As part of the Nonfiction Master Class taught by Saïd Sayrafiezadeh, a piece of creative fiction, based on a true event during my time in Vietnam.
When I turn the corner on Lê Lai, deep in District 1, that’s when I hear it. The sound of bumping, pulsating music. And it comes from directly above, sort of showering down on you from like twenty floors above. That electronic sound, the stuff that the Americans and other foreigners like. I puff on my cigarette and park my motorbike, a cheap gift given by my uncle, next to the twenty others owned by my colleagues. The paint has been coming off for months, and now the once-blinding red is a deep, murky, maroon. It’s the sort of coloring that occurs during the daily battle with smog and exhaust. I mean, it’s impossible to escape the smog in Ho Chi Minh, and in Hanoi as well, but you do what you can. For instance, before you head out, you make sure to throw on something to cover your face—a rag, the collar of your shirt, or one of those breathable masks that you might see all over the rest of the continent. Foreigners, actually, buy those masks for cheap, it’s around $1 USD, and wear it around like hoodlums, too, which never quite got me to like them anymore.
But at Chill Skybar, the nightly hours drag on with me interacting, and pretending, to enjoy the company of the foreigners that pour into our club. A security guard’s job there was always to be a smiling face for the vacationing, wealthy, American. That way they spent more money. And boy, did they spend money. Together they would buy tables on the rooftop, overlooking the brilliant Ho Chi Minh skyline, take selfies on the edge, and force me into pictures with them so they could tell their friends that “they’d made a new Vietnamese buddy”. I fucking hated it. I was only here to protect the club, the owner (who was Vietnamese) and to restore some sort of order should circumstances merit. While I was shorter than nearly all the foreigners, I was much wider. I had, in my growing age (now forty-seven), grown a gut from beer and rice wine, which made me difficult to push over. I made enough money and was able to be home to see my young son, Bao, and to go the market and work the stand our family had had in Ben Than for decades. It was my grandfather’s, actually, but it had passed to my father, and now to me in his early death years ago. My grandfather, born in Hanoi, had fled when the War of American Atrocity began in the late 50s. Escaping the Communist North was his greatest secret, and this for a man that loved to tell stories. As I grew older, learning about Napalm blasts on villages, children burning and running through the streets, shouting for help, and forests littered with landmines, I realized why he never spoke about it. That never stopped me from asking as a child, though.
But days in the Ben Than market are also riddled with foreigners, yet there it is a different relationship. We realize it may be impossible to have days where we sell many products (foreigners tend to buy things like bracelets, lighters, those sort of things) without their petty cash. Their petty cash sustains our lifestyle, which is enough, even if my past, present, and future involve sitting in the tiny matchbox of a stall in the giant enclosed complex that is Ben Than. On my left, my friend An sells the same goods as me, and on my right, Hien, the man who wrecked my first motorbike driving it in the wrong direction down by the post office, sells cheap jewelry. Ben Than, I’ve always thought, was a trap, for I knew I could never escape the tiny corridors between stands and rank fish on the other side of the market. The foreigners, as much as I needed their money, could leave whenever they wanted. They’d come, haggle and occasionally push me to a point where I made little money (only a few Dong), take what they wanted and never return. I returned every morning after late night shifts as security at Chill Skybar, drowsy-eyed, smoking cigarette after cigarette.
Every night arriving at Chill Skybar is the same. At around 21:00 I relieve Danh from his post by the indoor bar. From a guest’s point of view, this is “extremely reassuring” as our boss puts it, a French man in charge with relations with the patrons. In his words, the patrons will “exit the elevator to be greeted by booming music, an immediate, indoor bar, open glass doors to the rooftop bar, and the smiling, inviting faces of their security and safety." I always began the night as one of those “smiling, inviting faces”. I didn’t have a problem with the post, as it was better than the poor guard who had to stand outside on the rooftop and manage the security of the private tables. That poor guard would have to pose for picture after picture, speak to the foreigners about nothing, really, and push away the drunken idiots who frequently would try to crash other people’s private conversations. He also dealt with the velvet red ropes. I despised those ropes.
