Dad apologises to son

I dropped in to see Ball in the morning. He was asleep.

His mother invited me upstairs, so I could talk to him as he lay in bed.

She said he could do with a cheap clothes hanger for his extra clothes. I agreed to buy one.

Mum went downstairs and left us at peace.

I spoke to my ‘son’ at length. I said I was unhappy about his mother's habit of leaving home in early morning and abandoning Ball and his elder brother Boy to care for the toddlers all day.

'It is your duty to find work outside home, so you can make money to build a better life. It's Mum’s job to look after the kids, not spend the day outside home in the company of friends as she has been doing.’

Ball said nothing, but I suspect he agrees.

I attempted to explain my absence over the last week.

‘I haven’t been dropping in to buy the brown stuff in the evenings because I want to save money.

‘I also want you to be around for a long time to come, and I can’t be sure of that if you are drinking,’ I said.

‘Soon, you will be a dad. I have to help prepare you for the big day,’ I said.

Ball smiled, and laughed at the right moments. We communicate often by humour.

‘I am sure you felt upset that I stayed away. How angry did you feel? I want to know,’ I said.

'I didn’t feel resentful. I just wondered what was wrong to make you stay away,' he said quietly.

I gave Ball some money last week as a New Year's present, to help him celebrate at a karaoke shop.

In the end, he didn’t go. ‘I stayed around home. I bought just a couple of cans of beer a night, or spent it on food. I didn't go out anywhere over New Year, but made the money last four or five days,’ he said.

Ball is learning how to use money prudently. I might carry on giving him a small allowance every week until he finds a job, as a test of his ability to look after money, measure his wants, and plan for what he needs.

Home economics 1 (fried fish), Slum economics 1 (brown stuff)

As I write, Chef Maiyuu is frying up a fish.

We bought two fried fish similar to the one he's working at a market the other day. He complained at the time about the expense: B80 apiece.

The fresh one he's preparing in the kitchen cost just B70 - just B10 less.

Figure in the time it is taking him to make it – the cost of his labour, if you like – and the price looks the same. Is it really worthwhile to make food at home, rather than buying it ready-made off the street?

But then, Maiyuu would argue, his fish  dish- I watched as he cut off its fins, and struggled with a large knife to lop off its head – is made with love. And how do you put a price on that?

-

Before heading to work last night I dropped into my favourite laab moo (spicy pork salad) stand in the slum, and ordered a dish of the stuff.

In the past, I would have dropped in to Ball’s place first, and parted with B120 for the privilege of spending perhaps 15min in his company.

He would buy a half bottle of the brown stuff, and we would sit down for a brief drink before I headed for work.

I have stopped that, as I am tired of having to part with the money.

These days, I devote my time to rekindling my long moribund relationship with Maiyuu. It is a rewarding task, as he enjoys the attention, and our lives are happier as a result. When I want a break, I head for the condo swimming pool, which has recently reopened after months of refurbishment.

Soaking my bones in a lonely pool - almost no one frequents the place - is not the same as visiting Ball’s busy slum home, which is home to more than 10 people.

There, I can play with the kids, stroke the cat, chat to Ball’s Mum, and see Mr Ball.

Drinking was our shared pastime.

However, Mr Ball liked doing it rather too much for my liking. I paid for his self-indulgent habit, because his mother refused to say no.

Last night as I ordered my laab moo I fancied I could see the remote and distant figure of Mr Ball, about 50m down the way. He was parked outside a small shop from where we used to buy our supplies.

Now that I no longer call in, he doesn’t know what to do with himself, so rattles about in the slum.

He looked in my direction for a moment - then stood up and walked away. I watched as his small, white-clad figure disappeared into the distance.

It is the second time he has caught me at the laab moo shop in early evening without having dropped in to his place first.

Tonight I have no work, and would like to pay a visit to his bustling slum home.

He will want to know what has happened to me. Once, I would have prepared my lines, so we could both save face and make a new start.

