Jit la’or, she says.
I don’t realise why she says this until later.
The subtext is this:
I’m giving you this gear because I believe you have a good heart.
Tomorrow, you will be tried on the street.
Not in court.
On the street.
The people’s court.
We will watch you. We being the Khmer community. The police. Everyone. We will test you. And we will watch you.
If you fail the test, this little bag of sh*t I’m giving you will ensure we, Cambodia, throw you in the trash can with all the other scum who deserve to be there, for 10 years.
However, if you pass the test you will walk free.
How do you pass the test?
You will be judged based on the reaction of two little girls.
Two severely disfigured little girls.
If they like you, you will go free.
If they dislike you, you will be arrested and locked up in Prey Sar prison.
If you have a good heart the girls will feel you, warm to you, laugh with you.
If not, the police will use this gram of ice to toss you in prison…where you will stay for ten years…you may even die in jail.
That’s the subtext.
That’s what she’s saying with those two little words.
But I’m buzzing.
No sleep for 5 nights.
Out my nut.
I don’t realise what’s actually going on until 8am the next morning.
But right now, sitting on street 51, alone, a free gram of gear in me wallet, I’m a rockstar, friend of the Bong Thom (Gangster No.1) of Sorya and James fuken Bond.
Jit la’or, I goes to her.
I’m puffed up like a poisoned peacock.
I’m like Macbeth, about to lift the poisoned chalice to my own lips.
Fall on the sword I’ve been been rewarded.
The crown I’ve been given is made of thorns.
But unlike Jesus, I’ve no idea.
Jit la’or, I goes.
I’m jit la’or.