So I never complained much about my nights at Chill Skybar, as my English was so poor I rarely, if ever, was forced to interact with anybody but point to where the bathroom was. I would work the spot by the elevators with my friend, Huy, whom I’d grown up with in District 7. Huy was skinny, unlike me, and, like every other Vietnamese man, he would smoke. He smoked a hell of a lot more than I did, however, and as such he had brutal marks of aging that made him look years older than the thirty-five he was. I was a year older and looked better, less wrinkles, my hair only just beginning to thin, albeit with a gut, but only because I refused to smoke as much and I made sure to cover my mouth and nostrils when I rode on my bike. Huy and I both worked long, hard hours—when I was at Ben Than, he was also working in District 1, but at the Popeye’s in the American, touristy part of town—but Huy always seemed pleasant. He enjoyed the mundane, enjoyed his cigarettes, and, most of all, enjoyed the foreigners. Nevertheless, Huy’s smiles ended only when we would watch the foreigners go about their daily business: posing in front of Phuc Long, a tea spot by Ben Than, snapping photos with their fancy cameras, dressed in rags, yet rags that seemed to glimmer compared to ours, and with clean, smiling faces. We seemed destined to only serve them. Huy was a free-spirit, I guess you could call it, but even free spirits in Ho Chi Minh find the same old prisons.
Two nights earlier, I arrived at Skybar a bit late. Time, 21:07. I ran up to the elevators in the back, pressed floor thirty-one, and schemed ways to avoid being noticed as tardy. As I waited in the tiny elevator that stunk of rotten prawn, I tilted my head down, stared at my dirty, black sneakers and dreamt up an excuse, should Olivier, our French manager, see me. Listen, Olivier, I’d say as I pretended to wipe sweat off my brow and put on my most serious and genuine of faces, I’m so sorry, but an American was hit on the corner of Ben Than. They’re not letting anybody go by and the Americans are demanding action. I was able to sneak around the scene but, other than that, there was no way to avoid it. I nodded to myself, elevator now passing floor twenty-nine, this should work. The elevator stopped. I dusted off my shirt and fixed my hair, thinning more daily. The doors opened and, directly in front of me, perhaps two meters away, was Olivier. Behind him was Huy, smiling and waving to me. Olivier was glaring, holding his clipboard that he used to keep track of all our positions.
“Olivier, you won’t believe it—“
“Shut the fuck up and take your walkie,” He said as looked me up and down to ensure I was in proper uniform. The beige, sort of military-style shirt with our fake stiched badge that read “SECURITY,” was clean, and my baggy, cargo pants of the same shade were also clean. My shirt was tucked in, so Olivier could have no complaints.
“I’m sorry," I explained. “There was a big issue by Ben Than!”
“I don’t give a fuck, Trung. You know how important this night is for us. I’m sure you remember last night, you were the center of attention!” Olivier and Huy laughed. Huy exponentially more. Olivier was really just digging at me.
With that I was reminded of the night prior. A few days earlier a group of American students from New York had arrived in HCMC. They came in a swarm, over thirty of them, and practically sold out the entire place. All young, twenty-somethings, they were vivacious, wild, and, above all, smug. They were also, logically, so unbelievably wealthy. One of the Americans, a young, skinny Chinese American had forced me into a picture when he had come out of the bathroom with his gang of idiots. I was forced to “enjoy” the interaction for nearly thirty minutes as he went on and on about things I didn’t even understand. At the end of the night, too, he hugged me. Fucking hugged me.
“Yeah, you remember, don’t you? The students? Well, they’ll probably be back today. You showing up late, then, is a problem for me. Does that make sense, Trung?”
