Lie back and enjoy it

Boyfriend Maiyuu and I are likely to sit out the Songkran water-throwing festival.

It’s too hot, and we can’t be bothered. That's what we told ourselves this morning over our gay gentleman's breakfast.

I do enjoy hearing about other people’s plans, though.

After work tonight, Ball will join his family in Silom, the central business district of Bangkok.

As I understand it, they are hiring a pick-up truck. They will have to find a large plastic tub of water from somewhere, and plastic bowls.

They dip the bowls in the tub, and toss water at people.

Or maybe Ball will join his friends for their own celebrations instead.

I don’t understand what is happening, as the information his mother gives me is scrappy, and Ball is so moody at the moment I hardly dare ask.

What I do know is that he has asked his mother for B300 to put towards petrol, and the cost of hiring a pick-up truck.

The trucks crawl up and down Silom, Maiyuu tells me.

I have never been to the centre of town for Songkran, and nor do I care to jostle with water-soaked tourists and bedraggled Thai youngsters for the privilege.

But Maiyuu is Thai, so he knows. At times like these, when I get little help from my Thai friends, I know I can always ask Maiyuu, my most loyal Thai ally of all. Who cares what anyone else thinks, when I have my own Thai, who loves me?

-
Ball and I are growing distant, which will please those readers among you who say my presence in this family’s life is only for the worse.

It seems we communicate best at carer R’s ya dong stand, where we were able to say what we like, and R provided constant, irreverent adult-style chatter to keep his customers amused.

At Ball's place, his Mum is usually present. We also have the distraction of kids, and Ball’s girlfriend, Jay. They listen to everything, and make their own contributions.

I say little, and do little other than play with the kids. I am losing interest in communicating with Ball, who appears surly, or to the extent that he does talk, is interested mainly in his girlfriend.

I knew they would draw closer once he stopped visiting R’s dreadful ya dong stand, and so it has turned out to be.

Ball asks Jay to call him while he is at work. They chat for ages. When I visited Mum yesterday, and we called Ball at work, I could find nothing to say.

‘How are you? Are you working hard?’ no longer carries any meaning.

I tried asking a question or two, but didn’t wait for an answer. I hung up abruptly. Who cares?

So much of my relationship with this family depends on information, and when I am not getting it, everything dries up.

So tell me, Mum...what is this Songkran plan exactly? You want my B300, but I still don’t understand what is going on.

You are hiring a truck? Who is driving...Ball? He’s a kid, in charge of a pick-up? I doubt it.

His younger brother, Beer? Once again, I don’t think so. He’s an unpleasant, moody so-and-so who belongs on a leash, not in charge of a vehicle in a public place.

Idle partner Lort, who does nothing for anyone...I think we can count him out.

Elder sister Kae might be there, but I doubt she’s driving. Her boyfriend is celebrating Songkran with his own family, he told me. So who’s left?

And why does Ball need B300? How much are the others contributing? If I switch off my cellphone today and pretend the bunch of you don’t exist, will you still go ahead and hire your truck? Where do you put the toddlers when all this water-throwing action is going on?

‘Would you like to come?’ Mum asked last night. We were sitting in the family room.

No thanks. ‘It’s too hot,’ I said instantly.
-
Still, I might go. I can feel myself closing up, as tight as a cork in a bottle. I get hurt, so withdraw from people to spite them, and myself.

As we sat sipping our beers, Kae delved into a clothes drawer, looking for tiny bathing costumes for her own toddler son Maew, and the other toddler of the household - adopted Nong Fresh - to wear.

As for Ball, I doubt he will remember to take a change of clothes. If he is going straight from work to playing Songkran on the back of a truck, he will need casual wear, as he can hardly wear his security guard's uniform.

Organising his needs will fall to Mum and me, when I visit her later this morning.

And suddenly I will feel back in the flow of things, as if I am contributing again to this family's goings-on.

If I pay the B300 which Balls says he needs, I also will have bought myself a place on that forlorn truck.

I can do whatever the hell I like – toss water at him all night, if I want. That would cheer me up no end, as I think he deserves it.

