“Leave him alone,” said Kazem.
Kumpee grabbed Jatupon’s head, yanked off the glasses, and twisted the face so that Suthep could see it. “A regular raccoon, that one is.
“No, even a raccoon is lighter than that. Maybe it’s like watching a raccoon after he and a bear have been going at it: the bear with a television in his paws and the raccoon cowering near his puddle of blood. Thai boxing doesn’t get as exciting as what I saw. I just regret not having been there for the whole show.”
“Stop it!” ordered Kazem.
“Does he always give orders like that?” asked Kumpee to Suthep. Then to Kazem he said, “Hey, remember that I am the oldest one here. Could you say that in a more pleasant tone?”
“I would like for you to stop picking on him. Look at him up there.” Jatupon’s eyes were withdrawn and his head was slightly tilted to the dashboard.
“Here are your glasses,” said Kumpee as he stood and bent forward with effort to give them back. His hand disheveled Jatupon’s unkempt hair even further. “You need to comb that mop.”
Arrows of the past, mostly from his father and Kumpee, shot out of the neurological circuitry of his brain paralyzing him in a numb withdrawal of survival. It was no different than at earlier stages of his life when he wondered why things didn’t move forward but at the same time was fearful that they would. He was back in the horror known as family withdrawing himself from it, living in his protective bubble of withdrawal. “You are afraid of your own shadow.” “Are you preparing for a flood? Those pants look stupid on you.” “What are you doing sitting over there? Get out of that seat?” “I’ll mop up the floor with you one of these days.” “Why aren’t you working? You are absolutely good for nothing.” “What do you do in that back room, you pimple faced monkey? Get out of that cage of yours and put down those books. No use you thinking you are any better than the rest of us.” “Get out of my seat you ugly little fart.” He heard it even though none of these disparaging ideas were articulated in the limousine.
Jatuporn, Jatuporn, he thought. They knew and they mocked him with his ignominy. If he had been a girl and someone had sexually abused him he could speak of it and have a good purifying cry cleansing himself of his stress but his situation was different. It was one he had invited upon himself. He’d sleep with the others as well if it would make them kinder to him-so vehement was his need for their love. How horrible it was to meet this rich avuncular stranger, he thought to himself. It would be horrible enough meeting a bag lady with a face that looked like a raccoon and an aching in his raw bottom. He put on his sunglasses.
In an odd way for him it was like traveling on a poor man’s cattle train back to the town from whence an exodus from the rice fields had occurred. No poor man would want to return to his farm and admit that he couldn’t obtain employment in Bangkok and no one with any real self-esteem wanted to link again to a wealthy man who, for good reason, had been reluctant to have any association with his ex-nephews-in-law. His father had tried countless times to get money from the senator. His mother had been subtler and more industrious. She got a campaign drive active in her neighborhood to do her little part in trying to get him reelected. The senator never forgot such hard working activists and always remembered her birthday with a gift. She was content with that but for her husband it intensified his yearning for better things. And so it was with his brothers: they thought about how their dreams could be effectuated with a bit of the senator’s savings. Jatupon did not adhere to this disingenuous wish for a family reunion and so trapped in a moving box with brothers who had one converging theme that was not his own, he felt like an unemployed laborer returning back on the poor man’s train even though he was riding in a limousine.