The Old Vacant Hotel Ch. 01

Douglas Van Wyck: "Shouldn't I, maybe?"

For more than nine years, I worked at a large private English school in our nondescript town in the middle of Vietnam, but the director and I grew apart over time, and so we agreed not to renew my contract. The best thing working there was that I had met my muse Nguyet, with whom I was still having an affair, although we didn't see each other as often as we used to.

After enjoying two months of vacation, I decided to take myself on another round of visits to English schools around town, as I couldn't imagine spending all day in front of the computer, teaching online. I had saved enough money to mostly live off interest, but I was also curious about the many so-called English Centers that had sprung up in our sleepy town during the last eight years.

Throwing my hat into the proverbial ring could do no harm; especially, since I didn't need to accept a position that I didn't like. Ideally, I would find two schools between which I could choose, after I had tried to drive up the hourly rate a bit as well. Basically, I was curious to see how places operated - knowing that I would also meet new people.

English was required from first grade on, here in Vietnam, and students wanting to continue at university were strongly encouraged to take an IELTS test early in twelfth grade to avoid another long English test while they were taking their national exams, after they had graduated from high school.

Overall, students liked English, as a subject, but many Vietnamese English teachers had difficulties pronouncing words and lacked practice in writing. Sure, they were good at grammar and vocab, but they couldn't really speak English, as strange as that might sound. To alleviate this predicament, thousands of English Centers had opened all over the country, which were keen on hiring foreigners.

Ideally Filipinas, as they were pliable and could be paid less than teachers from the U.S. or Europe. That business model had been selling like hot cakes for years, but then Covid came and now, those English Centers didn't give a flying fuck about education any longer: Raking in as much dough from parents as possible, while keeping up some pretenses in regard to education appeared to be the preferred business model.

For teachers, this meant much more outside control as well as long, inconvenient hours, during evenings and weekends. Many English Center owners had bought property during the boom and were still encumbered with mortgages. Of course, there were also exceptions to this general rule, as the Vietnamese valued education, on the whole.

One of the worst offenders, however - one of the worst We're taking as much money from the parents as possible but just offer a show of education - was the relatively new International School on the south side. The whole place was outright ridiculous: fortified like Fort Knox and way too large for our small, nondescript town.

The student body, I had been told on multiple occasions, consisted of ten percent nice kids, who wanted to learn, but the rest was spoiled rotten, as their parents were filthy rich. The place paid their foreign teachers well but, with so many powerful parents and their spoiled-rotten offspring, the money wasn't worth getting involved, I always felt; partially, as I never liked the idea of wearing a suit and tie to greet the bunch at 6:55 in the morning, bowing toward an open SUV door.

Then, instructors were not allowed to leave the campus, even if they weren't teaching. There were also rumors about pot-smoking - and blowing the smoke right in the teacher's face - incompetent supervisors, who barely spoke English, and the inability to tweak the students' behavior even in the slightest, as that may incur the wrath of the mighty parents.

I still had applied there recently, as I was curious to see what it looked like inside, although I was well aware of all the shit I knew I wouldn't want to deal with. Over the years, I had met countless foreign teachers, as they were easy to spot around town and since there was only one bar here that sold beer on tap.

At my very first visit to said International School - simply to get an email address to which I could send my application - I had been passed from one entrance gate to the next with arm gestures, as the guards assumed that I couldn't communicate in Vietnamese. Tired of this nonsense, I had insisted at the third stop, on the west side, until a young Vietnamese chap had come down, so that we could exchange our contact information in the glistening sun.

Oh, well. The funny thing was that, next, a woman who owned one of those smaller English Centers arranged for an interview for me with said International School, as she apparently had connections. So, finally, I would be able to enter the monstrous, 300 by 350 yard campus and, perhaps, even get to see a classroom.

The guard on the south side showed me where to park my motorcycle and go next. I ended up in the lobby of some conference building, where no one was waiting for me. Of course, not. I asked for the Wi-Fi password at the reception and then stretched in one fat, brown armchair to amuse myself on Twitter.