I grabbed my walkie from Olivier’s outstretched hand, other gripping the clipboard over his chest, and muttered “Yes, I apologize.” As I walked to my post next to Huy, Danh (who I was supposed to relieve minutes before) emerged from next to Huy and laughed at me. Upset, I ignored him and fiddled with my walkie, now standing shoulder to shoulder with Huy, a few feet separating us, and Danh went on his way. I was not looking for any fight, I simply wanted the night to conclude.
For the next hour or so, the only notable aspect of my work was the frequent shouts and odd static noises that came from my walkie. Olivier was trying to communicate with the DJ who was paying no attention as he talked to the Vietnamese model girl that danced next to him. As he got frustrated with the lack of response, he’d yell into the walkie, and Huy and I would laugh.
Then, the patron elevators began to move. One was climbing from the lobby. Another was climbing. Then suddenly there was constant motion, up-and-down. The Americans arrived in groups, roughly five or six to each elevator. They were so very drunk already upon their arrival. What always astounded me, as I’d smile and point them to the bar, were all the shapes and sizes of Americans. One elevator would open and out would emerge a group of young Indians, but instead of some Indian language, they’d be speaking and sounding like any other American. Another would reveal a group of tall, white, stereotypical Americans. The height of foreigners (American or not) always astounded me, as well. The world outside Ho Chi Minh seemed to be filled with big, wide shouldered, and tall people. Us Vietnamese tend to be much smaller. Or then another elevator would open and out would come the Americans who were stylish, dressed in rich man’s clothing. And after that, the elevator would open and I would greet the even-larger Americans, the ones with large muscles, nearly always men, often bearded, in this case, one white, one Chinese, and the other some sort of Brown, Indian mix, and nearly always with their arms exposed on the streets. Thankfully there was a dress code at Skybar.
Then, after a couple hours, the elevators would slow and suddenly the entire place would be filled. The rooftop was pulsating, glowing a light purple, and the sounds of conversation seemed to nearly eclipse the music. Our Vietnamese owner, young and rich from an endowment from his parents, was now standing on the bar, flat-brim hat on, an Asian man’s mustache and goatee, pumping up the crowd and talking to the bartender, a man from Denmark who picked up foreign women quickly, and easily. The bar inside that I stood roughly ten meters in front of was also now packed and lined with what seemed to me to be children. Every few minutes, I’d hear “SHOTS!!” and suddenly everybody would yell. The music, European house music and the occasional hip-hop song, resonated throughout the elevator area. Huy and I always wanted earbuds for the nightly work, but we knew it was not something we’d obtain without paying for it ourselves. Also, Olivier might go ballistic thinking we couldn’t hear his shouts on the walkie.
“These Americans, man,” Huy said as he glanced to the rooftop over his right shoulder. He shook his head.
“Yeah,” I agreed and took a look myself. “This is a bit much.”
Despite the groans about our guests, we actually couldn’t complain much about the actual work. These Americans were relatively well-behaved. Sure, they were wild, but the night before I’d heard they had arrived in HCMC with their university, and I’d come to the conclusion that they were probably already scared of any repercussions from their professors and administrators. However, it obviously hadn’t stopped one kid, a skinny Chinese American boy who didn’t look a day older than seventeen, from tossing a bottle he’d purchased at the bar over the edge of the rooftop, down the thirty or something feet to the ground. We, as security realized quickly what he had done, and escorted him out of the club. Though, not without scaring the little American. I remember telling him that we were going to call the police because he’d hit someone on a motorbike and now they were dead. I told him he was now wanted for murder. The look on his face--a mixture between despair and the face made when a child is put in timeout by his mother-- was priceless and made the rest of the kids more tolerable. They seemed to respect us more.