When I turn up at his place, I receive no word of Hello. He asks me nothing about what I am doing, offers no news about his day. He just drinks in moody silence, or talks to the girlfriend, if he speaks at all.

Still, why am I complaining? Surely I knew what to expect when I started mixing with this family, and with someone so young.

He’s a moody teen, not an adult equipped with a well-rounded set of social skills. I should just lie back, and enjoy it.

Guilt money

Ball’s Mum called. It was Friday night, and her son was tossing it back.

‘Are you coming around?’

I was at work, but said I’d drop in afterwards. I stayed for 10 minutes.

Ball’s elder brother, a soldier, was back home on a weekend’s rest.

By the time I turned up, the soldier had gone to bed. Mum was there, along with the two youngest members of the household – toddlers Fresh and Maew, who were still awake.

Mum’s elder sister was also present. They were watching karaoke videos.

Ball sat in a corner, knocking back the brown stuff.

‘He has been waiting for you,’ said Mum.

She had bought nine bottles of the brown stuff that night, though they were shared. Ball was red-faced, but still relatively sober.

He said little, which is usually a sign that the brown stuff has yet to take an effect.

When I walked in, he did not say Hello. He asked me nothing after I took a spot on the floor next to him, as he was too wound up watching karaoke videos.

‘Why aren’t you talking?’ I asked.

‘I have nothing to say. I am quiet by nature; yet you would have me talk,’ he said.

Rude bastard, I thought to myself.

'I’m going home,’ I said.

Ball ignored me.

His mother asked me to stay, and as I was putting on my shoes by the door, poured me another drink to entice me back.

I returned to their living room, and sat for as long as it took me to finish the glass.

‘Why are you going so early?’ she asked.

‘Your son is in no mood for conversation, so we will talk another day,’ I said, and left.
-
Mum called mid-morning, the first of half a dozen calls she would make that day.

I failed to take most of them, as I was busy.

I returned one call about 2pm. Her son was sleeping, though earlier in the day he had performed errands on the motorbike, taking various family members about town.

‘Drop in about 4pm,’ she said.

I know what Mum wants. She wants me to call around so I can give her money.

‘Mum is in a bad way financially,’ Ball had told me a couple of days before.

Her own mother, and two of her nephews have been staying for weeks. They add to the household expenses. On top of that, Ball’s elder sister lost B3,000 a few days ago.

That added to Ball’s stress levels. He takes on burdens on behalf of his Mum...though by the time he has finished work, would like Mum to help him relieve them, by buying him beer.

That’s where I come in. I visit her during the day, while Ball is at work. If she is having trouble meeting household expenses, and I think it’s a worthy cause, I might help her pay.

Many of the payments are small, and have nothing to do with Ball. I doubt he’d even get to hear about them.

Yet Mum, her son and I have entered an unhealthy symbiotic relationship. Ball goes to Mum, wanting a drink. Mum pays, which is always much easier when, earlier that day, I have given her money, ostensibly to meet some unrelated expense.

I used to ‘tag’ my outlays, if they are Ball-related: ‘Please spend it on Ball’s lunches, or transport...I don’t want merely to pay for his booze,’ I would say.

Yet who is to know?

If I give her money, she has more to go around, which can be a good thing, or bad.

The other day, Mum had an ear problem, but she put off seeing a doctor as she did not have enough money.

If I gave her money towards Ball’s drinking expenses, I thought, she could spend her own money seeing a doctor.

Yet it doesn’t always work this way. She simply spends more on the brown stuff for her son.

Last night, Mum called while I was at work. She wanted to know if I would have time to drop in after I finished.

‘I have bought him one bottle of Leo,’ she said.

Ball, who was sitting next to his Mum, wanted more.

'I will finish late ... probably not,' I said.

‘He probably can’t come, as he is busy,’ I heard her tell her son.

That means: ‘If he doesn’t come, I can’t help you any more – one bottle is probably all you get!’

If I was there, he could drink much more than if he had to rely on Mum alone.

