Free Sightseeing by Rattawut Lapcharoensap Page A

thing I recognize in that sea of black and brown before me. He has not turned around to look at our entrance. He’s staring into his hands, leaning on his knees.
    I see his mother, though. I do not want to meet her eyes, but it is already too late. We look at each other and when we do, I feel my cheeks flush. She nods at me once and then she turns back to look at the boy onstage. She will not look at me again for the rest of the day.
    The boy onstage wraps his fingers around the amulet dangling from his neck with one hand, reaches into the lottery urn with the other.
Red
. A moan comes from a section in the crowd. The boy walks off looking stunned, drags his feet across the stage, while the speaker announces another name.
    You’re all right, boy, a man yells from the sidelines. The boy ignores him. You’re all right, the man says again.
    The new draftees are being sent to the pagoda, where officers wait for them with scissors and shears. They get their hair cut standing up, small towels draped around their necks like scarves. A few temple novices sweep the piles of hair around their feet. Soon, there’s a crowd of young men watching the lottery outside the pavilion shade, their scalps shiny under the afternoon sun. Nice haircut, I hear somebody say to a boy who’s been drafted.
    Around four, Kitty walks onstage. There’s laughing and clapping again, but this time Kitty just fingers the hem of his blouse.
Krittaphong Turapradit,
the speaker system announces, and I realize that I haven’t heard Kitty’s real name in a very long time. Even from where I am sitting, I can see beads of sweat glistening on Kitty’s forehead. I see Wichu sit up straight to watch. Kitty retrieves a handkerchief from his purse to wipe away the sweat. The crowd quiets down while the officer spins the lottery urn; the mechanism’s creaking echoes through the pavilion. Kitty reaches into the urn with his eyes shut and pulls out a card. He hands it to the officer.
Black.
The crowd cheers, though there are also a few groans of sadistic disappointment.
    Kitty leaps up and down like a jubilant child, his red blouse flapping wildly against his torso. When an officer tries to escort Kitty off the stage, he faints and collapses to the floor, like somebody has reached down and yanked the spine from his back, and there is laughter all around as the officers try to revive him.
    The names march on, reds interrupted every so often by a few blacks. It is almost Wichu’s turn now. I see his mother chewing her nails to the quick. She waves at Wichu every so often, but Wichu just keeps on staring into his hands.
    The boys around me are nervous. I don’t get it, one of them says. No way in hell they’re making me get up there. Our fathers already gave them what they wanted, right? The other boys tell him to shut up. It’ll work out, one of them says. I’m sure they’ll send us home soon.
    Evening is upon us. The insects are out, moths fluttering against the pavilion lights. Many of the relatives have gone home with their sons to celebrate the miraculous appearance of a black card or, as is more often the case, to prepare their sons for the service in a week’s time. There are about a hundred of us left.
    Wichu has moved to the front of the line.
    The boy before Wichu draws a black card. He gives the finger to all the officers onstage and, in a loud booming voice that surprises us all, tells them to go fuck themselves. His parents and siblings jump up and down at the side of the pavilion, hugging one another, screaming with joy. Wichu’s motheris really nervous now. She leans against one of the rope-poles, her right leg jiggling wildly as if possessed, her mouth moving silently.
Wichu Rattanaram,
the speaker system says. Wichu gets up there and looks over the crowd. For a moment, I think he might be looking directly at me. In my head, I am thinking of a prayer. The officer spins the urn. I think I can