At this late in the night, with the party in full swing, the walkies were kind of useless. With the loud music, it was nearly impossible to hear anything Olivier or anyone else was saying over the radio. Huy had shut his off, but I had to keep mine on, as my tardiness had not put me into favor with the Frenchman. Huy and I were gazing at the indoor bar when I heard some muffles on the walkie that seemed to direct at me. I turned up the volume all the way and put the walkie up to my ear. Olivier was calling, with his usual outrageously-high volume, for Huy or I to find him in the middle of the rooftop bar. I was the only one to hear Olivier, and found him behind the bar, further away from the DJ and near the VIP section, He was standing and screaming in his walkie. I quickly walked up to him.
“Trung, I’m glad you’re here,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder. Then he pointed to the middle, and at one of those big Americans, the ones with muscle and beards. The American, brown and clearly drunk, was talking to his friends, vein popping out of his neck, body and mind fully devoted to whatever he was telling them. “You see that guy?" Olivier began to tell me. "He’s lost his wallet. At least he thinks he has. We’re going to take him into the security room in the back to show him the tapes. He’s very, very upset, and we need somebody to escort him there and back. You’ll be going with Minh and I.”
“OK,” I responded. Olivier looked at me, made eye contact, nodded, and headed towards the American. I followed behind him, braced to be the muscle.
It was always funny seeing Olivier talk to the foreigners. He was so nice. He never yelled, and his French accent seemed to have saved him in many interactions with upset foreigners. They felt he was one of them. With this American, Olivier was now talking very calmly. The American, medium-length hair on his head that was pushed up and back but collapsed onto his forehead and in on itself in the HCMC humidity, a thick, bushy black beard, and big, muscular physique, seemed furious. His nostrils were flared wide and his gaze was intense.
“I’m glad you know I lost it. But if that’s all you got then let’s go there,” the American retorted quickly, enraged. He was touching Olivier on his arm and shoulders, not the touch of a gay man, but the touch of someone who wants to break something. I immediately braced myself. If anything happened, I had to be prepared. The American was roughly a third of a meter taller than me, and probably ten kilo heavier, at least. I followed Olivier, Minh behind me, saying little as he was relatively meek, and Olivier continued to attempt to calm down the young, brown American.
As we went into the back, the American’s two friends followed behind Minh and I. They seemed much calmer but also were big and extremely drunk. The security room was behind the indoor bar, separated by a thick wall. When you went back there you couldn’t hear much. Whatever music was playing took on that sort of muffled boom, boom, boom that you might hear a block away from a busy club. Only about ten people could fit in our tiny security room. It wasn’t so much of a room as it was an office for the security monitors, the ten or so of them we had. Olivier sat down in the rolling chair in front of the monitors, us behind him, mostly watching the American, but occasionally making glances to see who’d be proven correct, and began to move back and forth in time through the night's footage. He was showing the American and his friends the footage of the outdoor bar, and he kept explaining that there was nothing in the footage that hinted at anyone having stolen his wallet. The American, it appeared, had simply lost it.
The American stood there, frozen, and leaning on Olivier. Olivier had told him the cold truth, but he remained in the same position, eyes gripped to the footage, body tense. As I stood on the right of Olivier, studying the American’s body language, I saw that as time passed, the small taps on the arm or shoulder that he was giving Olivier outside were becoming grabs. He was leaning over Olivier as Olivier studied the footage, hand gripping his collarbone. He acknowledged that nothing could be done, but it was utterly apparent that he was in a rage. His face contorted, and the veins in his neck popped out. Olivier stressed that he calm down. The American’s friends, seeing their friend become unresponsive and his body clenched, stressed that he calm down. Minh and I suddenly realized we were not alone as security in the room, and that there were roughly eight of us surrounding the American in the small room. I already didn’t like these Americans, and this one, this smug, furious, American who was losing his composure over money that likely meant nothing to him if lost? My gut swelled with a warm, empty, but motivating feeling. I hated him.
