Hope at the noodle cart (part 3, final)

I took a taxi back from Mum's shop to the old Thai fruit and vegetable market where I live, stopping outside a 7-11 store, where I spotted two young gays, who are seldom seen in this quiet part of town. We looked at each other curiously, but did not talk.

From there, I walked around the market, and down to where the noodle guy 'M' works, to buy beer at a convenience store.

As I passed the noodle stand, a drunken kathoey stopped me. She had just finished a noodle and was drinking leeringly from an open bottle of beer.

I had not talked to Mr Noodle since one night when I had asked him about his future. ‘Is this all you want from life?’ I asked M. He shook his head, before walking away.

I accepted the kathoey’s invitation to share her beer. While we talked, M and another boy started packing the noodle cart away…they put away the chairs, tables, a plastic overhead cover which serves as shelter from the rain, gas cookers, and finally the cart itself.

The kathoey noticed that I was less interested in talking to her than watching Mr Noodle work. She told me her address, gave me a kiss, a hug, and then left.

Patrons at a nearby nightclub had parked their motorbikes where the boys usually leave the cart. I helped M push one or two bikes away to clear space.

‘You don’t have to help, I do this every night,’ he said.

‘I don’t mind, it gives people around here a chance to laugh at the farang,’ I said.

As they worked, the drizzle continued to fall, and occasionally I took shelter in a nearby phone box.

‘Are you scared of me?’ I asked M, as we pushed aside another bike.

‘Why should I be scared?’ he replied.

Cart packed away, M spoke briefly to the other boy at the stand – before turning and running away.

He fled, on a valiant 100m dash towards my place, to the path alongside my condo which takes him home.

I ran after him, calling out his name, as I did not want our brief encounter to end in this scary fashion, with M fleeing like a startled rabbit.

As he ran, he turned back to see if I was following, the way track runners do to see if the competition is gaining.

I was following alright, but not fast enough: he had soft shoes on, while I was wearing sandals.

He wore wings on his heels, or so it seemed. So M, in the end, disappeared down his lonely, dimly-lit track, and I was left with nothing but my carry bag and two bottles of beer.

If I passed his noodle stand today, it will be like nothing happened, and nothing has changed. We would talk just as we have before, but at the end of the night he would still flee again.

I should buy him a key-ring with two little jogging shoes. Fun, even entertaining, but I don’t need it, and will not subject him or myself to that bother again.