Modem kicked for touch, Ball reforms himself

I am still catching up with my obligations on the internet after my modem was knocked out of action three days ago.

They include my commitments to this blog. I like to respond promptly to reader comments, but am still catching up there, never mind on the small matter of posting. Please bear with me.

Boyfriend Maiyuu kicked the modem across the room as we were having an argument.

Whenever we argue, some damage to our household possessions results. This time it was the modem, and a half wall-length mirror, which I accidentally broke as I walked out the door in a huff.

Thinking he was about to be evicted, Maiyuu put it there for safekeeping. Forgetting it was there, I dislodged it from its spot behind the door. Crash! There goes B1000.

The argument is now over, and we back to normal...closer than we were before, in fact.

The man from the company which supplies our computer and satellite TV service has replaced the damaged modem. We didn’t tell him that we had kicked it across the room for sport.

When Maiyuu and I argue, I go into feverish cleaning mode, as the boyfriend sulks and waits for my moods to return to normal.

This time I accomplished more cleaning than usual: I put back the CDs in their covers, dusted the TV and stereo area, and washed down the kitchen.

‘We should argue more often,’ I said after we had decided to call off the argument. ‘The place looks great!’

Maiyuu laughed.
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Readers worried about the health of Ball, the young man I know from the slum next to my place, can take heart.

Ball has started work at a supermarket, selling and packing eggs.

He works a 10-hour day, including breaks. After he quits work early in the evening, he heads for carer R’s ya dong stand as usual, to wind down.

However, he has tempered his drinking habits, so no longer imbibes to excess. He knows he has to work the next morning, so takes himself home to bed after a couple of hours.

I saw him early in the week, on my nights off. He took himself home on both nights after he started to feel the effect of R’s ya dong concoction. 

‘I don’t want to go back to the way I was before,’ he said. ‘When I take too much, I lose control of myself.’

On the first night we met, we shared the stand with customer John, a boisterous type wearing a muscle shirt who assumed I must be a soldier.

'You are wearing a singlet just like mine, and look so well-built,' he said, feeling up my arms.

He supported the anti-government United Front for Democracy against Dictatorship (the red shirts), and wanted to discuss Thai politics.

No thanks, mate. Shut up, if you don’t mind.

In a previous encounter at R’s ya dong stand, Ball and John started to fight.

Ball had imbibed to excess, and started hitting John. Ball, who has a small frame, was lucky to get home in one piece.

The two met again on the night I was there, and made up, though it was a difficult business, and at times I wondered if they would come to blows again.

Early in the night, Ball apologised for his conduct. John accepted it, but was not entirely happy. He tried to get in digs at Ball by talking critically about his mother.

‘I don’t know how Ball's mother can allow him to work so hard,’ he said to anyone who was listening.

‘Don’t listen to him – he’s trying to wind you up,’ I said.

Carer R, who is close to Ball, told John to keep his distance.

‘I would rather you not talk that way about my young friend, as it makes him look bad in public,’ R told John bluntly.

In the end, Ball decided he had better deal with the problem personally.

After apologising repeatedly, he switched seats for a one-one-one chat with disgruntled John.

John, declaring himself as Ball’s new ‘uncle’, accepted his apology wholeheartedly, and heaped praise on the young man.

On the second night, John was mercifully absent. Families who live locally dropped in for a chat. I met two dads and their kids. One child gave me a hug, while the other tugged on my farang arm-hair, and played piano on my outstretched hands.

I also met Ball’s mum, who popped out with her adopted child Fresh in her arms, soon after Ball turned up from work.

Ball loves Fresh, and showered her with kisses.

‘I don’t normally get a chance to see her, as she is usually asleep by the time I get home,’ he told me.

I heard Mum asking Ball about when he could expect to get paid.

By this time, Ball had been at work for three days. He was likely to earn just B1,000 in his first pay packet. It was not due out until three days after Mum asked. I hope she has been able to cope.

‘Mum's partner, Lort, brings very little money home,’ said Ball.

Ball lost his real Dad a few years ago to illness. Lort, who keeps himself emotionally aloof from family, fails to compare.

Lort’s failure to provide has forced Ball and his elder sister into the role as the household’s main breadwinners. Ball, however, shows no trace of resentment.

‘It’s my duty as a Thai man,’ he said.

I have written about Lort previously. He is a taxi driver by trade, and the last time we met tried to interest me in investing in a ya dong stand, or buying a taxi as an investment.

‘I suspect he drinks it all away,’ said Ball.

I have stopped giving a wai greeting to Lort when I meet him. I reserve that for the real battler in the household, Ball’s Mum.

That night, I massaged Ball’s shoulders, as Ball and R chatted about guy stuff.

Ball and I left carer R’s stall for home at the same time.

We have yet to meet since, as my working week has started. I work nights, and R is usually in bed by the time I finish.

‘I feel really warm with you, Mali,’ he told me as he headed towards his his place. 
'You are just like my real Dad.’

If I can make other people happy, my own failings seem less prominent in my eyes. 

I enjoy doing it. Why else, in fact, are we here?