GET A LIFE
Dawton’s Facebook profile was five years old, and had been taken in another lifetime it seemed There he was on his 60th birthday, getting a retirement farewell on site at the completion of a new building rise in Manhattan, surrounded by fellow construction workers.
A widower with kids grown, they and the grand chlldren dispersed, he then retired to Los Angeles to become a character TV or commercials actor, maybe even a movie star (who knew?) and where he met, in his apartment building, many others young and old who aspired to such, along with the new bloods who came to make it in rock and roll. The wannabe actors became extras, and a lot of the rockers often found a speed habit and lodgings in dumpsters, though they never let go of that leather vest or dream.
One of the actor/extras he knew, Bradley, had a gig getting $35 an hour teaching English As A Second Language at a private academy. Dawton was no dummy, had graduated high school, knew correct grammar if hadn’t always or ever used it with his builder peers, but you needed at least a degree .He was disillusioned already by the L.A. illusion and Badley advised him to contact embassies, consulates and websites for work overseas
So there was this interview, arranged by a tip from the South Korean consulate. He was met in an office by two men with narrow ties, in suits with narrow lapels, Dawton thinking, Shit, they’re not going to hire me, I wouldn’t hire me, I’m not a teacher. But he was there, so began joking with them.
They responded in kind (did they loosen those tie knots) and after a long repartee one said, “You come back tomorrow, second interview.”
He still didn’t have a car because he still didn’t have a license, because he never learned to drive, taking NYC subways all his life. So as he stood on Vermont Avenue at 7th Street in Koreatown and waited for a bus, he thought, “What the hell kind of first interview was that?”
Just as he was beginning to think buses didn’t reaaly exist---had anybody verifiably seen a bus?---he saw the front of one down around 9th Street, and had with that vision the realization that he’d done exactly what he should on that interview. They wanted to know what he’d be like in a classroom.
The Korean job was on a contract for a year, during which he traveled on vacation to Thailand, scouted work there because the Koreans thought he was getting too old, so when the year was up, he moved to Bangkok. He taught ESL for four more years ,but then, as in Korea, jobs started getting scarce because of his age. At a private academy, where students were paying directly, they could feel cheated if they thought their teacher was old. He still had a little tutoring here and there, but mostly became retired.
He didn’t have a new Facebook profile picture because he liked the old farewell-to-fellows one, and because nobody was taking a picture of him. Then he upgraded from cell phone to smart phone At first he had to stop taking pictures of his legs and the floor, get the angles right, but finally got a close-up picture that was representativeeven if his face resembling a relief map of the San Andrea’s fault lines. His FB friends were Thai former students who posted in their own language and his American friends were construction pals and a few L.A. thespians. All had their own lives that had nothing to do with his. He thought if he was going to post his picture on FB, he’d have to caption it. As commentary on his situation, he labeled it PROOF OF LIFE, and with a bit more self deprecating humor added, RANSOM ACCEPTED FROM THE HIGHEST BIDDER.
He got several likes, hearts.lol's, and thought, well, that’s that, and made the selfie his new profile picture.Then maybe a week after that something unusual happened. Somebody knocked on his door.He put his eye to the peephole and saw a strange sight for Thailand---two American looking guys in suits, one black, one white, standing on either side out of range of possible direct gunfire from inside, He was pretty sure who they were, just not which agency, and asked, “Who is it?”
“FBI,” the black guy said, and making his hand vulnerable for a fraction of a second, flashed an ID. It could have said Macy’s Dept Store, but Dawton knew they were real and opened the door.The same guy, with a drawl from maybe Texas or Oklahoma, asked
“Are you Dawton Strand?”
“I am.”
“So you’re not being held hostage?” Pronounced ‘hastij’ That came from the partner. Pahtner. Dawton thought, Boston.
“I thought it was clear it was a joke.”
“You don’t make jokes like thet.”
Tex asked, “Can we come and confirm you’re okay.”
“Sure.”
He allowed entry, and they checked his only room, looked in the wardrobe closet, out on the balcony, in the bathroom, and then the Texan said, “Don’t ever do anything stupid like that again.”
From Boston, “You might be getting a bill from the embassy.”
They left. Holy shit. He was the center of attention.It was being in a clasroom again, star on his own stage, or feted by his colleagues when he retired from Carpenters, Local 851, his fifteen minutes getting doled out here and there and...and now. How boring his life had become.
Brief as the exchange had been, he played the conversation over and over. Checked his mail for a letter from the embassy, hoping to continue the drama. He wanted the bill so he could dispute it. They wouldn’t cancel it by phone so he’d make an appointment. Demand a hearing over an unfair claim. But he didn’t hear anything. Even Uncle Sam forgot about him. He tried making an appointment to register with the embassy, but they told him to do that on the website.
Well, he had ways of making them talk. He put another post on FB, stating he would be executed in a fortnight if there was no ransom offer---but edited the text to three days when he found out a fortnight was two weeks, not four days. One had already passed, and he couldn’t stand the anticipation.
On Day 2 they sent Boston back with a woman. She said, “Still having fun? Don’t you know you can be arrested?”
Oh please. Lock me up in the embassy cell, feed me American food, interrogate me, use the old good cop-bad cop, intimidate me.
Was she psychic? She said, “You spend months in a Thai jail waiting for extradition. No more, Mr. Strand. We have better things to do.”
His story got out and into the National Enquirer, in its Human Oddities file. It was great. So what if they were laughing? He was a celebrity. In an op-ed piece, a doctor/journalist diagnosed him as having Acute Loss of Identity Syndrome. He preferred to think of it as Dawton Strand disease. So what if people were making money off of him. He snuggled in he warm cozy of the spotlight.
Somebody knocked on his door again. No surprise now. Wouldn’t the world come to him? So appreciative was he of prospective fans, so open to the new experience, he didn’t even ask who was there, nor peep---no more of that craven mousy stuff---just opened the door.
Standing there were two guys as big as the first FBI agents, but in tank tops, with hairy tattooed arms, and even they seemed surprised at how easy he made it. They pushed in, tied him up, reassured him all he had to do was contact his embassy and arrange a wire transfer to a bank account, then everything would be copacetic.
He called the embassy main line and said he was being held hostage. He was instantly connected to---somebody---who had---a Boston sounding accent and answered urgently until he also recognized the voice on the other end..
“Mr. Strand, give it up.”
“WAIT”
Dawton said to Hairy 1 “You talk to him.”
Hairy took the phone and said, “Its real, chump.”
Boston turned his speaker on, and Dawton could hear him laughing, saying to someone, “He hired extras as voice overs.”
Dawton shouted at the phone, “No, no, listen.”
“I’ve had enough of you.”
“Please.”
“Get a life.”
From the phone came the uneathly white noise of a disconnection. Looking at his two dissatisfied amd simian-like new companions, Dawton wondered if he’d be able now, to... get.. a life.