Elusive timepiece, calculating ya dong seller

I saw a beautiful watch at a pawn shop.

It was silver-plated, with gold inside, and looked expensive, like some mafia type might own it.

‘A man brought it in last night. He wanted money for drink. I gave him B350. If he fails to pick it up by Friday, I can sell it. It’s yours for B500,’ said the shop owner.

A largish woman in her 40s, she runs a shop offering mortgages, selling pawn goods, even buying and selling land, according to a sign outside her shop.

Her shop is close to the slum where Ball lives. He needs a watch, and a cellphone. I have been looking for days, but have yet to find anything I like.

By last night, when I went back to take another look, the fancy timepiece had gone.

‘The owner came back with his B350 and reclaimed it. But now that I know what you like, I will keep looking,’ the owner said.

She has asked me to return today, when she will have a selection of watches and cellphones on display.

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‘How much does a second-hand cellphone cost?’ I asked carer R.

R’s girlfriend sells cellphones at a department store.

R himself has a small collection of the things, and knows his stuff. But he declined to answer me directly.

‘It depends on what features you want, what the make is, and how old,’ he said.

‘A woman who runs that pawn shop down the way has offered me a cellphone with a camera, and which plays music, for B500,’ I said. ‘Is that a fair price?’

Again he declined to give me a direct answer.

‘Tell me how much you want to spend, and I will ask my girlfriend to look for you,’ he said finally.

Everyone’s an operator these days. If I’d wanted his girlfriend to look for me, I would have asked.

I said thanks, and left.
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Ball has little time for rest after his 12-hour work day as a security guard ends.

Shortly after arriving home - yesterday he took a song taew (small truck with two bench seats) back from work - he has to pick up his girlfriend from the local supermarket.

Or, if he’s not doing that, his Mum asks him to take her on the motorbike to visit her debtors in the neighbourhood.

She collects interest owing on money she has loaned them.

That keeps her own family going the next day, though often her clients have no money to give her.

‘What does Mum do if they refuse to pay?’ I asked Ball.

She can hardly call in her strapping son to look fierce, as Ball has a small, slight body which would not intimidate anyone.

‘She raises her voice,’ Said Ball.

Ball’s girlfriend Jay has also accompanied Mum on these nightly interest-collection rounds.

‘Often Mum returns home with little, or nothing,’ she said.

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‘You are growing a belly,’ said Jay, unimpressed, giving Ball's stomach a poke.

Wibble, wobble.

‘You could do with a trip to the gym,’ she said.

Ball had just emerged from one of his interminable 90-minute showers (in which he likes to sing to himself, I have discovered). He donned a long pair of pyjama pants, but wore nothing on his chest.

His girlfriend is right, it was not a pretty sight. But who cares? Ball was winding down after a long day.

They teased and ribbed each other, as young ones like to do. Ball made a couple of cheeky remarks, for which his reward was a slap over the ear, a belt over the head.

He took the punishment good-naturedly.

Shortly after 10pm, it started to rain, for the first time in weeks.

The fresh smell of falling rain entered the living room on a gust of wind, competing with the stench of babies, old food and musty breath inside.

We finished our beers, and before 11pm, I excused myself. I don’t want to keep Mr Ball away from bed.

‘He gets hardly any time for rest as it is,’ said Jay.