“The reason I have to lecture you more than the others is because I have to watch over you and keep you disciplined in your parents’ place. That is, until you can take care of yourself. I know that at your age, you need someone to look after you, someone to keep reminding you what to do. But if you can do it yourself, and carry through—be it grooming your nails, scrubbing your face, washing your hair—then I won’t have to keep pestering you, do you understand, my dear?”
After school, Kampol was sulking, sitting alone off to the side, watching his schoolmates having fun on the playground. There were actually some other children on the benches near him, waiting for their parents; their clothes still clean and neat. But that wasn’t how most of the kids were. Most were bouncing up and down, ready to tumble and roll on the ground any minute, their uniforms untucked and filthy, with sweat dripping down their faces, necks, and soaking through the backs of their shirts. Almost all of them were running around barefoot, having stripped off their shoes and socks and left them piled by their backpacks.
Watching them, Kampol felt as though he were observing himself, because he was normally no different from them. Then the parents started to show up in waves. They dragged their monkeys away, one at a time. Some of the dads shook their heads at the running children, clearly exasperated; some of the moms fumed and scolded their kids. But many of the parents appeared unfazed by how rambunctious their children were and how dirty they looked. Kampol watched them, wondering.
When he came back from school, he immediately got a lecture from Chong about not taking care of his things and putting them away properly. Kampol had left his colored pencils in Chong’s bedroom and for days on end had forgotten to go retrieve them.
Just after dusk, to close out the day, Kampol got another scolding from Mon, about how his clothes were scattered at various homes and that he ought to have collected them to wash them.
All day, Kampol thought hard about parents, about taking care of himself. Everybody sang the same tune over and over: he didn’t have parents, didn’t have anyone to look after him; therefore, Mr. Sanya, Ms. Angkana, Chong, and Mon all had to assume the role of his guardian in their absence. Kampol felt like he had not two but four people parenting him, which was more than anybody else had. No matter where he was, at home or at school, there was at least one of them, so he could never hide.
The next day, Kampol was on his best behavior. In math class, he kept quiet and serious and didn’t horse around. Mr. Sanya, amazed, couldn’t stop smiling. During social studies class, Ms. Angkana cooed over how different he looked now that he’d cleaned himself up.
Mon broke out in a broad grin when she saw how Kampol—without her having said another word—had gone around and gathered up all of his clothes and put them back where they belonged.
But Chong was watching: Kampol played less, seemed less cheerful.
Saturday came, and Kampol’s friends were all chasing each other around, kicking up dust in the lot across from Chong’s store. Kampol was keeping to himself; he carried his homework to the daybed under the poinciana tree and did it there. Chong watched him from the grocery store. After he completed his schoolwork, Kampol approached his friends but didn’t join in their game. Instead, he stood off to the side, his hands clasped behind his back. Chong sighed. He was starting to worry. At noon, he called out to Kampol to come have lunch with him.
“Are you fighting with one of your friends these days?” Chong asked.
“No.”
“Why aren’t you playing? You were only standing there watching.”
“I don’t want to get my clothes dirty.”
The grocer wrinkled his brow, looking closely at Kampol. “You don’t have to be that careful. If your clothes get dirty, we can wash them.”
“Okay.”
With that, Chong smiled. “Then why don’t you go on and play with your friends.”
“No thanks, Hia. I don’t want to play with those kids,” Kampol said, looking Chong straight in the eye. “I’m no longer just me now.”
Chong’s mouth opened slightly and his eyebrows rose. “Then who are you?”
“I’m both Kampol and Kampol’s parent. You don’t have to do the dishes, Hia Chong. I’ll tell Kampol to do them for you.”
Then he stood up and cleared the table.
The Likay Troupe
The likay theater troupe Chalomrak Pakpirom was in town. They were setting up on a small open lot near the entrance to Mrs. Tongjan’s community. With their massive, loud speakers, you could hear them from hundreds of meters away. The afternoon they first arrived, the children went by to check out the stage. All they could see was an empty set, but that was enough to make them incredibly excited.