The cold and the silence were almost eerie, like in space. Odd. Hearing Bowie in my head, I felt like in a science fiction movie, although the architecture wasn't unpleasant. Of course, the nippy air was just the result of the modern A/C system, but it was also symbolic: the atmosphere was lifeless and far from welcoming.

After fifteen minutes, a young woman was approaching me. She was sporting a knee length, pleated grey skirt and a purple polo with the school logo on her chest. The lady was about twenty-three and neither attractive nor the opposite. She was pleasant, fuss-free, friendly, and warm. She also spoke decent English but then led me into an even colder room, where the burgundy tables were arranged into an oval.

Like a huge pussy. Some young dude in a white shirt and tie was sitting on the left, close to the clit, behind his large laptop, and asked me to take seat across from him, about four yards away. The girl had disappeared, but then returned with a half-full glass of lukewarm water. Odd.

Unfortunately, she took off again, leaving me alone in this cold, unwelcoming environment. I felt as if we were in a soundproof room; like in a gangster movie. If I hadn't been twenty years older, ninety pounds heavier and eight inches taller than the young chap across from me, I would probably have been intimidated. But no, I just readied myself to the interview, which was about to ensue.

Knowing that I wouldn't be offered the position - which I didn't really want, anyway. Since I wasn't a trained professional with a degree in teaching - but 'only' had a PhD in Education - the International School couldn't directly hire me and had to go through the other English Center that I mentioned briefly. Which would also formally hire me - to then pimp me out to the much larger place where I was currently interviewing.

Now, the young Vice Director began to list all the unpleasant things that would come with the position: the long hours, the confinement, and the sycophantic greeting routine in the morning. In addition, I would have to prepare Power Point presentations for every class, which I was to upload to a website. Before class.

A friend of mine from India had already told me that the system was bound to crash every other day. And yes: one wasn't to criticize the students, ever. Mister Long didn't explicitly state why, but probably to mollify the affluent parents. And, as if that wasn't enough: occasionally, I would have to partake in Saturday morning activities. Physical ones, outdoors, from what it sounded like.

When he explained that the small school would keep a chunk of my salary, too, as they had arranged our relationship, I knew we could basically stop there, but still asked him how much they would deduct. For shits and giggles. Typically, Mister Long explained, the International School would pay around 2,500 bucks per month, but I shouldn't expect more than 1,800 in my checking account.

Well, that would still be eight times the average monthly salary in Vietnam but, of course, I didn't feel like relinquishing 700 bucks. Every month. Because I didn't have a teaching degree; 'only' a PhD in Education. I had taught future teachers for eleven years, at three universities, on two continents.

I felt like getting up, but I didn't want to be rude, as Mister Long - which was pronounced Lomm - wasn't done yet. Was I familiar with computers: Excel, Power Point, and PDFs? he asked. I don't recall exactly what I replied, but it must have been something along the lines of I started using computers around the time you were born.

He looked at me in disbelief but, when I added that I was indeed aware of the benefits of modern technology but reminded him that the students should rather pick my brain during class, he nodded, for the first time. We both knew, however, that we wouldn't come to an agreement. So, after less than an hour, the interview was over, and I got up: I thanked him for his time, knowing that I would never hear from Mister Long again.

I sauntered back through the cold, unwelcoming building, with its tiled walls, all by myself, regretting that I didn't see the young damsel again, whose name I didn't know. I noticed that there were no students, at 3:30 in the afternoon; no voices, no laughter, no frolicking, no sign of vitality. Nothing reminded me of learning or education - nor life in general.

As I was already dressed up, for a change, I cruised through town, thinking about where else I could introduce myself. I had two coffees but then ended up at the only bar in town that sold beer on tap. Unfortunately, the cute, petite waitress wasn't working. Eventually I left, as it seemed her day off.

