Ryan, my couchsurfer, lives in a hotel. He lives in many hotels, that is, but he keeps his stuff at one, in Bangkok.
He entered my little studio with several cumbersome bags of duty-free items – mostly alcohol – Johnny Walker Blue, a bottle of Moët et Chandon, and vodka. I pointed at several boxes of cosmetics and asked who they were for.
“The perfume? That’s for my sister. She loves that Juicy Couture shit.” I decided immediately that his sister and I would be incompatible, should we ever meet.
“Who is the Chanel for?”
“I don’t know yet. Someone.” He then asked what was going on that night. I replied that I didn’t know of much happening on a Tuesday night and I work the next day, anyway. I suggested we get some Mexican food and then think about it, as it was 7 and I was quite hungry.
“Sure, but let’s pre-game a bit first.” He removed the bottle of vodka from his luggage. By 11, we had still not left the studio. In the hours between 7 and 11, one of my freezer shelves had been broken and a large hole had been put into my cheap hardwood floors. I was getting frustrated.
At 11:15, the bottle was empty. I hadn’t had anything but a can of Hite beer. Ryan declared it was nacho o’clock. We left the apartment; he was wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses. In one hand he carried the bottle of Moët, in the other, he carried a Dunkin Donuts mug containing the last bit of his vodka mixed with Chilsung cider. The contents of his mug splashed wildly as we made our way to the elevators, leaving a sticky trail that would remain for days.