THE PRICE OF PURITY by Peter Nolan Smith

Ten years ago during the monsoon season a biblical deluge swept the sois of Pattaya. refuge from an early evening deluge in a very ordinary beer bar off Pattaya’s Soi Excite. I parked my motor scooter under an awning a very ordinary beer bar off Soi Excite and scooted for shelter. The rain cascaded off the roof like a curtain of water. No one could see in or out.

The girls at the Jeddi Bar were older and fatter than any establishment in the Last Babylon. Their cosmetic masquerade failed to hide their disdain for the old geezers at the bar. Most of the farangs were over 70 and these old veterans nursed their beers with practiced misery. The atmosphere was overwhelmingly depressing enough for me to contemplating returning to the rain.

The door to the ladies room opened for a sight for sore eyes. A 20 year-old sex goddess in a pink skimpy tube top and red hot pants emerged from the toilet and surveyed the bar for victims. Her dusky eyes found no takers until falling on me. At 55 I was younger than the other beer-drinkers by 15 years. She sauntered up to me and asked with a hush, “You buy me drink?”

“Whatever you want?” I had seen this vixen before on Walking Street. She had been the star performer at a popular go-go bar’s lesbian and S & M show. Sam Royalle said her bar fine was 1500 baht and short-time cost 3000. Way out of my price range.

“Tequila?” She led me to the bar. Each step in synch with the pop song on the stereo. Her sinuous body had been created to defy the music of a snake-charmer. The ancients would have labeled her a succubus on a mission to have intercourse with men. Repeated intercourse with this female dream demon sapped a man’s body and soul to the brink of death.

I was in no condition to resist her charms and we eliminated the usual chit-chat about origin, work, and romance within seconds. Her name was Nathalee. I was right about her age. She had been dancing since she was 15. We clinked glasses and Nathalee downed her drink like she had just been ransomed after a year’s imprisonment by the Taliban.

Natalee was sexy in a beach resort whose commerce revolved around sex. Her piercings and tattoos telegraphed a clear message to the male contingent of Pattaya that she was on the game and if they wanted to play then they had to pay. Riding her had to be like driving a Ferrari on ice and a man’s skill levels had to be honed to a professional level.

If they weren’t, Natalee didn’t mind as long the customer or kak paid his way

My history was short and sweet. American writer, 55, and single. I gave my name as James. Pattaya was a good town in which to use an alias.

“James Steele.” I was alone in Pattaya. My wife had abandoned me for a Thai lover in Ban Nok. My resistance to temptation was weak.

“Like James Bond. 007.” Her hand hovered a millimeter over my skin. My flesh tingled with want. Her teachers had instructed an excellent student.

“More 0069.” Succubus derived from the Latin word succubare “to lie under”. This Lilith believed in more positions than missionary. Most of them mercenary.

“I like that.” A serpent’s tongue flittered over her glittering lipstick. “I like everything.

“I’ve seen you before. On the stage of a go-go bar.”

“And you thought I was sexy.”

“You were much more than sexy.” I had caught her act on several occasion. She was no fake and his devotion to the exotic dancing earned top dollar for the owners. “What are you doing here?”

I ordered a beer and bought Nathalee another tequila.

“I have too many boyfriends in town. They have fight in Walking Street. I not want trouble. Maybe only trouble with you.” She looked at the rain. “We go short-time? Have good room. I show you good time.”

“I’d like too, but I have no money.” I only went out of the house with 1000 baht. The bar bill was already 300 baht and this dump’s bar fine was at least 200 baht. “Only 500 baht.”

“Oh. Too bad I like you.” Without a reward awaiting her sexual favors Nathalee shut down her powers. There was no sense wasting them on me. “I not always like this.”

“I know. Everyone was a young once.” I had spent a week at a seminary in my youth. My mother had prayed for a priest in the family. I had failed her, but for some reason people sensed his wishes for my devotion and confessed their sins to me for some form of absolution. Nathalee was in need of penance. Everyone in Pattaya was a sinner.