This all had been in early October and, sure enough, the ludicrous International School didn't even have the decency to turn me down properly. Now, almost two months later, the owner of that smaller English Center contacted me again: this time about a part-time position at the much-dreaded place. Again, she would be the pimp - and I, the hooker/teacher.

They were offering sixteen bucks per hour, but I declined. Thinking that this might solely be about the money, they added three more U.S. dollars per hour, which still wasn't enough, with all the prep time and the marking I would have to do. And all the other bullshit, of course: wearing a tie, being confined during off hours, as well as the entitled kids and parents, who were used to having everything their way.

When the Center owner insisted again in the evening, I made it clear that I didn't want to have anything to do with the institution. And thought that would be it. But no, the next morning, the young chick - who had guided me into the freezing interview room with the pussy-shaped tables and brought me the glass of tepid water - had written to me on Zalo, a social networking site in Vietnam.

I didn't know if she was just curious or if Mister Long had asked her to do so, as everyone knew that most men are suckers for young Asian women. Why are you opposed to working for us? Quyen asked, but then added: The money is the most we ever offered to anyone.

Since I liked her, I told Quyen that, frankly, she was the only positive recollection I had of my visit to the school. To not sound cheesy or sentimental, I added a few points of criticism, listing all the things I didn't want to do, toward the final years of my teaching career. In the end, I just didn't want to support a bullshit system that pretended to educate but couldn't even provide textbooks to students. Not even as copies.

Which I knew from my Indian buddy, Ajay. Curious if they would add another two bucks on top of what they were offering, I kept the whole conversation friendly, as I believed in not needlessly burning bridges. To twist my arm further, Quyen told me that I could scrap the tie, as a part-time teacher, and also leave campus if I wasn't teaching. And no, no dress shoes, either; nice sandals would be enough.

Which were three baby steps in the right direction, of course. However, when I described the cold, unwelcoming atmosphere to her once more, Quyen seemed to take it personally but then, we got distracted by another issue: When I reminded her that the students who had textbooks didn't bring them to class - which I also knew from Ajay - Quyen claimed that that would be normal.

To which I replied that her pretentious, expensive school should do something about it. Quyen probably felt uneasy as she was reading through my lines but thanked me profusely for my openness, as she hadn't considered some of the issues as potentially detrimental. She even expressed her gratitude once more for my frankness, after she had said goodbye. And I thought, again, that would be it.

Until Quyen began once more, two days later. This time, she wanted to meet me in person, though, just her and me, at a coffee shop. Did she want to learn more about how her school appeared to an outsider? Or did she have another marginal increase in pay up her polo sleeve?

Of course, I also conceived the idea that she could offer herself, on top of the nineteen bucks per hour, as she would probably get a nice bonus if she could convince me to work for them. In the end, I dismissed that thought, as we had never flirted. And Quyen didn't strike me as particularly sensual, sexy, or wanton, either.

Not that she wasn't attractive; most Vietnamese girls were, more or less. Quyen was of medium height, neither slim nor chubby, with pleasant features. But she didn't seem convinced enough of her own allure to toss herself into the mix. Maybe Mister Long had forced her to meet me in person? Well, I was definitely curious enough to meet her again. And she knew I had a lot of time on my hands, as I wasn't working at the moment.

After I had agreed to meet her, however, Quyen suggested the café right across the school, which I found odd, as students might hang out there, too. If she wanted to turn our meeting into a sensual encounter, I would have expected a different location.

I had been to said café multiple times and sat down inside, near the wall facing the school. Which was just two feet high, so I had a nice view of the street in between and the gate, where I had received the contact information in the glistening sun, the first time I had made a step to an interview here.

As I was smoking, I saw Quyen moseying across the street, in her grey, knee length, pleated skirt, purple polo shirt, white socks, and blue sneakers. The first thing she said, though, was that she would prefer to sit upstairs, where I had never been. Interestingly, she was holding her helmet in her left hand. Apparently, we were going somewhere else, afterwards.

