What I Would’ve Done

I would’ve said, “Thanks.”

“I would’ve jump kicked him in the head.”

“I would’ve driven to a police station.”

“I would’ve yelled for help.”

I know what I would’ve done, because I did it. If I witnessed my friends being held up at knifepoint, I would’ve run over to place my body in between my friends and their attackers. If a conman tried to tell his fake sob story to me, I’d offer him a ride home then hand over half the amount of promised cash as he and his wife exited my car. If ten men created a human wall around me on a busy street and assaulted me for the money in my hand, I’d take my licking, lose my cash, and walk away. If a tiny man, in a foreign country, offered his home to me when I needed one, bought me dinner when I was low on funds, and told me I was being silly to think we couldn’t sleep on separate sides of the same bed, I know what I would do. Because I did it.

I’d been to Bangkok before, three times in as many months, in three different hostels. I knew how to navigate the city. I knew what I needed to do. I knew how to do it. My computer was broken. No one in Laos knew how to fix it, but I bet that someone in Bangkok— the electronics capital of the world— could. And this time, since I’d already seen the city thoroughly as a tourist, I wanted to try to see it through the eyes of a local. Couchsurfing, the online community of free-shared accommodation for backpackers, was the solution.

I arrived in the morning and Sen drove me to an electronics mall he knew was better than the place I’d mapped out. He spoke to service people in Thai on my behalf. The store he was looking for was in another building. I followed him through crowded sidewalks, overrun by street vendors. The other building seemed miles away. Sen spoke to more uniformed employees. They spoke rapidly, but there were a few words used that fell within the 100 or so I’d previously learned. I could tell things weren’t going well.

I interjected, “Sen, I just need an Asus repair store. Or anywhere that fixes computers, but preferably Asus.”

“It’s not there anymore.” Sen gave me the options, we could return to the first building and look again there, or go eat.

“I’d rather try to go the place I originally planned,” I said, feeling frustrated and hungry.

“Okay. It’s very far. You have to take metro and bus.”

“Okay.” I’d assumed he could drive me but—

“I have to go to work. I’m home tonight and we eat dinner.”

“Okay,” I said in a quiet voice. And we parted.

His building’s security wouldn’t let me enter so Sen came down to meet me. We walked straight to dinner. It was raining but he brought an umbrella. I didn’t mind the rain, still Sen was persistent. He held the umbrella so it covered both of us and wrapped his free arm around my waist. I’d seen many men walk hip to hip with an arm over their friend’s shoulder in Myanmar, Laos, and other Southeast Asian countries where public displays of affection between lovers or spouses is socially unacceptable. This was normal. Still, I soon pulled away and used trees and canopies for cover the rest of the walk. He paid for dinner and on the walk home, told me that I could pay him back at the house.

Sen let me use his computer to write emails, check Facebook and plan my next step. He put his hands on my shoulders as I typed and we talked. He leaned closer and let his arm hang across my chest like a seatbelt. “I would like this a lot if he were a woman,” I thought to myself. “Don’t be homophobic now. He’s giving you his home. He chauffeured you around; he spent all morning trying to help you. Don’t be a homophobe now.” He removed his arm and sat himself on his bed.

We talked about what music we liked. He showed me Thai music videos on YouTube. I shared the new songs my amazing Taiwanese couchsurfing host had played for me a few months earlier. He let me record his personal story of surviving an assault and robbery and defeating the armed men with quick thinking and compassion. Sen is kind. He is caring. He is brave. I am lucky to get to meet him.

Sen invited me to stay the weekend and attend a field trip with his elementary school classroom, where he worked as an assistant. They would be learning about international cultures. I would be the perfect guest appearance! Today was Monday. I told him I would travel north for the week but promised to return in time for field trip. My computer should be either repaired, or declared irreparable by then.

“You have to come. You will enjoy it and the kids will love it so much!”

“I’ll come,” I answered. “I promise.” I owed him that much.

“Where do I sleep?”

He giggled. “Don’t be silly,” and he pointed to his bed.

Maybe he’s joking. There’s probably another room, a door I haven’t noticed, an extra mattress hidden in a closet. I sat in one of the studio apartment’s two chairs. Waiting. Delaying. Talking. Typing.

“I think I’ll go to sleep now.” I wore my pajama pants and an undershirt. The bed was a small queen and I lay on the left side, against the wall.

I would’ve told him not to.

He put his hands on my legs. He rubbed my Achilles. He massaged my calves. He was a good masseuse. My legs were tight from all the walking and hiking I’d done recently. It felt professional.

I would’ve told him to stop.

He did my feet before getting to the hamstrings.

I would’ve kicked him.

He moved higher. I held myself up on my elbows and burrowed my face in my pillow. It’s just a massage. He’s just being nice. There’s nothing wrong. He’s too kind. He’s trusting you. His fingers grazed—that was just the fabric moving.

I would’ve punched his face and gotten the hell out of there.

He moved his hands down and up the back of my legs. Again. Again. His fingers traced across my testicles. Again.

“Thanks.”

I pulled away. Or maybe I just leant. And he let go. There was a body pillow. I put it between us and placed a hand on top. I faced the wall and tried to sleep.

My alarm went off at 6AM. I put my backpack on.

“You’re leaving?”

“There’s an early train.”

“You coming back Friday?”

“Yeah.”

And I left.

J Russell Mikkelsen is a traveler, writer, podcaster and the editor of Estimated Time of Arrival.

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