Toward evening, people from the neighborhood all came into Chong’s shop all wanting change, and he was cleaned out of every one-baht coin he had in his drawer.
By eight p.m., a packed audience sat in front of the stage. The troupe was putting on “The Thief with a Heart of Gold.” The neighborhood children showed up in full force. Mon had reserved herself a spot all the way up at the front. Old Noi and Penporn arrived late, so they were relegated to the back and had to crane their necks to see anything. Kampol and Oan hung out by the side of the stage, watching the ranat-xylophone player work his mallets and snooping on the actors backstage.
The hero of the folk drama was a thief, devastatingly handsome and tall with fair skin, a defined nose, and a thin waist—and the kind of voice that broke hearts. The leading lady, the daughter of a rich man, had large dark eyes that shined, a delicate nose, lips that were sensuous yet sweet like flower petals, milky skin, and an achingly beautiful voice. The fool was short and tubby and looked silly with his missing teeth.
Half an hour into the play, the villain came out and waded through the audience with a large metal bowl, which he stuck in front of one person at a time. You could hear coins clinking against the bottom of the vessel. It was two or three baht, five baht at most; small children dropped in one baht apiece. Everybody stared at the villain when he got close to them. He batted his long, curled eyelashes and contorted his red-painted lips into a smile as he thanked people, his dark-blue glittered shirt shimmering all the while. He made sure not to miss anyone in the audience.
When he took the stage again, it was time for him to battle the hero. He was trying to keep the leading lady away from the male lead, but the handsome thief outmaneuvered him and whisked her away.
Half an hour later, the villainess made her way through the crowd. She held out the same big metal bowl, also taking in two, three, or five baht. She was dressed in a bejeweled purple gown, her breasts pushed up by the bodice and spilling over, and her ample hips swaying with every step she took. Her eyes, lids covered in purple eye shadow and lined in black, appeared extraordinarily large. Her eyes frightened children when she drew close. But she had a sweet smile on her crimson lips the whole time and to each coin she said, “Thank you.”
Finished, the villainess went to put the bowl away. When she reappeared on stage, she spoke ill of the heroine, accusing her of conspiring with the thief and then running off with him.
A half an hour later, it was the sweet-faced leading lady’s turn to slink around with the metal bowl. She had a coy look in her eyes each time she floated the vessel toward someone. In her dulcet voice, she thanked people unendingly, a winsome smile imprinted on her face. When she approached the men, be they young or old, she stopped and chatted with them in a manner that almost seemed personal. The young men broke out one-hundred baht notes; the old men took out twenties. As her red gown glistened among the women and children, there was a steady stream of coin clinks. Penporn was too mesmerized by her to remember to put any money in.
“How beautiful you are, young lady,” Old Noi murmured as she dropped in two baht. Then with a sagging hand she stroked the leading lady’s arm with genuine affection.
All of a sudden, the grand Thai house in the background of the stage disappeared. What unfurled over
it was an outdoor scene: a lush forest, mountains, a stream, and a little hut. In rhythm with the ranat, the hero-thief took slow, stylized steps onto the stage. The leading lady, who had been meandering through the crowd, hurried off to put the money bowl backstage. In a minute, after the hero distributed his spoils among the poor villagers, it would be time for their scene à deux, flirting and playing hard to get.
Once he was done romancing his lady, the noble thief, stealer of hearts, came out cradling the metal bowl. Smiling as he approached the crowd, he locked eyes—his were sharp and dreamy—with the young ladies, the not-so-young ladies, the single women, and the widows in the audience. The young women parted with twenties; the rest of them threw in hundreds. The children and the elderly put in another baht or two each. An unmarried, middle-aged woman seized the handsome thief by the neck, pulled him toward her, and gave him a loud smooch. He grinned from ear to ear. Before he left to return to the stage, he gave her a final little wave and arched his eyebrow.
