On the Edge of a Dream - Michael Wiese

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      We give each other a hug. Then another.

      “Damn, I’m really glad to see you.”

      He gives me that irresistable smile.

      “I couldn’t resist your invitation. Has it been difficult for you? The draft board and all?” he asks.

      “No, not really, I keep to myself mostly, taught a bit of English.”

      He starts rolling a cigarette on an old rolling machine.

      “Want one?” he inquires.

      “No thanks, I don’t smoke that stuff.”

      “Me neither, I just like making them,” he laughs.

      “So, how long have you got?” I ask, nudging him.

      “Only a week. Then I’m suppose to go back and take my exams.”

      “You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

      “Yeah. I’m not sure I want to be a missionary.”

      We walk along the shoreline and look at the fishing boats. Back in high school in Indiana, Eddie and I were best friends. We even started a band. He had great hands with long fingers and a great sense of rhythm.

      “Remember the Esquires? And how we had to sneak you out of the house to play those dives along Route 45?” I ask.

      “Yeah, until my dad showed up at Ducey’s. And that was the end of that,” he laughs.

      Eddie’s father was a very strict guy. He was a brilliant scholar and theologian who taught Hebrew and Greek at the University. He pulled the strings to get Eddie into the theology program in Salt Lake. Now Eddie wants out.

      “And so what are you going to do,” I ask, “if you’re suppose to go back in a few days?”

      “I’m going to do what I want to do.”

      “And that is…?”

      “Something important.”

      “I can dig it,” I say.

      Eddie and I hang out together for a few days. I never thought one day we’d be traveling together. He’s spent most of the 60s in a seminary following his fathers footsteps to save pagan babies, while I was in San Francisco becoming one.

      He moves into my hotel. It’s cheap but relatively clean. We share a funky bathroom at the end of a hallway. One night, sitting on the balcony and looking out across the rooftops and shop-lined streets below, listening to the night sounds, we spot three tall women in slinky silk dresses looking up at us, trying to get our attention. There’s electricity in the air. Eddie spots them first.

      “Look there.”

      “Beautiful.”

      “Hello, hello,” they shout.

      “Come on up,” I yell.

      There’s something fascinating about them. The girls come up, and lean against the wall, smoking cigarettes. No one speaks, we just all eye each other. Eddie keeps stealing glances at the very beautiful thin one in the red dress. She looks Thai or Malaysian. Long straight black hair, beautiful black eyes and skin, small breasts, big arms and wrists.

      He can’t take his eyes off her.

      And she can’t take her eyes off the handsome (and to her, rich) American. Eddie sits very still, not moving.

      The girl leans next to Eddie and rubs her leg against his arm.

      Eddie abruptly stands up and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

      “You think me pretty? You want see more?” She pulls back the red silk, showing off her thigh. Eddie backs up, smiling slightly.

      The other girls smile, as the seduction mounts.

      I stand.

      “Eddie, I’m going for a walk. She’s all yours.”

      “No wait. Stay,” he laughs.

      “No, Eddie, they’re not my style.” I pucker my lips and throw the girl a goodbye kiss.

      “What’s matter, you no like me?” the girl says.

      I laugh.

      “You no make joke me.” Her raspy voice deepens.

      Eddie is startled.

      The girl shoves me hard against the wall and turns to Eddie.

      “What’s matter? You no like make boom-boom? Good boom-boom. Cheap price. Stupid guys!”

      The girls turn away and shout insults back at me and Eddie.

      Eddie is baffled. I don’t think he’s ever seen anything like this before.

      “Good drag, huh?”

      “Yeah…I thought…you know..Jeez.”

      Late one afternoon, we wander through the back alleys searching for a restaurant. The streets are backed with people and rickshaws and delivery trucks. Some beautiful hostesses smile at us, then we go down some steps into a night club.

      “See that! Women are always giving us subtle messages. If we don’t pay attention, we’ll miss the signs. I was going to do a film about that in San Francisco. I was this close to having the money.”

      “And do what?” asks Eddie.

      “A film. A film about women. I was going to call it ‘Messages, Messages.’ I had women all over me wanting to be in it.”

      We squeeze through the crowd. Eddie stops at a restaurant with a large statue of Confucius in the window. He throws out his hands.

      “Confucius says, ‘he who make decision, has happy life’.”

      He smiles that smile, keeping me in suspense.

      “What have you decided?”

      “Let’s make ‘messages, messages’ together! In Bali!”

      “Bali?”

      Before I have time to consider the liabilities in his proposal, we’ve pooled our money and bought a CanonScopic movie camera and a tape recorder, and we are on our way to Bali.

      SPLASHDOWN

      Clambering children thrust jackfruit and small carvings into my face through the open window of the bus. Several chant “minta wang, minta wang” over and over like madmen as they dance around us, holding out their hands. We climb out. So this is Bali!

      Eddie and I push away the hawkers and find ourselves in a dusty lot. Jesus, it’s hot. It’s so bright that I can barely keep my eyes open. The air is filled with sweet and pungent smells, incense, and our own two-day-old funk. Nearby are drink stands with rickety wooden benches. Gaudy billboards with large orange Indonesian letters advertise “KRETEK.”

      What a long bumpy ride! I stretch, trying to get the kinks out of my body, and then I sit down gingerly. What little butt I had is now gone—bone against plank. I’m beat, but excited. The newness gives me a rush. Everything is so stimulating. I know great things will happen to us here.

      Eddie is wired and ready for action, as if powered by a dozen extra batteries. He was never this wired back home. He says it’s the air. A couple of young boys rush up.

      “Darimana? Darimana?

      Market urchins with something to sell. We don’t understand.

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