“I came here I 15. My mother work bar.” She downed the shot and signaled for a beer chaser. She let out her breath and the taut belly pouted with seduction.

“You don’t need to tell me this.”

“Tell you. Not tell you. Same.” Her hand rubbed an eye, as if a spot of dust was under the lid. “I see you before too. Have lady say you speak Thai. Have girlfriend and baby. She leave you for Thai man.”

“You heard this story.” I didn’t tell it to anyone but Sam Royalle and the Brit knew how to hold his sand.

“Pattaya small town. Ladies pood mak.” It was a good city for gossip.

“I’ve heard your story before. Girl comes to Pattaya. Has boyfriend. Boyfriend leaves her. She works bar. Can’t love anyone but me.”

“Not same story me. 15 not have boyfriend. My mother she not care me. Only care money. 15 she want sell me.”

“And you were a virgin?”

“Never kiss a boy.” Her hand moved higher on my thigh. “I very Borisut.”

“So why you want to have sex?”

“Not me. Maih.” Natalie swung between pidgin and perfect English. She had lived in the UK twice and Sweden once. “Maih need money to pay mafia. She like play card. Have old man come to house. He give mother 5000 baht. Not hurt he know how to make love to virgin. I not like the first time. Second time too. After that. Love it all the time. You want me show you?”

“Sorry, I not have money.” Speaking bad English was contagious.

“I not care money.” A Thai daughter has to obey her mother. No matter what. No explanation necessary. “Only want good man one time.”

“Sorry.” Nathalee was once a good girl and I didn’t throw any rocks at her, for I’d only hear the breaking windows of my glass house. I wondered how many times she had told this story to a customer. Certainly more than once considering how sad I felt after hearing her confession.

“Sorry for what.” She was resigned to my refusal. “I go with many man. Sometimes good to not go with man. We be friend. Good idea?”

“Good idea.” I had survived my encounter with a succubus, but I recalled reading an explanation how some scientist considered the legend of a succubus to be a sign of alien abduction. I doubted it, since ETs never asked for a barfine.

“Here’s a tip.” I gave her 300 baht. Her story was worth more, but I wanted a pizza from Scoby’s on Sai 3. It cost 150 baht.

“Now I go with old man. Easy money. Only worry they die on me.”

“Anyone come close?” Viagra, 60 year-old, and a young succubus was a fatal combination in Pattaya.

“No, but sometimes think man will die.” She puffed out her cheeks. “Luat-keung-nah.”

“Blood makes their face go red.” I waved for my check-bin.

“Like red light.” Natalie doesn’t want me to leave. Not without her. Rain was letting up. “You want virgin. I play virgin for you.”

“Wish I could.” I wasn’t ready for Nathalee. My heart was dust.

“Mai penh rai.” She wai-ed gracefully as a 12 year-old tradition dancer and said, “You run, but you no can hide. One day I show you my pierced clit.”

“I’m sure you will.”

I escaped home. My empty house will never know how hard I try to be good.

Only my soul.

Collect Call to the After-Life

Published 2016

This summer my brother visited me in a dream. My deceased mother and I were sitting in a ramshackle cottage on Cape Cod. My brother said he was going to meet friends. He looked happy, as he ran out the door. It was a little too short, but I was happy to see him and so was my mother.

I hope he’s having a good time.

ps In the photo from Dennisport Beach 1964 Michael Charles Smith is the smallest and I am the tallest of the boys.

TORA TORA TORA 2024


Like JFK’s assassination everyone of a certain age remembered where they were during the announcement of the Japanese attack on the US Pacific Fleet in Pearl Harbor. Many had to ask, “Where’s Pearl Harbor?”

This morning to commemorate their ignorance I posed the same question to younger people on the streets of Manhattan. Few of them had a clue other than two Japanese punks who said it was a group from the 1970s.