In the final scene, the noble thief was killed as payback for his sins. His lady, weeping and wailing, killed herself so she would die alongside him.
Mon discreetly wiped her tears as she prepared to stand up. The curtain slowly lowered to hide the lifeless bodies of the lovers, nestled together. The fool bid the audience goodnight. “We’ll be back again tomorrow night,” he announced.
The next day, the children were excited, chatting and laughing away under the poinciana tree. Chong, on the other hand, was in a visibly foul mood. The noise from the theater the night before had disturbed him. He hadn’t been able to read or hear the TV. He had been able to do nothing but lie in bed, forced to listen until the hero was finally stabbed to death. The rest of the nights the likay troupe would be in the neighborhood—he was simply dreading them.
In the late morning, an unfamiliar face came into his grocery, a plump lady with disheveled hair. She was dressed in a kawgrachow top dotted with black mold and a faded sarong. The woman asked for soap, shampoo, and sanitary pads. As she was walking away, it occurred to one of the kids who she was: “Hey! That was the villainess!”
Everyone watched her, trying to be sure. They still couldn’t say for certain.
Kampol tried calling out to her: “Villainess lady!” His friends joined in: “Villainess lady! Villainess lady!”
She turned and gave them a smile. The children had their confirmation, yet they still could hardly believe that the woman in front of them was the same one they’d seen on the stage the night before.
At noon, another woman showed up. She was wearing a fitted tank top and a green and red sarong. Her complexion was dull, and she had sunspots all over her forehead and cheeks. Her long hair was pulled back in a sloppy bun, and she had a cigarette hanging from her dark lips. She bought eggs and canned fish.
The children spied on her. Eventually, they recognized her as well: she was none other than the leading lady from the show. They yelled to get her attention, but she ignored them and kept walking.
In the afternoon, a lanky guy sauntered over to purchase cigarettes. Even though the difference in his appearance was night and day, the children didn’t hesitate—they called out to him right away.
The noble thief turned and gave them a nice smile and arched his eyebrow twice.
Philosophical Differences
Kampol, Oan, and Jua were walking through the wooded area behind the tenement houses. With the thick reeds rising above their heads, they had to whack sticks left and right to part the grass and make their way through. A way off, on an overgrown knoll, there were three trees that the kids had discovered and often came to visit.
The first was a jujube tree, which bore plenty of fruit, but they were sour and made your mouth dry. The boys gathered a number of the red fruits, which were overripe, shriveled, and lying on the ground all around the base of the tree. Even though they didn’t find the jujubes particularly tasty, they liked being able to pick up and eat the fruit as they pleased.
The red-guava tree wasn’t very big. The fully grown fruits were only the size of ping-pong balls, but they tasted delicious. The tree grew painfully few of them, though. When the boys arrived at the trees this time, they could only get their hands on two. The rest were either not ripe enough or overripe to the point that birds had gotten there first. The three of them shared their two guavas, each ending up with only a few tiny nibbles.
They were full of hope as they made their way toward the third tree—a wood apple. Over the many occasions when they had diligently checked on it, only once had they been able to sample the fruit. Its bare trunk shot straight up like a pole, so they weren’t able to climb it. The wood apples hid among dense leaves, of which there were only two clusters, all the way at the top. The kids could do nothing but hope that the ripened fruits would fall down to them.
This time, luck was on their side. A single wood apple was lying at the foot of the tree, waiting patiently for them. They literally jumped for joy. Oan picked it up and sniffed it, his eyes shining as he smelled its sweet fragrance. Cradling the fruit, they took it over to the banyan tree, not far from the main road. Under its cool, pleasant shade, they smashed the wood apple, and broke it into pieces.
Kampol, Oan, and Jua lay back against the banyan roots, watching the cars go by on the street. All that remained of their wood apple were bits of shell with teeth marks. The three of them promised that they would share ownership of the wood-apple tree. No matter which one of them found one of its fruits, they would divide it in three. Having sworn, they felt a great deal of love for one another.
