Gold streaks go wrong, mercy mission to the office, slum-dweller's blues

Kae did manage to get her hands on her younger brother Ball’s lustrous hair after all.

The other night when I turned up, I witnessed a dramatic change: Ball’s sister had put gold highlights through his locks.

I had seen Kae wandering about with straggly gold bits in her own mid-back length hair the day before.

She wore them down the side of her face. I asked Kae what she was doing.

‘They are gold highlights,’ she said.

A day later, I turned up to find that she had put the gold stuff through Ball’s hair as well.

Now he wears a bleached look.

I don’t like it, and neither does he. So many Thai youngsters get their mops turned gold these days, it just looks cheap.

Ball's hair rises thick above his head like a crown. He only recently had it cut.

Ball reckons both the hair cut and the hair-streaking episode went wrong.

Every few minutes, he runs his hands through his hair, wondering when it will grow long again.

-
‘Ball has just arrived home,’ his Mum told me on the phone.

I was walking towards her place, so asked for permission to pay a visit.

‘I’d like to catch him in his uniform, and see what it looks like for once,’ I said.

Mum told me days ago how handsome her son looks in his security guard’s uniform, but I had never seen it.

‘Come on, then!’ she said enthusiastically.

I arrived moments too late. By the time I arrived, he had already changed into a T-shirt and a pair of shorts.

The next day, however, I did get to see Mr Ball in his uniform – and at his workplace, no less.

The red shirt protesters who have taken over Ratchaprasong intersection in the city’s shopping district fanned out on a mobile rally to other parts of town yesterday, including Silom, Sathorn, and Rama 4.

Ball works in Silom. I thought I had better take Mr Ball extra food and supplies just in case he had trouble getting out of the place.

In the end, I needn’t have worried, as yesterday was also a public holiday. The streets were deserted, and by the time he finished work, the red shirt convoy had already passed.

I found the building, and took the lift to the 15th floor.

I stepped out, and found a solitary desk and a small table, where the security guard sits – but no Ball.

He was sitting on a sofa beyond a set of doors, in what looks like a receptionist area shared by tenants on that floor. A few builders wandered about...otherwise, the place was empty.

He gestured me over.

‘How did you get here?’ he asked, looking shocked.

‘By motorcycle,’ I said, handing over a bag of food. I bought him eggs, chicken - anything I thought would fill his tummy.

‘How is Mum? Where is she?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t contact your Mum before I came,’ I said.

‘By the way, your uniform looks great.’

It is dark blue. He wears a short-sleeved jacket, and formal trousers. No belt, so his gaudy yellow boxers spill over the top.

‘Please wear a belt...it will improve the look,’ I said.

‘Have the red shirts passed by?’ he asked.

‘I saw them on the way in. You should have no problem getting home,’ I said.

Ball flipped nervously through a comic book as we sat chatting. I realised he didn’t want me there, so after talking for a couple of minutes I left.

I caught a motorcycle taxi home. I passed a small convoy of red shirts on trucks on my way back, just as I had on my way there.

My motorcycle taxi driver, whose hair stank, kept a pair of red foot clappers in the basket attached to the front of his bike.

As we passed the red shirt trucks, he called out to get their attention.

His hand clappers, symbol of red shirt resistance, kept falling into the basket where no one could see them.

Several times, he leant forward on his bike to restore them to upright position. The bike wobbled and swayed, and I gripped the back of my seat in the hope we would not lose our balance and fall.

He didn’t care what I thought. While I was a mere passenger, he was a man on a red mission, making a political statement.

By the time I left his bike – shaken, and grateful we had made it back in one piece – I wanted to take his wretched foot clappers and shove them up his black hole.

-
Mr Ball is worried about what people in his slum neighbourhood think of his farang friend (me).

It's not that they reckon he's gay...they don't care about that. It's that he might be selling himself to me, which for him is an even bigger insult to his manhood and social standing.

We were drinking at carer R's ya dong stand. A woman friend walked past; Ball went to talk to her down the alleyway.

I couldn’t hear them. But according to Ball, she saw me, and asked Ball what had happened to his manhood.

Moments later Ball's girlfriend came out to fetch Ball back home; in her view, he'd drank enough.

I agreed he should go back. At first he was reluctant, and talked about sneaking out again.

I didn't want that, so told him I would walk him home myself to make sure he arrived there.

'I am already seen in a poor light around here; now you want to escort me home as well? 'he asked.

I gave Ball B30 so he could buy himself an extra meal at work. His mother gives him just B100 a day, which is enough for only two meals, a cartoon book, and a motorcycle taxi to work.

Previously, I have been giving B150 to his mother every week for this purpose, but she has started keeping it to meet other family expenses, meaning the benefit did not go directly to Ball.

At first he wouldn't take it, but after thinking about it, he changed his mind.