Bad boy turns good (part 1)

We can learn a lot about our friends from their homes.

For years, I have associated one young friend of mine with a large, empty room which his mother owned, in a rough apartment building not far from my own home in Thon Buri.

When my thoughts turned to Kew, they inevitably turned to this room. It felt lonely and unloved, much the way my young friend must have felt when, a few years ago, his mother died, and no one else in his family wanted to know him.

Kew, his mother and his young sister shared this room, in a multi-wing, run-down apartment building.

One night we went out drinking together. Kew drank so much he could hardly move. I took him back to his place, as he could no longer help himself.

I walked him past the curious security guard, took him up the lift, found his room and let him in.

A mattress lay in the middle of the floor. I took off Kew's shirt, his shoes and socks, but left on his jeans.

I pulled a thin blanket over his body, stroked his head until he slept, then let myself out.

Months before, I had met his mother here, who was ill with cancer. She lived there with her daughter, not yet 10, and occasionally, Kew. By the time of our nighttime visit, Kew's mother had died, his sister had moved out, and he was living alone.

In his family's absence, the place felt unloved, as was Kew himself. The power company had cut supply to the room, after Kew failed to pay the bill. The fridge and washing machine were empty, and looked long out of use.

Billowy lace curtains lifted and sighed in the night air. Apart from the mattress and a pile of Kew's clothes, there were few signs here that the place was even occupied.

This room received few visitors, because Kew spent his days scraping together money just to survive. No family members were prepared to support him, and he did not have many skills of his own. Kew left school at just 15.

After his mother died, Kew managed to find work at a restaurant in Silom. They wanted him to buy a uniform, but he would have to find the money himself. He also worked at a noodle stand, serving customers, but found the hours long, and the pay meagre.

But working for others was not Kew's preference. He wanted to go into business on his own.

Once, he sold pirated movies at Pantip Plaza, and before that, sold knock-off aftershave and scent to tourists in Phuket.

In many of these ventures, he invested money with friends, only to lose it all, or run into problems with local body inspectors and police. Such is the lot of people on the bottom of the ladder; they find few people willing to help them rise any further, and plenty to obstruct them, because their activities often skate the law.

In the early days of our friendship, he told me he was gay. He proposed I rent him an apartment close to my work, and pay him a weekly allowance.

I turned him down, as I suspected Kew would just be too much work. He was a wild, crazy young man, who slept little, ate less, and lived on the edge. The bad boy in him attracted me, but I did not want him getting that close.

Kew was not in fact gay, and is too proud, I suspect, to have ever sold himself for money. However, he knew I had a soft spot for him, and if he asked me for money, I would give it.

I met him one night on the banks of the Chao Phraya river, fishing with friends. In the following months, if he was staying with his mother at the apartment, we would meet for a drink and exchange news.

We did not meet often, as Kew seldom stayed at his mother's place. Mostly, he slept with friends, close to wherever he had managed to find work.

Without a steady job or other emotional anchors, Kew ran into one problem after another. No sooner would his life take a step forward, than circumstances would intervene to knock him two steps back again.

He would buy a motorbike, only to have the thing stolen, or seized by police after a drunken night out. Without the bike, he could not get to work...and so the cycle of bad luck, poor judgement and rotten company would go on.

now see part 2