I’m sitting here in Da Nang, watching the parade of the absurd. It’s a humid morning, the kind that makes your shirt stick to your back like a second, unwanted skin. I’m nursing a breakfast I didn’t ask for and thinking about the geography of the soul—or the lack of it.
Across the street, I see it again. The Expat Special.
He’s a walking heap of biological debt—a constructed old man with cancer spots blooming on his face like desert flowers and blubber spilling over the sides of size 48 suspenders. He’s wearing an 4XL shirt that looks like a tent abandoned by a circus. He’s the kind of guy who hasn’t seen his own feet in a decade, let alone the plumbing he was born with. He’s a wrecking ball of a human being, held together by sheer stubbornness and heart medication.
And right next to him? A miracle of genetics.
She’s young—young enough to make you wonder if God has a sense of humor. She’s athletic, flexible, a coiled spring of energy. She’s everything he isn’t. She’s the sunset; he’s the industrial runoff. Culturally, they aren’t even on the same planet. Physically, it’s a crossbreeding experiment that shouldn’t work. You look at them and you think: Why?
In the States, we wrap this in layers of onion skin. we call it “destiny” or “finding a second lease on life.” We pretend there’s a symphony playing in the background. But here, the onion skin is paper-thin. You peel it back with a fingernail and find the cold, metallic core of the trade.
Let’s stop lying to ourselves. It isn’t “his incredible charm.” It isn’t “his beautiful soul.” It’s a commodity exchange.
In this black sea, everything has a fee. Everyone is a buyer or a seller. He’s buying the illusion of youth, the warmth of a body that doesn’t ache yet, the feeling that he’s still a predator in the tall grass. And she? She’s playing the long game. She’s trading the currency of her skin for a ticket out of the dirt. She’s looking at him like a car—wondering if he’s due for an oil change or if the engine is finally going to seize up so she can collect the scrap metal.
I look at them and then I look at the mirror. What kind of car am I driving? What am I getting in exchange for the fire I’m pouring out?
There’s a silence in the streets about this. Everyone sees the “horrors” selling themselves at 4:00 AM, but the world stays quiet. We ignore the fact that modern love is often just a high-stakes game of chicken played with a bank account. We want to believe in the white dress and the virginity, but that’s a fairy tale for the weak. In the real world, women have evolved. They aren’t looking for the “poor or ugly” man because their loyalty is tied to the current market value.
Men are the only ones left capable of the “unconditional” lie. We’re wired to take a bullet for a woman who wouldn’t hand us a glass of water if we were on fire. We seek out these “burning buildings” because they feel like home, while we ignore the steady, calm women because they don’t trigger the panic in our gut that we mistake for “the spark.”
I’m sitting here, 57 years old, watching the dark blood of reality leak out of the story. I’ve got my phone charging, ready to film the wreckage. I’m not looking for the expat bullshit or the Hallmark ending. I’m looking for the raw bone.
We’re all just chasing ghosts in the smoke. We’re addicted to the burn, addicted to the rejection, addicted to the trade. We walk down these streets in our oversized shirts, feeling the weight of our own decay, hoping that if we pay enough, the mirror will lie to us one more time.
But the mirror never lies. It just waits.
(I reach out, a heavy hand on your shoulder. I don’t look you in the eye; I look at the street.)
Listen to me, kid. You’re going to go out there and you’re going to see the lights. You’re going to feel that bolt of lightning when you see a stranger and think she’s the pinnacle of the world. Just remember: that lightning is usually the sound of your own house catching fire. Keep your guard up. Don’t let the “intensity” fool you. Real peace is silent. It doesn’t need a parade, and it doesn’t cost a fee you can’t afford to pay.
Now, finish your drink. The sun’s coming up, and we’ve both got lives to rebuild from the scrap. Stay strong. We’re the only ones who will.