I didn't think the anger would serve any purpose, as then the decision had been made to leave the security room and all the monitors and Olivier began to assemble everyone and get them out. The American was still visibly furious (even as he claimed he was calm, at least from what I could understand), nostrils still flared, eyes with that empty look of drunken rage, and began to say things to his friend. These were English curse words I understood, and it became obvious that nothing had, in fact, been resolved. Nothing was changing this American's mind. He was saying them in my direction, perhaps not about myself, but about someone here. And I, fed up with this American, seeing the eight of us still in the room, yelled at him.
“Shut the fuck up!” I yelled, pointing at him. Olivier turned to me in utter shock and then back at the American. The air stood still for a second, a pure silence after the loud yell I’d just finished. Everyone in the room quickly glanced around, studying the situation that had suddenly rippled over. The American’s eyes shot towards me and glared. He turned towards me, trying to push out his chest and frighten me. I wasn’t afraid of him. He was a punk. Another American punk here to party.
“What the fuck did you just say?” He asked. I had shouted in Vietnamese, and as such he waited for somebody to explain. But he didn’t wait long. I’d sent him over the edge.
He started yelling something along the lines of “fuck you” when the eight of us realized it was time to get him. We closed on him, four of us grabbing him from behind, one pulling at the elbow he’d cocked back at me, fist ready, and four of us in front, attempting to push away fists and grab his arm. We closed around him and separated him from his friends. His friends screamed in protest, and tried to rip their way through our makeshift human wall. The room, so silent after I’d told this American to shut up, was now ablaze in shouts. Olivier, stunned and looking around, understood what had to happen. We were going to kick him out. But I wanted more than simply to drag him away from the club.
At first, he fought us as we pulled him, two or three on each arm, to the elevator. He fought hard, wriggling, pushing, and pulling his arms, but our numbers made it impossible for him to stop us from taking him to the elevator. We pushed the unsuspecting Americans who were leaving the club out of the way and dragged him into the metal box. We waited for the gold, reflective doors to close, and he kept fighting, yelling “fuck” after “fuck” at us. It was “fuck you”, “fuck this”, “go fuck yourself”, all slurred and all enraging the eight of us who didn’t want to have to deal with another pompous American party-er.
Then the doors closed.
Now we were alone with him. He had given up fighting so furiously and was prepared to be kicked out, legs limp under him and head down. He knew what he had done, but still mumbled his anger in curses under his breath. I glared at him, studying him. How foolish he seemed, this boy, this furious man-child, so stubborn and full of himself. Holding him by his right arm, I began to feel a heat swell over me. His face, which I could barely make out as he starred down at the floor, seemingly exhausted, looked ugly to me. He was so ugly. Just like all the other foreigners, ugly but always acting superior. The room took on a red hue. Adrenaline pulsed, time moving quickly but also dragging on, I noticed every detail in the elevator.
Like a reflex, I punched him in the side. Then, Minh hit him in the back. As long as that elevator ride lasted—about thirty floors down and with each punch, another floor closer to the ground (32...31...30...29...28...)—the eight of us landed blow after blow, and the American began to cry out for us to stop. That we “couldn’t do this” because he was an “American”. We were going to do whatever we wanted to him. Given the way he had behaved, he deserved it and nobody could save him. We kept hitting the American, Minh putting in the best work kicking him in the back, and then he went quiet. He wasn’t motionless, moaning and slowly writhing in pain, but all the fight was gone. The elevator doors opened and we were on the first floor, right on Lê Lai street. We dragged him over the red carpet that leads guests in, pulled him off to the side and threw him onto the corner. He wasn’t moving. Minh looked at me, fury and anger in both our eyes, and started feeling the American’s pockets. Minh stopped suddenly, feeling something, and shoved his hand vigorously into the pocket. Out came a beautiful iPhone. Minh smiled, laughed, spat on the ground and told me to come with him. I took a glance back at the American, lifeless on the sidewalk, face-down, and wanted to go at him even more. But the kid was done. Finally, the smug, rich American was done.
