Ball has found a new job, with an insurance company in town.
He will be a company messenger, taking paperwork from one floor or desk to another.
The boss called him yesterday to confirm he ahd the job. He starts on Monday.
Earlier, they offered the position to his girlfriend Jay, but she had found another job in the meantime. Mum called to see if they would accept men instead.
Ball visited the place to submit his application form, and gave a brief interview.
Several days passed in which we wondered if the company would call, and finally it did.
‘I am excited about the prospect of starting work,’ he said, pouring a whisky.
Mum and Ball gave me the good news when I visited yesterday morning.
Ball’s uncle, Toob, was also present. He took a taxi from Pak Nam, where he lives, to spend the day again with Ball’s family.
‘It’s wet, so there’s no work,’ said Toob, who is employed on the docks.
Today, if all goes well, we will visit a department store or clothes market to buy work outfits for Ball.
He needs just about everything: trousers, work shirts, neckties.
Mum wants him to wear the white shirts he wore in his last job. Some of them date from his days as a school student. We think he can do better.
Ball and I are holding out for proper work shirts, perhaps with a fine stripe.
Most of all, I am looking forward to seeing him in a necktie, as I have never seen him dressed up.
‘I don’t know how to tie one...but once it is on, I am told you can just loosen it and take it off your neck. The next day, when you want to wear it again, you slip it on and tighten it again,’ he said.
‘I will call in on Monday morning and tie it for you,’ I said.
-
Uncle Toob sat silently for hours, so much so I thought he was anxious or depressed.
However, he sprang to life in early afternoon when Ball started arguing with his brother, Beer.
Mr B had decided he would apply for work at a local eatery, washing dishes.
‘He just wants to meet the girls there. I did the same when I was his age,’ Ball told me.
‘It’s a rotten job – the boss treats the staff poorly, you will have a stack of dishes to wash. The pay is lousy, and all this just to meet girls?’ he told Mr B.
Mr B was unimpressed. ‘If I want to find a job, that’s up to me,’ he said.
Mum chipped in. The conversation - more like a series of rapid-fire exchanges - quickly ratcheted up in intensity.
Ball wanted some acknowledgement from his brother that he had done the same thing in his time, and knew what it was like.
Mr B, however, wasn’t interested in giving his brother credit, or taking his advice.
A couple of stiff exchanges followed, in which Ball referred to his brother unflatteringly as ‘ai sat’ ('your animal') to show his displeasure.
Mr B made the mistake of pointing in his brother’s face – and it was all on.
Ball leapt to his feet and swung a fist at Mr B. The two of them grabbed each other, clawing at each other’s faces.
The scrummage – more like a moving man hug, as neither was making much headway – drifted from the door, back towards Mum’s bedroom. Someone stepped on a beer bottle, which shattered.
Mum jumped in, trying to pull the boys apart. I tried to separate them too, without success, and concentrated on trying to keep them away from the broken glass.
Uncle Toob snapped out of his reverie, jumped in between them, and managed to pull Ball off his brother.
Ball’s nose was bloodied, his right eye red. He lay on the floor in Toob’s arms, panting.
I tended to Mr B, whose foot was bleeding from a minor wound. I sat him down, found a towel for his foot, and helped Mum clean up the glass.
‘That was an argument over nothing. If your brother wants to find a job, then let him!’ Mum scolded Ball.
Mr B was still angry.
‘You are no role model to me as an elder brother. All you do is drink. I can only look to Boy,’ Beer said in tears, referring to the boys’ elder brother, soldier Boy.
Mum sent Mr B out to perform an errand. His face was unmarked, unlike Ball’s, who has a cut nose, red eye, and scratch on his chin.
Ball resumed his seating position on the floor, back to his mother. He cried as he nursed his drink.
‘Beer’s face doesn’t have a mark on it...but you scratched me in three places,’ he told his mother in tears, as if to say she had treated Mr B more favourably.
‘I was trying to keep you away from the glass. How do you know all those marks come from my fingernails?’ asked Mum.
I stayed for another hour to cool Mr Ball’s temper and lighten his mood.
Uncle Toob offered advice about the relationship between brothers, and how alcohol can ruin everything.
‘In a family, the mere knowledge that you drink can be held against you. If a fight takes place, everyone assumes it was the drinker’s fault,’ he said.
Ball pleaded with his mother not to tell his elder sister Kae about the fight with Mr B.
Feisty Kae speaks her mind with the boys. ‘I am already in the wrong, no matter what I say,’ he said.
I went to work.
In early evening, Ball’s elder brother, soldier Boy, and Ball’s girlfriend Jay turned up at home.
Jay complained about the marks on Ball’s face, so the story came out in the end.
I have yet to hear what Kae said about it, but elder brother Boy stepped in to exercise some male leadership.
Mum told me what happened: ‘Boy gave Ball a long talk, and asked him, as Beer’s elder, to apologise for the fight.
'The two argued briefly, but have now made up. Ball cried again, but is okay now,’ she said, when I called in mid-evening.
An hour later, when I called again, Ball had gone to bed.
‘He’s had as much as he can take for one day,’ said Mum.
It was the first time I have seen the boys hitting each other. They snap and bicker, but I have never seen them come to blows.
Mum, however, has seen it all.
‘This was a minor fight, compared to some I have seen.’