“As we get old, we forget. As we get older, we are forgotten.”

TORA TORA TORA

ps Pearl Harbor and The Explosions released “Drivin'” in November of 1979. I saw them perform their debut single somewhere. I think it was at CBGBs.

TORAH TORAH TORAH by Peter Nolan Smith

TORA TORA TORA was one of my mother’s favorite films. She loved history and the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor burned bright in her memory. Her friends from Jamaica Plain enlisted in the Marines, Army, and Navy by the scores. Many of the them failed to return to Boston. Their bodies rest on islands across the Pacific. The 1970 film flopped at the box office. Hippies didn’t want to see a war movie, but I went with my mother and father. She cried at the sinking of the Arizona. My father had joined the Army Air Force that next January in 1942 much like many young Americans volunteered for the armed forces after the 9/11 attacks.

“The title TORA TORA TORA was manipulated into TORAH TORAH TORAH for episodes of NYPD BLUE and MAGNUM P.I. This last week the power of the Torah was exalted by a very religious friend from Eastern Parkway. Rondell said proudly, “The Torah is one of the most important school books in Korea. Its truth is taught to many of the young.”

“The Torah?” The five books of Moses form the backbone of Hassidic tradition. Christian accept the Pentateuch into their Old Testament and the Muslims regarded the ancient text to be the words of Allah. Korea was on the other side of the world. “What’s the Torah have to do with Korea?”

“The Korean ambassador told Israeli TV that Talmud study is a mandatory part of the country’s school curriculum and almost every home in South Korea boasts a Korean version of the Talmud, and mothers commonly teach it to their children, who call it the “Light of Knowledge.” He appreciates the value of Jewish knowledge. Koreans love education.

“I know many Koreans are Christian. I had several baptized in my youth.” Three to be exact. I had paid the nuns at Our Lady of the Foothills $45 to name the three orphans under missionary care. “They are also prone to Evangelism.”

“Evengelism?” Rondell was unfamiliar with Christian subsects.

“Born-Again Christians.”

At the mention of these words my co-worker turned her head. Ava is from Brazil. She believes in the God of the Only Faith. Ava prays for my soul, for I am a devout non-believer.

“Yes, they are the ones who back Israel 100%, for without Israel there can be no Apocalypse, which will bring back the Messiah to battle the forces of Satan. Ava, do you have a Torah in your house?”

“Yes, it’s called the Book of Light.” Ava is a good mother. We are friends. She went back to work on her baby’s photos. She has a church event coming this Easter weekend.

“Thanks.” I respect her faith. In this country the Constitution guarantees the freedom of religion and from religion. “The Talmud gets around and so does the Koran.”

“Not according to the Korean Ambassador. He says no Koreans read it, because it’s a book of Islam.”

“That may be true.” I have traveled through Korea’s main airport on my many trips to Thailand. I have seen few Muslims in Inchoen Airport. No Jews either, but then you don’t have to like pastrami to be Jewish. Rondell was ecstatic to have stumped me on this issue and I told him, “I’ll have to get back to you.”

“You do that.”

“In the meanwhile have a good sedar.”

We hugged as men equal in love of the world and I shouted TORAH TORAH TORAH after him. He pumped his fist in the air. I love Passover. It’s a Jewish holiday and I don’tahve to go to work at the diamond exchange tomorrow.

Sometimes even a cruel god gets to be kind.

Nearly ten years ago, the Korea Times reported: “Interestingly, there are at least two different books currently sitting on Korean best-seller shelves that purport to explain the Jewish Talmud. The popularity of these books initially came as a surprise. But Koreans aren’t converting to Judaism. They read those books because Jews have gained a reputation for hard work and success, two things Koreans relate to well.”

Reports of Korean schoolchildren reading the Talmud – or at least stories thereof – have also been known for several years. One American teacher in South Korea related that in 2005, his elementary school students told him that as children, they had all read the Talmud, which they called the “Light of Knowledge.”

