Best laid of plans

A little more than a week after Ball started his new job as a security guard, he has missed only one day at work. Surely that’s cause for cheer.

In mid-morning, after Mr Ball has left for work, I drop in to see his Mum to catch up on news.

She tells me if there were any dramas getting him out the door in time for his 7am start.

On Tuesday, he didn’t go to the office, because he drank too much the night before.

Before bed, he took a few beers with me. At 3am, a friend of his turned up and invited him out to watch football.

I blame myself for what happened. I had thrust B100 into my young man’s hand that night before bed.

I gave Ball the money to supplement the meagre allowance which his mother gives him to meet his expenses at work.

Ball's brother forgets to pick him up on the family motorbike after his shift at work ends. In his absence, Ball must walk home.

I gave him the money so he could hire a motorcycle taxi the next day if his brother again failed to show.

Ball, however, is a teenager. He succumbs to impulse, threatening to upset the best laid of plans which adults in his life have made.

That night, he went out with his friend to watch football, even though he knew he should sleep.

'I spent your B100 on beer,' he told me later.

His mother called me several times the morning of his no-show at work, but I did not answer. I was in one of my moody phases of wanting to put distance between Ball’s family and myself.

However, by 3pm, I was starting to miss them, so dropped in for a visit.

Ball was asleep with his younger brother on Mum’s bed. Mum was in the bedroom too.
As I entered, Ball stirred. He was wearing the same clothes I saw him in the night before.

‘He called you this morning because he wanted a drink before going back to bed,’ said Mum.

‘What?’ I thought. If I was her son, I would have been too embarrassed to admit such a thing.

He had already pulled out of work for the day. Now he wanted to carry on as he had started the night before.

‘Ball needs his full quota of rest. If he doesn’t get it, he just can’t cope,’ said Mum, explaining why her son had failed to go to work.

Ball works 12 hours a day; some days, he must spend another hour or more walking home.

When I see him after work, which is seldom (I work nights), he looks worn and ragged.

He can’t afford to go to bed late. If he does, he will rise still feeling exhausted from the day before.

Slowly he is adjusting to the fact that he no longer has the freedom he enjoyed when he was jobless, or indeed when he worked in his most recent job, for a local supermarket, which was only five minutes away.

Now, he works in Silom. Complicated transport arrangements are needed. Everything, in fact, seems that much more difficult.

Ball was to spend the whole of that day in bed. That night, he took his Mum to visit families in the neighbourhood to whom she had loaned money.

She collects interest from them, to help keep her own family going the next day.

Ball’s company said he would need a medical certificate from a doctor showing he was unfit to go to work.

While they were out on their travels, Ball and his Mum tried visiting a doctor, but he was out.

In the absence of a medical certificate, his company will deduct wages for the day he missed work.

When I saw Ball’s girlfriend Jay that night, she was bitter about Ball’s failure to rise in time.

As it happens, I had called her at 6am, to make sure Ball was out of bed.

Jay told me that he had risen, but didn’t say he had only just returned from watching football with his friends.

‘You are his girlfriend. You have a right to get annoyed. Tell him he can’t go! And if that doesn’t work, call me,’ I told her.

As I lectured Jay about Ball’s errant behaviour, Ball was standing nearby, frying an egg for the girl.

I am sure he heard everything I said, but did not seem worried that I was criticising him.

Ball’s father is dead, and his mother's partner, Lort, a mere cipher in his life. In me, he has a substitute ... someone who gives him direction and ticks him off when necessary.

He doesn’t seem to mind when I get parental. In fact, he appears to expect it - even welcome it.

Apart from Absent Tuesday, Ball’s working week has been normal. On Wednesday night, Ball, his mother and a friend managed get through eight bottles of the brown stuff after he finished work.

The next day, Ball made it to work, but suffered a hangover.

Last night was normal, as he needed to catch up on sleep more than he needed to imbibe or have fun with his friends.

Mum has two cellphones. One is more reliable than the other, and normally, she keeps both devices at home.

Now, she gives one device to Ball, to take to work. When he wants to be picked up or just to talk, he can call home.

She has also given him his own phone number.

I was thinking of buying him a cheap one myself, but now I needn’t bother. When I called him last night, he was outdoors, but answered on the phone his mother gave him.

‘I am having a drink with friends from the neighbourhood,’ he said chirpily.

Ball sounded proud to have his own phone. Good move, Mum.

That morning, Mum asked her son to buy two servings of pad thai noodles before he left for work.

If he took his own food, he could save money, as food costs twice as much in the business district of Silom where he works than it does around home. That was another clever move on Mum’s part.

Ball and his girlfriend want to buy their own motorbike, though it will take them a couple of months to raise the deposit.

‘If they have their own motorbike, Ball will no longer have to rely on his younger brother to ferry him about,' said Mum.

'However, Jay will still need her own transport to get to work, so we should buy a pushbike for her.’

Mum knows a place in the neighbourhood where second-hand bikes – simple ones with a basket in front, the kind which cleaners and housekeepers get about on – go for B1000 or less.

I have agreed to stump up half, if she can come up with the rest.