Drug Seeking White Female North American Spotted at Local Pharmacy

A white female with a North American accent was spotted at a well-known local Phnom Penh pharmacy late Sunday morning.

 “Vicodin” was the first word overheard from the woman whose appearance might most aptly be described as a “rather well-functioning former meth head looking to upgrade to prescription pill junkie chic.”

Unzipping her waist pack, many tightly packed currency bundles were seen jammed inside. The female pharmacist shot an expressionless glace over to the male pharmacist as the woman chose an appropriate bundle of cash to pay for her blister packs of pills.

Upon exiting the pharmacy, I mentioned that the woman exhibited typical drug seeking behavior, repeating the phrase “drug seeking” twice. I am not sure the female pharmacist understood that English language phrase, but she certainly was accustomed to such behavior. I inquired as to what the woman  had just purchased.

“Oxycontin,” the female pharmacist answered.

Upon further fact finding it was discovered that the woman had purchased $70 worth of this, the most powerful painkiller available on the market.

“But she had a doctor’s letter; she needs a doctor’s letter,” she continued.

I probed as to whether the doctor’s letter was from a foreign doctor or a Cambodian doctor. She remarked that it was the latter.   

Altogether this is not a rare occurrence with the wide-spread availability of many prescription medications that are exponentially less expensive in many parts of Asia than those in Barangland.

The woman was not able to purchase the Vicodin as it is not available at the pharmacy. This fact alone resulted in the rest of her day being wasted…Literally. Fucking. Wasted.

 

Relocation assistance

You’ve made the decision to move to Cambodia. Congratulations. Your time living in The Kingdom will surely rate as a decision that will have a major  influence on your life, going forward, as well as being probably the coolest thing you’ve ever done.

If you were to book a hotel room, paying anything less than USD$20 technically constitutes roughing it, as it relates to comfort levels acceptable back home. This adds stress to an apartment search as we tend to feel it necessary to quickly secure an apartment lease, as the costs of the hotel and eating and drinking out very quickly will begin to take a large piece of the money you will need for your new apartment.

What’s the solution?

Our relocation assistance program  is designed to make your transition to Cambodian life as easy and as comfortable as possible. Our smiling, yet sober, tuk tuk driver will meet you at the airport, holding up a sign with your name.  A short, pleasant, and always exciting ride, will bring you to the arts and cultural center of Phnom Penh, the National Museum area, where our apartment is located  a mere one minute walking distance from the beautiful riverside.    

The air-conditioned apartment is modestly furnished, and there is access to a refrigerator, stove top, washing machine, cell or smartphone, and a terrace with a view befitting of a postcard. Traditional Cambodian music wafts upwards as the sun goes down and the city lights come up.

Make an appointment with our same trusty tuk tuk driver to take you in comfort to the areas you have chosen for apartment hunting. Keep a sharp eye out for apartment-for-rent signs, which may or may not be written in English. When you find an apartment that piques your interest, have the driver call the number to set up a time to view the place. Your prospective landlord may not speak English, so our driver can function as a rough translator to get an overview of price, how furnished the apartment would be, and terms of the proposed contract. A Cambodian-English translator may be needed for negotiating price and the finer points of a rental contract.

We know that you will be comfortable in your temporary apartment until you are able to find an apartment that fits your budget, location, and living requirements. Please contact us by email  or by phone to take advantage of our very modestly-priced relocation service.

plantagenet2019@yahoo.com

097-406-2480

  

 

The Man from Poipet - Chapter Two

Coming soon...

The Man from Poipet - Chapter One

I got home late in the afternoon. There was a package on my front doorstep, away just enough from to the side so it couldn’t be seen from the sidewalk. Nondescript brown wrapping, taped up tight and slightly squarer than a shoebox, there was a bar code on the top next to a name that I didn’t recognize, certainly no one who has lived at the house over the last forty years.  

The address on the package was off. I live at 151 55^th Avenue, but the address on the package was 1515 5^th Avenue, across the park. It looks like a simple mistake on the addresser’s part. Attention to detail is not important anymore. It used to be. 

An Internet search finds me two pages of the name on the package, James A. Rodgers. Scrolling down, I find the address and a James Allen Rodgers, 29, and a phone number. I read the number out loud, my finger depressing and smudging the computer monitor while dialing the number. The voice on the other end was that of a woman; she sounded pretty. I told her about the package and the addressing snafu, and asked her about the addressee.

“Oh yes!” she said after I explained to her why I was calling. “James is my brother. I had to wait around all day for that package. I just now got off the phone with the delivery company. I called them when the package didn’t show up, but they assured me that it had already been delivered. But I didn’t get it, so I was confused. So, then it really was delivered. Case solved!” she giggled cutely into the receiver.  "We can come by pick it up really anytime that is convenient for you, or you could leave it with your wife if you won’t be there.”

I told her I wasn’t married. I didn’t have an awful lot to say to her on the phone, and I didn’t get much of a chance; she talked a lot, about a lot of things. We hung up without fixed a time to meet, but I said they could come over either early tonight or at this time tomorrow afternoon.      

The phone rang less than a half hour later, from a different phone number. They were in his car and wanted to know if it was a good time to drop by the house. I told them it was and gave a quick description of the exterior.

“Look for an old yellow house with a three-quarter enclosed front porch,” I said while walking out onto it. “You really can’t miss it.”

They pulled up somewhat later than it would have taken them if they’d been in the car, ready to go, and in front of their house. I thought it odd, almost like they didn’t want to appear too eager to pick up whatever it was that was in the package.  I hadn’t asked. It wasn’t any of my business. The car was a Ferrari 308, park halfway across the parking space in front of the house and the driveway. They wouldn’t be long.

She was pretty, with long golden blond hair, and wearing a tight white shirt and a tight blue skirt. He had short brown hair parted on the side. He looked like he was going boating, dock siders with no socks, shorts, and a collared shirt. He looked like he could handle himself in a fight. They didn’t look a whole lot like each other.

“Hi! I’m Jan Rodgers and this is my brother, Jim,” she said, extending her hand to mine, and we shook a half a shake down, our hands hanging there a few awkward seconds too long.   

Not wanting to appear rude just standing there fingering his sister’s palm, I pulled away and extended my hand to the brother. His hands were calloused, like his sister’s, but what was more interesting than that was the circular bruise on the apex of his elbow. I’d seen bruises identical to these before. I fought the impulse to look over at his sister’s elbows, but I reflexively glanced over, but only briefly. He’d been looking at me, his slightly perplexed look dissolving into a practiced smile.

“Jim Rodgers,” he greeted me. “I…we really want to thank you for taking the time to both call us, and taking the time to meet us,” he gestured with his hand from his sister to himself and back again.

“No, it’s nothing,” I replied. “If this is the biggest inconvenience that I have all week, then it’ll be a good week.”

I looked at Jan, my eyes raking across her chest, to her right elbow, past to the 308, and back to her eyes. She blushed, but did she blush because she thought I was checking her out or because I saw the circular bruising around the elbow, same as her brother?

These people are not who they appear; I played along.

“Nice car.”

“The Magnum P.I.,” he replied, his eyes widening then narrowing. “All flash and sucking gas. It’s Jan’s.”

“I’d give you a ride, but I’d have to stick you in the trunk," Jen quipped. “You wouldn’t fit, but I would. I’m pretty flexible.” There was no blush response.

“Maybe next time…I wouldn’t stick you in the trunk the first time we met. But I’ll take a rain check.”