When asked if they had also read the Koran, they burst into laughter, saying, “Of course not, that’s the Muslim book.”

TORAH TORAH TORAH, but I prefer a good pastrami sandwich from Katz’ Deli.

Throw in a cream soda and I’m in heaven on earth.

12/7/1960

Published 2013

Seventy-SIX years ago Japanese aircraft attacked the US Pacific Fleet. Nearly every capital ship in Pearl Harbor was sunk of severely damaged by bombs or torpedoes and the Pacific Ocean became a Japanese lake until Midway.

The next day President Roosevelt declared before Congress, “December 7th shall live forever as a day of infamy.”

This morning I asked a score of NY teenagers what was special about December 7th.

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a Monday.”

“No.” I shook my head.

“It’s the start of winter.”

“No, that’s December 21st.”

I decided to give them a hint.

“It has something to do with Pearl Harbor.”

“Where’s that?”

“Hawaii, so you don’t know that December 7th is Pearl Harbor Day or what happened that day?”

The group of high school students shrugged with disinterest.

“It’s the day the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.”

“Are the Japanese Muslim terrorists?”

“No, the Japanese come from Japan?” I gave up on my attempt to comfirm that FDR’s Day Of Infamy has receded into the mists of history, proving that America’s blissful ignorance is a long-cherished national asset, but I know what December 7th means most to me. It was the birth date of my youngest brother, Michael. A day I remember better than most, because fifty-four years ago I was standing in the parking lot of Our Lady of the Foothills. It was recess time. The weather was cold for December. My classmates were kicking a big red ball for fun and warmth. Our family station wagon pulled up before the school’s front door. My father stepped out of the car. He waved for my older brother and I to join him. My younger sisters too. We were all in uniform.

“You have a baby brother,” he proudly told us. The nuns appeared annoyed by his unapproved appearance, being fiercely protective of their authority. My father was a late convert to Catholicism. His faith was newborn and he ignored their glare.

“We have a brother?” Our mother had exhibited no sign of pregnancy over the past months and I was mystified by this potential immaculate conception.

“Yes. Michael. Your mother named him after your uncle.” My father hugged my two sisters close. They were a little more than a year apart.

“The priest?” Uncle Michael was a monsignor for Cardinal Cushing. He had met my grandmother Nana at the Boston docks after her passage from Ireland at the tender age of 14.

Six years older than me in 1960.

“Yes, and he’s going to baptized your brother at the church. Go get your things. Your mother wants you to see Michael.”

The nuns protested his request to take us out of school, but my father’s greatest love was for his children and we piled into the station wagon. The drive to Boston Lying-In Hospital took less than fifteen minutes. My father liked to drive fast.

Our small tribe entered our mother’s hospital room. She was holding Michael in her arms. Nana was holding Padraic, the fifth of our brood. He was all of two. Our family was now six. A family of eight counting my mother and father.

“There goes my pony.” My older brother whispered in my ear.

Year in and year out Frunk had requested a pony from Santa Claus. I never thought that he had a chance of getting one since my mother hated animals.

I stepped closer to the bed. The red-faced baby in my mother’s arms looked more like a furless monkey than a human.

I touched his small hand. It was warm.

“Say hello to your brother.” My mother beamed with a Madonna’s love.

“Hi, Michael.”

He was my baby brother that day and has been every day since.

Sadly Michael passed from this world in summer of 1995. I think of him often and my father’s telling me that I had a baby brother. I still do have one, because December 7th is a day that will live forever in my memory as Baby Brother Day.

Michael Charles Smith RIP.

My baby brother is sorely missed by family and friends.

He would have been 54 today.

Forever young.

I’ll raise a glass for Michael later.

He was my Pearl Harbor Boy and I’ll never say to him or his ghost, “Sayonara.”

Only.

Up the rebels, boyo.