Oan asked his friends, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Kampol and Jua thought for a minute. Kampol said, “I want to be a soldier. You think you two would want to be soldiers with me?”
“Yeah, I do. I want to be one, too,” Jua said.
“Jua, you can’t be a soldier. They don’t take gimpy soldiers. And you, Boy, why would you want to be a soldier anyway? So you can get your leg blown off like Grandpa Choi?”
“If not soldiers, what should we be?”
“I’m going to be a policeman,” Oan said. “What do you guys think of being policemen?” he asked.
“They’re not going to take someone with a lame leg either.”
Oan thought… “How about this—you could work undercover for the police.”
“Yeah? Can you be a spy with a bad leg?” Jua asked, smiling, starting to have hope.
“Why not? It’s might even be good. Nobody would suspect a gimp.”
“And what would I have to do? I’d have to wear a disguise, right?”
“You’d have to spy on drug dealers. Become one of their minions, and when something was up, you’d have to secretly inform the police. Can you handle that?”
“Bah! Easy!”
“What about you, Boy? You want to be a policeman?”
“But policemen get shot and killed, too, you know.”
“You just have to learn to draw your gun faster and be a better shot than the bad guys.”
“Bad guys can be fast, too.”
Oan had to think about that for a moment, but then he smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll be wearing bulletproof vests—so what could they do to us?”
“What if they shoot us in the head?”
“Don’t be such a coward, Boy. It’s not that easy to shoot somebody. Will you be a policeman or not? Say it.”
“Fine, all right,” Kampol grumbled. But then he remembered something. “Hold up, Oan. My papa told me, when he drives the truck at night, he often gets ambushed by the police. You wouldn’t give my papa trouble if you came across him, would you?”
Oan tilted his head, hesitant. “Why don’t you tell your papa to drive properly and obey the rules of the road?”
“But my papa said even when he’s driving properly and hasn’t done anything wrong the police still stop him.”
“That can’t be. Your papa must have been doing something wrong. When you do something wrong, t
hat’s when you get in trouble with the police.”
“Oh yeah,” something had occurred to Jua, “but what about my mama? She likes to play cards. Are you going to arrest her?”
“Tell your mama to quit playing cards. If she doesn’t, I’d have to arrest her.”
“Ha! She wouldn’t listen even if I told her. She didn’t listen to my grandpa when he told her to stop. Can’t you make an exception for my mama and let her off the hook?”
“Yeah, and my papa?”
Oan went quiet.
“I’m not going to be a spy for the police anymore,” Jua said in a huff.
“And I won’t be a policeman either,” Kampol declared.
They heard a plop nearby. The three jumped, startled. They didn’t plan it, but their heads turned in unison toward the wood-apple tree. They each started sprinting as if there were no tomorrow. Kampol and Oan reached the tree at the same time and grabbed the wood apple at the same time. As they struggled, the fruit slipped out of their hands.
Jua swooped in and snagged it. The other two jumped on him immediately.
The Hairdressers
When they needed a haircut, the people who lived in Mrs. Tongjan’s community, both the children and adults, headed over to the shops in the old housing development. The men and the boys went to Mitr, the barber, while the women and girls saw Taew, the stylist. Chong, like everybody, was one of Mitr’s regulars, but he chose to go when he was feeling irritable, drained, or listless. There were times when Chong went to the barbershop frequently, getting his hair trimmed over and over again, even though it was still short. Other times, his hair would be swaying at the back of his neck, and he still couldn’t be bothered with it.
Mitr and Taew’s shops were next door to each other. Mitr was forty-two years old and still single. Taew was thirty-three and also single. Their customers generally rooted for them to combine their shops and get it over with. When they teased him, Mitr would beam, nod his head, and whisper, “I’m working on it.” Taew, on the other hand, would just scowl, not playing along. The scenario had dragged on for years, with neither hairdresser giving up their singlehood.
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