture I know.

Amy and Zade and I went to the North Shore today to see the waves and the turtles. After that we went to one of our favorite beach spots and relaxed for a while. After that we hit Matsumoto Shave Ice.

Not bad at all.

I should like to explain to you how I came to own a man in a crate, but I will have to be quick about it. The swelling should be subsiding now, and I will soon be so consumed with the action of the day that I won’t be able to direct much attention to the story.

I came to the Kingdom of Cambodia to work as a doctor thirteen years ago. Though I had no medical degree, I was willing to tend to the sick and disabled and knew quite a bit about illness, and for these things I was paid handsomely in American dollars by the Democratic Constitutional Monarchy.

I came to live alone in a small but comfortable home about a kilometer from my nearest neighbor. I made somewhat frequent travels to surrounding villages early in my career, but after ten years of doing so I became tired and listless, so I made fewer and fewer trips. Six months ago I stopped traveling and working completely and began living on my ample savings.

Two weeks ago a traveling salesman arrived at my door. The salesman was a well-dressed man with a hideous mole on his left cheek. He told me he had exactly the thing a man who lives alone like I do needs. From his horse-drawn cart he produced a small wooden crate.

He told me that inside the crate was a Khmer man of about 20 years of age. The man’s name was Ling Ling, and he had been caught stealing at a market outside Phnom Penh. Had his case gone before the police, both of Ling Ling’s hands would have been removed, but the salesman had saved him from that.

The salesman told me Ling Ling was secured to the bottom of the box by heavy chains and bolts. He sat somewhat comfortably in the box when its lid was open, but the box was about knee-high, so when the lid was shut and locked, as it was presently, the criminal’s head was forced between his knees. The salesman instructed me to deliver justice to Ling Ling as I saw fit–daily if I wished–but that I also needed to feed him and ensure he had enough to drink. He also showed me how to clean the box by removing a drawer on its under side.

I bought the box and its contents for thirty US dollars.

As a somewhat privileged child, I had never had a reason–I had never had the opportunity–to hit a man with my hands. This intrigued me. And so that first day, as the lock popped off and the crate’s lid swung open, Ling Ling’s head came up. His eyes squinted, fighting the sudden rush of bright light. I let him acquaint himself, and I offered him scraps from my own dinner and water to drink.

When he was done I began delivering slaps, chops, and punches to the man’s face, head, and neck.

The man’s screams, coupled with the sharp pains the blows inflicted on my own hands, brought me pleasure in its most wretched form. The more the man wailed, the more delight I felt. Once the man’s face was adequately swollen, and my own hands were bruised, I closed the lid and replaced the lock.

The next day I moved the crate into my living room between my two couches. From that point on, the crate and its contents became the focal point of my life. I sat to three meals a day with my plate on the crate. I opened it only once a day, when I suspected the swelling had subsided, feeding Ling Ling my leftovers and offering him water to drink before delivering justice to his head with my hands.

I became consumed with the man inside the crate in my living room. I thought about little else except opening the box, caring for the man, and then punishing him. These things became automatic; they were done quite without thought as part of my daily routine.

And now, as I feared, I have run out of time in telling this tale. I know the swelling must have subsided by now.

And as the lock comes off the crate with a pop, I am reminded of the pungent, sweet smell of ether that woke me up last night–just to put me back to sleep.

As the lid opens, my eyes are forced into a squint, fighting to adjust to the harsh light pouring into the box.

As my eyes begin to serve me again I make out two familiar figures. Ling Ling stands at the box’s opening with the lock in his hand. Behind him, eating my food and wearing my clothing, stands the traveling salesman, the hideous mole on his cheek seeming to mock me.

Ling Ling offers me scraps from their dinner plates, which I devour at once.