Pak Boong (Morning Glory) by Jeff Radwell

"Canned Cluster" © Vevna Forrow

Before we go any further, are we the right fit?

I see here there's a gap. I have to ask about it.

Who doesn't have a gap now? Tell me, who walks around whole? Faces like a slot

machine, click, click, another wedding, a child in rubble, a golden retriever in a raincoat, click, and the head's asked a hundred questions before breakfast. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but a row of 7s isn't possible. Two cherries, look at that plump rubescent skin, plus a week's vacation is the best we can do.

That's a good deal, or maybe you're one of those weirdos who likes lemons instead. I didn't take you for one of those, but if you've got a geographic tongue, you should disclose that. Don't worry. I won't tell anyone if you like acid running through those slits like some sort of freak. I'd never do that. Medical information is private, of course.

I'll tell you about the kitchen. You'll be spending a lot of time there. I don't cook myself, I mean, can you imagine? Help yourself to a selection of seltzers and stevia sodas, have you had the black cherry?

On Wednesdays I do yoga with baby goats. Are you a Capricorn? When's your birthday and you graduated college when? I'm not asking to determine your age. It was just a fun, whimsical question.

So like I said, one vacation a year is the best I can do. I take a little more than that, but I've been doing this a long time.

You haven't asked a question about me. Don't worry. I'll volunteer an icebreaker.

I wake up with shit in my teeth, basically, some rotten taste I swallow, and I'm still hard from a dream I can't remember, and I lie there in my own sweat with the AC broken again. Breakfast is beer, warm, and two cigarettes, and I get straight to it, morning breath and Changa together, and it's disgusting, every day a little ritual of not giving a fuck. Piss without lifting the seat, some of it spills wide, I step over it barefoot on the way back to the fridge. Beer's still warm, gulp it down. Don't shower before I go out. Wear yesterday's shirt, sniff the pit first, put it on anyway. Buy noodles off a cart, eat them walking, broth down my wrist, lick, lick, wipe the rest on my collar gone green with a week of pak boong.

Like I said, one a year.

You wouldn't want to join on the other weeks. It's practically work, I mean my family can be a lot, but you won't have to worry about that.

A week in Phuket's the best I can do, then I'll go on to Amankora—that's in Bhutan—but they hard cap entry so that's out of my hands. Good policy these days.

I won't lie, that's pretty generous of me.

Yeah, check please. No, put that away, I got this.

ABOUT:

Jeff Radwell (he/him) is a novelist, essayist, and short story writer. His work is featured or forthcoming in Oxford Magazine, Consequence Magazine, Foglifter, Hobart, and elsewhere. Find him at jeffradwell.com

EDITOR'S SONG PICK: So Far South - Oscar Farrell