The Interrogator

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

“OK, Bob, may I call you Bob? So your rights were trampled upon and a bunch of women had some fun... in a foreign country... where the laws are not only sketchy but change with every election... and where you can’t quite remember all the names of the parties involved... if you were given their true names to remember.

“Think we have a bit of a problem?”

‘Shaun the Shark’s’ words echo. Having twice offered that I prefer to be called ‘Robert’, he pontificates as if speaking to a group of news reporters on the courthouse steps. A highly aggressive attorney, to the point of being borderline unethical, he listened to my Thailand escapade and expressed less than little interest in representing me.

And... I felt demeaned in relating the story.

He seemed more enthused about asking the question which the jury would most like to hear answered... what was a bachelor of 32 years doing on vacation in Thailand... alone?

“There is a systemic problem of p********a in those Southeast Asian countries,” he beseechingly suggested in encapsulating the jury’s unspoken quest.

He posed the statement as a question, extending his hands palms up, expecting some type of sage retort which would instantly sway the hypothetical gathering of twelve to my side of the story and award massive damages.

“Of course if the venue indeed is changed to Thailand, that subject matter comes off the table... and a different stratagem for the complaint must be formulated....”

That meant time... which meant money... which meant I was not going to be engaging ‘Shaun the Shark’ on straight contingency.

“Do the courts in Thailand permit contingent fee arrangements?”

His question summarized the peculiarities of my case and more importantly the vagaries of enhancing the size of his wallet. I left his office rather disgruntled with the legal profession. It was apparent that the question of venue would not be litigated by an attorney working on a contingency basis.

So, I sit in my apartment in the tub, having learned that, in all deference to the adage concerning cold showers, what most tames the libido is a hot bath... that and a well chilled bottle of Chablis.

As I lie back in the darkness, the lettering on the business card seems to be imprinted in my brain... ‘Denise Evans, PhD. Professor of Psychology, New York University’.

Well, at least I was given her real first name... only in Thailand it was preceded by ‘Miss’... Miss Denise.

In mentally invoking her name, the memories begin to stream and though sitting in piping hot water, I again shake with the trauma. It’s been three years and I remain an emotional wreck. I do not date in a social sense and m**********n does not lead to climactic release, just frustration... thus the weekly hot baths, which seem to quell the effect of the abundant hormones.

So my brain hits the rewind button where I likewise am lying in a tub... only in a Bangkok hotel room. A loud knock on the door receives my bellow of ‘come back later’, only to be followed by the jiggling of keys and the sound of the hotel room door being opened. Having engaged the chain, I once again call out to the presumed room service to return later. My admonition is followed by the sound of a snap, breaking the chain lock, and an army of footsteps. I arise from the tub, in deshabille of course, and three uniformed officers brusquely enter the bathroom as I stand to greet them dripping wet.

“Robert Dawson?”

I nod with the sound of my name and two officers grab an arm as I step onto the tiled floor. The third officer retrieves a towel, begins to hand it to me only to realize that my wrists are being cuffed begin my back. In stepping forward to encircle my waist, I am chagrined to look down into the eyes of a rather cute Thai police officer who seems to enjoy enshrouding a naked male.

The gibberish of the Thai language follows. My name was the only English spoken, but it seemed safe to assume that I was being read my rights whatever such were in Bangkok. The female officer took me by my left arm with a remarkably firm grip and directed me out of the bathroom and into the hall... wearing nothing other than the towel and dripping wet. She seemed to enjoy leading me about and her commanding presence became an appropriate beginning for my ordeal.

The two male officers remained behind searching the room and, I presume, packing my effects. I never saw them again or any other male for the ensuing months.

The tub chills. I have been immersed long enough to counter the level of testosterone. I read somewhere that the reason the testicles are outside the body is to provide coolness which promotes the production of sperm. I have always surmised that the long term calming effect of the hot baths is to curtail sperm production. My own theory, of course, but it seems to help. Since that fateful trip to Bangkok, I have not been able to ejaculate. Ejaculatory incompetence is the clinical term... not being able to pull the trigger the vernacular. Whatever the term, the condition leaves me jumpy and horny in a very odd way. I seem to seek something that I cannot find. Massages, New York ‘full body’ massages, arouse but the promised ‘happy ending’ does not occur. Dates end in embarrassment when orgasm cannot be achieved. Hookers... well the story is consistent.

I dry myself and wrap the towel around my waist, ironically just as the Thai police officer had. Into the kitchen for water and as I stack ice in a tall glass, there lies the business card... Denise Evans... ‘Miss Denise’ my mind politely corrects. The address is Prince Street... in the Village but unexpectedly distant from most NYU facilities. It cannot be her academic office.

It’s Friday night... not late. A phone call to an office would reach an answering machine... to a home would not annoy. I ponder and her words ‘before taking any drastic action, give me a call. We’ll chat... just like old times’ rattle my brain. So cool, so authoritative. And she seemed to relish watching me struggle for any appropriate utterance.

The Chablis brings relative loquaciousness. I reach for the cordless phone and dial. A female voice answers with a ‘hello’... accented... Asian.

“Miss Denise, please.”

I curse myself in so humbly requesting the haughty PhD by the demanded reverential salutation.

“Who is calling?”

“Robert Dawson.”

“One moment please.”

The exchange is in the clipped English of someone learning words by rote... reciting back carefully scripted phrases.

“So you would like to chat.”

It is Miss Denise and as suggested, the woman’s demeanor is no nonsense, skipping all polite greetings and driving to the point.

I clear my throat and my ears detect such humility in enunciating words which I attempt to inflect as stentorian.

“Yes... yes ma’am.”

She laughs.

“Not going to set a cadre of lawyers after me? I retrieved your files from my archives, Bobby. I remembered your face in the bodega but not all the details. You were a fascinating study.”

She laughs and despite the long relaxing soak, I feel my circulation rush. Being thought of, referred to, as some kind of laboratory animal incites both memories and anger, but what does one do about it?

Once again while contriving a reply, she cunningly speaks and disrupts what could be a thoughtful verbal parry.

“Stop in tomorrow night, Bobby, 7:00 p.m. The address is on the card. Let’s not call it for drinks, just for a talk. And you will shave? Just like the old days, you know what I mean.”

Before replying, there is a click. She knows I will be there and she knows I will be shaved. And I know she is correct, which adds to the frustration more than anything else.