Ball is working as a security guard at Silom, but has yet to get paid. That makes him even more dependent on his mother.

When he does get paid, he will probably give a chunk of it to Mum, who will put it in the pot.

She will disperse it to meet his work expenses (B100 a day, as he walks out the door), his after-work wind-down expenses (a beer or two each night) – whatever he needs.

Everyone else in the household gets help on the same basis. Hardly anyone seems to put his hand in his own pocket to meet personal expenses, as he has given a chunk of his income to Mum, who is in charge of the household finances.

Yet no matter how much she gets, it never seems to be enough, as she has 10 mouths to feed.

Foreigners would regard such cup-in-hand behaviour as financially emasculating. Who would tolerate having to ask Mum every time he wants to fill up his petrol tank, or buy a packet of cigarettes?

Yet that’s the way the finances are run in this household, and in many other Thai families, whether they live in slums or not.

If I give Mum B400 to buy a security guard uniform for her son, it may not go to that cause, at least not immediately.

Some of the money I give her probably ends up on paying for the brown stuff, even when that is not the intention.

When he asks for something, she will do her best to meet her son’s request.

I am his friend, so to the best of her ability, she will use the money I give her to meet his needs rather than someone else's.

The thinking is, if we help each other meet his needs, we are both doing our bit to make him happy. And if we love someone, we want to make him happy, right?

Yet is it enough? I don’t like some of Ball’s needs, in particular his desire to imbibe every night. A bottle or two, yes...but when he’s finished them, often he wants more.

And if I wasn’t around, his Mum would have to say no.

I should buy shares in this ya dong stand

Thai-style ya dong

It's Friday, Ball's last day at work for the week.

Tonight, he can toss back the brown stuff with abandon, as he has two days of rest stretching ahead.

Actually, he's been drinking all week, as he usually does. It's just that on Fridays, he can do it without worrying about whether he will rise in time for work the next day.

Wednesday night was bad for Mr Ball, as he spent hours at carer R’s ya dong stand.

Ball called me just before I finished work. I dropped in and stayed for an hour.

Ball has to get up at 6am to get to work on time, and this was already 11.30pm. I urged R to let Ball go home.

‘This is my place, and I’ll drink with whoever I like,’ said R. ‘Anyone who doesn’t like it can go home.’

R had abandoned any sense of responsibility towards his customers. It was late, and he had made no sales in hours. But he refused to close, as he was having too good a time tossing back his own ya dong.

‘I don’t need you to tell me that, thanks. Let him go. This has gone on long enough,’ I said.

Moments before, Ball’s girlfriend Jay emerged, holding his baby sister, Nong Fresh.

R, who is older than Jay, sweet-talked her into letting Ball stay a while longer.

Ball was determined to stay anyway, as he likes to think he is boss.

I asked Ball to go home. He ignored me, too, so I gave up and went home to bed.

R held out his hand for me to shake by way of farewell, but I was too disgusted with his behaviour. I ignored it.

‘Shake his hand!’ Ball slurred.

I ignored him too.

The next day, as I sat by Mum’s side at her place, she told me that Ball did make it to work that morning, but only just.

'I had to force him to get up. They had no one to stand in for him as security guard, so he had no choice but to go.

'It was so hard getting him up. I almost told him to go live with you instead, as I am no longer interested,’ said Mum.

So, Ball did his duty, and went to work.

It was shortly after midday, and we decided to call the Charmed One, to see how he was doing.

Because he had forgotten to charge his phone, we called someone else at the office who Mum knows.

She went in search of Ball, and found him in the cleaner’s quarters, sleeping during his lunch break.

Mum talked to him briefly, and handed the phone to me.

‘How are you feeling today?’ I asked.

‘I have a headache,’ he said weakly. ‘But stock up the fridge for me, and I will feel better,’ he joked.

I visited a shop at the corner of the alleyway, and bought two beers for safekeeping until he came home.

The idea was not to encourage his bad habits, but to keep him away from the ya dong stand just 50m away.

His mother could do with help financially...she hurt her ear the other day, but decided not to see a doctor, probably because she can't afford it.