Subtly, this began to feel like a small adventure that would go beyond our relationship as HR chick and job applicant, although I had to admit that I wasn't exactly enamored with her. But then again, there was nothing wrong with Quyen, either: She was ten inches shorter than me, had dense, pitch black hair, a womanly figure with harmonious proportions, without any truly superfluous fat.

Quyen was a young woman in her physical prime and had just shaved her legs. Her relatively large bosom was heaving nicely, as she was now sitting across from me, around the corner of the table, upstairs. I could even make out the contours of her bra, under her polo, which was a nice touch.

Quyen's face was perfectly oval but seemed wider at the bottom than at the top, which could have had to do with her hairdo. Apparently, she hadn't bothered to go to the hairdresser for a while, as her bangs' length was approaching that of the rest of her hair, which she had casually parted in the middle. She also had a small wart close to her lower lip, on the left, which I found almost endearing.

Anyway, when she smiled at me for the first time, the ice was already broken, and I had a hunch that we wouldn't talk much about why I had refused to work at her school. The waitress had long brought her milk tea, which Quyen was sipping now. If she wasn't drinking, she kept stirring her beverage, like she was nervous, but after she had taken another gulp, she asked if we could go for lunch together, later.

"My motorcycle is on campus, but I could ride with you, couldn't I?"

I was slightly perplexed, as Quyen didn't know how entertaining I could be, but she was no child and perhaps sensed that we could have a good time together. I knew she had two hours for lunch, which she confirmed when I asked her. And then, she told me that today was soup day, in the cafeteria, which was never enough, though:

"I'm a bit tired of the same food every week. It's decent, but I've worked here for a year."

"Is it enough food, at least?" I was curious, kinda avuncular.

"Normally, yes. But the soup's kinda thin," she giggled and blushed, smiling again.

"Sure, we'll go somewhere else, whatever you like. It's on me," I naturally offered.

Quyen thanked me, and I waited for her to say something, but when she didn't, I asked her bluntly if she was here to try to convince me again. For some reason, she looked up and down on me, like she needed a bit of time to think, but then replied:

"No. I mean, you said already that you don't want to. Several times."

Technically, she could still try, but I didn't feel like unraveling the history of our failure again. Yet I definitely wanted Quyen to know one thing:

"You know, like I said before, you are the only positive memory I have of the whole place."

Which sounded rather melodramatic. But it was true. And a compliment - although my happiness with her partially arose out of the rest being so cold and inhospitable.

"Well, Mister van Wyck, I thought about the whole thing: You're right. Many students don't like the school, especially the older ones. And the teachers never stay for long, although the money is good."

"Just call me Douglas," I offered.

Yes, that was true: Another friend of mine had quit there, but then decided to do another year when his Vietnamese wife wanted a car. He also had shared some of his experiences, which weren't too pretty. And I simply didn't want to get up at five and then work until five in the afternoon.

Should I ask Quyen if she was making a bit more than Vietnamese assistants at other schools? Well, no, that wasn't relevant at that moment.

"How did you end up here?" I asked her, instead, nodding across the street with my chin.

"A friend was here from the beginning, when they opened. She told me they were looking for someone."

"Your English is pretty good. Better than most receptionists'," I told her, truthfully.

At many English centers in town, I had encountered ladies who didn't speak English at all. So, if a foreigner showed up, asking for something simple, such as an email address, they wouldn't be able to help. At least, I knew by now how to ask such things in Vietnamese.

"I was in the gifted class at Vo Nguyen Giap," Quyen told me.

That was a decent high school, named after one of Uncle Ho's close comrades, during the war. The general had just died, at the ripe age of 102, when I arrived in Vietnam. I knew where the school was: across the river, not too far - as the crow flies - from the vacant hotel, where our orgy troupe had been meeting for the last three years.

"I also took some English classes at university, in Saigon," Quyen added.