It is the Thai way to carry on as if nothing has happened, even when it has.

I want to tell him to get on with his life, have some self-respect, and stop asking me for money.

These are things which really should be said. But I wonder if the words will come.

New Year's lament

Mum has started her birthday celebrations.

Her birthday falls on Jan 2, but as it coincides with the festive period over New Year, she starts the merry-making early on Dec 31.

The last time I visited, her son Ball told me that he was planning to go out with friends for a night of karaoke on New Year’s Eve. Would I care to give him a New Year’s present – cash slipped in an envelope?

I gave him some cash, which I hand-delivered early yesterday. Ball was still asleep, so I entrusted the money to his elder brother Boy.

Last night I called his mother to wish her a happy birthday. She reminded me I still owed her B100 from one night earlier in the week when she succumbed to her son’s pleadings for a drink.

She had called me at work, and asked me if I would like to pay the bill if she bought alcohol on tick for her dependent son.

‘Why not ask Ball to give you a share of the money I gave him as a New Year’s gift?’ I suggested.

‘If he’s spending it on brown stuff, it will all be gone by now,’ she said.

I dropped in after work last night to give her the B100 I owed, and reflected on the fact that if her family wasn’t so eager for money, I might want to visit more often.

As it is, I call in only rarely, usually on days off. I seldom call the mother any more, because I know that if I do, there’s a chance she’ll ask me to pay for her son’s drinking habits.

Every day is a new day when he wants to toss it back again.

Ball’s mother has noticed my absences, and the fact that I seldom call, or pick up her calls to me.

‘I am too busy,’ I say, and partly that is true. I am working overtime at the office, teaching, and helping the son of a work friend brush up a university assignment.

But the real reason for my absences - I was once a daily visitor - is that I resent having to pay money in the slums for so little reward.

I would like to carry on with my role as mentor to young Ball, as he is an innocent in so many ways of the world.

I cannot blame him for teenage-like behaviour. It is a reflection of his age, and he doesn’t know any better.

But if his mother is not prepared to step in and do her job as a parent, what are the rest of us supposed to do?

When I called last night, she admitted she hadn’t seen her son all day. She clears out of home early in the morning, and spends the days performing errands, or (more often) with friends.

Ball hasn’t worked since mid-November. He tells his mother: ‘Oh, I will look for a job in the New Year.’

That kind of slackness is unacceptable, but it carries on in their household, because his mother is too weak to put her foot down.

Nor could I accept the nightly drinking, and – worst of all – the fact that he is so happy to ask people for money to feed his habit.

I want to spend my time with quality people, as life is bigger, and better than this. They might all come right in the end, but who can afford to sit around waiting?

Ball seldom asks his mother to pay...but he will ask me, because I have said yes in the past, and am less likely to object, even in the half-hearted way his mother does.

Bugger that. I am not there to be used.

No one has any capital, because they squander it on empty pursuits. Mr Ball can’t afford his imbibing habit. Nor can he afford to stay out of work, as his girlfriend is pregnant, and he will be a father soon.

I will carry on seeing him on my days off, but the relationship we once enjoyed is no more.

Happy New Year to readers, and thank you once again for supporting this blog.

Robbing me deaf and blind

I ran into Mr Dependency in the slum, which was jumping to the sound of a dance routine.

‘I have nothing to drink,’ he said.

I couldn’t hear, so in old-man fashion, craned my body forward and bent my ear towards his mouth.

‘What?’

Every evening, women in the slum gather in a wired-fence area next to the main road for exercise.

A trim looking thing gets up on a box and shows off her aerobics moves. The women facing her, who tend to be much larger, follow her movements.

Thais can’t do anything without noise accompaniment, and so it is with this routine. A hip-hop song blares from a sound box next to the aerobics coach.

I was heading to work, but dropped in on my favourite slum shop to buy a laab moo (spicy pork salad) dish.