Any money I give her to help pay for Mr B's imbibing habits frees up money which she can spend on something else.

It’s risky, but so are most gambles. We can but do these things on faith.

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.

Haircut fantasies, evil slum smells, bruises of love, pool snobbery

Ball’s elder sister, Kae, was cutting her son’s hair.

Maew is a toddler. He would not sit still, and I wondered if he would manage to keep his ear as his mother tried to get at his elusive locks.

‘I was hoping to see you cut Ball’s hair, but you never did,’ I told her.

Ball had his hair cut last week for the first time in months. Shorter hair improves his looks, as his face looks more open.

‘He went to the hair-dresser’s shop instead,’ she said.

What a pity. I was looking forward to seeing the two of them together.

Ball is fussy about his hair, and forever checking himself in front of the mirror. Would he have sat still, or would he, too, have found some excuse to keep fidgeting?

-
‘Something stinks,’ I said.

I was sitting on the living room floor, next to a flax tray table where Mum keeps the food.

Some of it had been there since the night before, and had gone off.

I found the offending plate...old chicken, well beyond use-by date.

‘Do you mind if I put this in the rubbish?’ I asked.

I found a plastic bag, as Mum's place does not appear to possess a rubbish bin.

The Thais in the room looked at me.

Kae’s partner, Tum, laughed.

‘You are obviously not used to slum smells,’ he said.

-
Ball and his girlfriend Jay broke up the other day - only to come together again a mere 18 hours later.

She left home in the morning, but was back again the same night as if nothing happened.

Ball was delighted to have her back, judging by the fuss he was making over her.

No one else was happy about it, though, including me. She's living off them and contributes nothing.

Mum called me about 3pm with the news of their break-up. When Jay left, Mum was drinking at a neighbour's place nearby. Ball ran to his mother in tears.

Ball’s face was bruised below the eye, his lip cut. He inflicted the harm on himself, as he and his girlfriend argued.

'I wanted to say sorry for the things I had done to her in the past,’ he explained later. 'So I punched myself in the face.'

I went to Ball's place and provided moral support for an hour or so, until I was too tired and drained emotionally to stay any longer.

Later that night, while I was at work, Ball's mother called to say her son was waiting to see me for a few quiet beers.

I walked to their place, only to find Jay was back in residence. Mum turned up, and said nothing, nor did her partner Lort.

Yet only hours before they were complaining to me about how the girl contributed nothing. Ball, in their view, was better off making a new start.

Jay was paid the other day, but gave Ball’s Mum nothing towards household expenses.

Mum pays for her food and grocery items, even pays for her to get to work and back.

‘He meant to give Mum money, but her elder brother borrowed it first. He promises to pay it back next week,’ said Ball, defending the girl.

'Next time you want to beat yourself up, please let me know,' I said. 'I am unhappy that you put yourself through that misery alone.'

-
I took Ball’s elder sister, her partner, and four kids for a swim at the pool on my condo roof.

You’d think that would be easy, right?

Wrong.

Before crossing the slum to pick them up, I asked the security guard if I could take them to the pool as my guests.

Any tenants can use the pool, and I have seen them take guests there before.

‘I know a family around here. We might have four of five people at the most,’ I said.

‘I don’t know...I don't want to make that decision,’ he said.

‘I’ll make it for you...I’m bringing them over,’ I said.

‘I’ve seen other tenants take their friends up there, and I can’t see any rules posted anywhere saying I can't,’ I said.

Half an hour later, when I returned with my Thai guests, a nosy cleaner stopped me.

‘We called the juristic entity. They say you can’t take non-tenants to the pool,’ she said.

‘Too late...I cleared it with the security guard. I’m taking them. However, I’ll talk to the office when it opens tomorrow,’ I said.

We encountered no further problems, and enjoyed an hour splashing about in the pool.

I wonder if the service staff would have been in such a hurry to contact the condo owners if I had not told them that my friends were from the slum.

They wouldn’t dare challenge people of higher economic class than themselves, as they cower before such influence. Families from the slum are a much easier target.