playwright, educator, etc.

charlesemangan@gmail.com

this bed is hard

(Ubon Ratchatani, Thailand)

1/8/20234 min read

This bed is hard. I wonder if my Kuhn-Dta (my grandfather) was comfortable sleeping in it towards the end of his long life. Most Thai mattresses that I’ve lied in are much firmer than their American cousins. I can’t help but think of Noah’s bed - he’s a good friend from college. His mattress topper must’ve been five, maybe six inches deep. It had so much give that you sunk into it, like sand. Personally, I despise sleeping in sand-holes. Still, there's something to be said about lying in one - it’s a whole-body hug. Plus, Noah’s bed smelled like Noah, so it felt like a Noah hug. Right now, I miss Noah hugs. (If you know, you know).

If Noah's bed is sand, Kuhn-Dta's bed is rock. Concrete. This bed is so god-damn hard. It's also ghostly. But that isn’t something I enjoy thinking on. Right now, I’d rather think about Noah. Or really, anything else. Any kind of distraction.

Maybe it is because I can be antsy about sleep, especially in new beds, but whenever I lie in a new bed for the first time, my first instinct is to investigate it. Are there any divots, or any inconsistencies in its give? Kuhn-Dta's bed setup provided a single firm, cubic pillow, but was there more? This is an important question, given that I am a pillow slut. Ideally, I have four or five pillows sprinkled about me to grab periodically throughout the night. Especially here in Thailand, having pillows to squeeze is important. Therapeutic. In the U.S., I had Noahs, Hannahs, Adams, and Gabbys to squeeze and squeeze me back. Here, I have fewer squeeze targets. Though they lack a heartbeat and cannot provide squeezeback, I just take what I can get. Let’s inspect the closet. I find pillows galore. Fucking bingo.

The Dimak home in Warin Chamrap, Ubon Ratchatani Province

When I sleep, I love squeezing a pillow between my legs, like those Tik Toks of hot people with voluptuous thighs exploding watermelons with their sheer muscle. I turn with my hands full.

They are clean, but they feed bloody. My eyes make contact with this bed. This bed is ghostly. This house is ghostly. I am physically alone, save my pillow-slut earnings. But there is something more here. I look at my bounty. These are my passed Kuhn-Dta pillows. Will I put them between my thighs tonight? … I return them to his closet. One pillow for my head will do.

I feel caught. I feel examined by this home. I lie in my mother’s old family home, located in Warin Chamrap, a small city outside Mueng Ubon Ratchatani. I’m staying because my cousin is getting married this weekend: a great reason to take a few days off from school to visit the family I haven’t seen in 11 years.

The majority of my patchwork memory of Thailand is of this home. My return has been a slow mindfuck. For one, as expected, it is smaller. But that’s expected: my height has probably doubled since 11 years old. What churns me are the words of my aunts and uncles, who repeat the same words: “your home, Charlie.”

“Jing luh? Bahn Charlie, chai mai?,” I ask. My Thai is so poor. I imagine I sound like a babbling three-year-old to them, but at least they can understand this one phrase. “Chai,” they all say. They repeatedly say that it is my home. I nod, but I do not agree. For one, I feel undeserving. This is a family that I have not talked with in years, so many years. Well, maybe here and there when my mom is chatting with my Bah Nit or Bah Jim, I’ll come over and throw in a sa-wad-dee-kap, but nothing else, because I could say nothing else. I couldn't even make his funeral. Who was I to walk into this home and indulge in its amenities, sleep in its bed?

Even more, I felt almost… disappointed by my initial reaction to the space. I spent my train ride from Bangkok to Ubon dreaming of how I’d feel. I imagined some divine awakening, that entering the space would pierce something in my heart, and that I would start crying on the spot, or something dramatic like that. Anyone that knows me knows I am a sucker for the sentimental, so I wouldn’t put it past me to pull something like that. My initial reaction was far less dramatic. My first steps were more akin to entering an Airbnb for the first time. I was only spending four days in the house - it did not feel like home.

It wasn’t until my back first rolled out onto my Kuhn-Dta’s hard mattress Kuhn-Dta’s bed that I sensed that my behavior and psyche were being monitored. By who? Ultimately, objectively, I knew the answer. It was me. I was the one judging myself. A house cannot judge me, nor can dead relatives.

Left to Right: My Younger Brother, My Father, Kuhn-Dta, Me, My Mother

...These are cursed thoughts. Upon thinking "dead relatives cannot judge me," my body-mind enters a paradox. My mind knows I am unwatched, but my body disagrees. I am being watched, but am I being judged? Is this judgment? Is this love? I have felt nothing but love from my living relatives, but would Kuhn-Dta feel the same? I was in his bed, after all. I feel crazy. I am so sweaty. I should shower. I’m too tired to get up. I want to go to sleep. I should distract myself. I will think about this bed, I will think about its physical qualities. This bed is… hard.

When I lay my head on my one small, firm pillow, I naturally put up one leg, and then cross the other, such that a near-perfect equilateral triangle is formed between my two thighs and right ankle. My mom says that my Kuhn-Dta used to do the same thing. He was tall like me. I know I do it because I have so much leg. Why did you do it, Kuhn-Dta? I am listening as hard as I can, but I’m having trouble understanding you.

charlie mangan // charlesemangan@gmail.com