I was hoping to avoid Mr Ball, whose mother had called moments before I left home.

‘Ball wants to talk,’ she said almost guiltily, and passed over the phone.

‘Farang Mali, aren’t you dropping in today?’ he asked.

‘I have to go to work. I am in a hurry...but I will see you tomorrow,’ I said.

Ball wanted me to buy him alcohol. It was evening, the time when any self-respecting hard man from the slum will start contemplating how to fill his belly with the brown stuff for the evening.

I avoided Ball’s place all day, which wasn’t hard, as I was busy most of it. But on point of principle, I am against giving away money to people who do not work.

As part of a new hard line stance against wasting money in the slums, I have decided to visit only on days off or special occasions such as public holidays. Well, that’s the noble goal, anyway.

As luck would have it, however, I was to run into my young man in the slums just 20 minutes after our phone call, as I was waiting for my laab moo.

‘I have nothing to drink!’ he repeated for my deaf-man benefit.

Boom! Boom! (noise from aerobics workout next to us).

‘Why don’t you ask your Mum for money?’ I asked. ‘Can you wait until tomorrow? I haven’t been to the cash machine,’ I lied.

‘I don’t want to ask Mum,’ he said, but accepted my suggestion that he should wait rather than press the point.

I left happily, thinking that I had made an easy escape.

An hour later, his mother called me at work, sounding desperate.

‘Can you buy him a bottle of whisky on tick? He wants to drink.

‘Last night I bought moo krata (Korean-style home-made bar-b-que) for everyone...I went through B700 in one day,’ she said.

I contemplated her request. I had visited their place the night before, and took part in that delicious moo krata meal.

Feeling sorry for Ball’s mother, I agreed.

A bill of B100 awaits for me when I visit his place tonight.

Bottom dweller

Half a dozen ruffians were whooping it up large outside Ball’s place.

They gathered at what passes for a karaoke bar in a narrow slum alleyway opposite his family home.

Thais rarely know when anyone is approaching from behind (even the gay ones).

I put my hand on the shoulder of one beefy guy blocking the alleyway, to let him know I wanted to get past.

He turned and smiled. This guy has seen me before, but rarely bothers to talk.

He rubbed my shoulders as I passed, and as a bonus gesture, stroked my bottom.

You...you have a nice bottom!’ he said, in a mix of English and Thai. He said it in an affected, feminine way, just to rub in the message.

‘Thanks!’ I said.

I am now in their good books, because I bothered to respond to their silly banter.

-
I dropped in to see Ball and family, after three days away.

Almost everyone was there. It was a happy family occasion. Even the kids were well behaved.

Mum had stuck tinsel and fairy lights to the ceiling, as she prepares to celebrate her birthday.

‘Mum’s party starts on Dec 31, but will carry on for days,’ said Ball, who looked happy to see me, if a little reserved.

When I stay away, Ball wonders if he has done something wrong to upset me.

Once, he was so scared of me at such moments, he didn’t dare approach.

He would stick to his mother on the opposite side of the room, so nervous was he about the prospect that I would criticise him.

Ball is now used to my strange shifts in mood.

He knows I go through phases when I stay away, though he doesn’t always understand why.

I did not say much. I had spent the day wondering what to do about our relationship.

Boyfriend Maiyuu wants me to show him true love.

I spent most of the day with him, but by mid-evening wanted to get away.

We are getting along well enough - our home is now full of chatter, where once it was virtually silent - but there’s no spark.

Ball smiled and looked in my eyes, to gauge how I was feeling. He asked me a couple of polite questions, but did not press matters.

His mother filled me in on his news, as she knows I like to keep up with what he is doing.

'He is drinking two bottles of beer a day. Tonight he went out to play football with friends,' she said.

‘You have been falling down on your duties as a dad...we haven’t seen you for days!’ she said, while serving me a dish of her home-made green curry.

Mum was in an ebullient mood.

Meanwhile, I felt wretched, and fought back tears.