18.52
No, we won't start off with Obama. But we'll get to him eventually, just read on.
On the tram going home I decide to get off one stop early and pop into a local Thai restaurant. It's an interesting place in more than one way. Its location is far from glorious. A square which houses two supermarkets, a florist, a post office and some smaller shops and is home to many homeless who spend the night on the benches, armed with newspapers, cans of beer and cigarettes. They smoke and drink continuously. In between they somehow speak, or more often, shout something that is unintelligible. There is women too, sleeping rough. Their "parties" produce a constant heap of litter that make the tramstop shelter a place to stay away from, but altogether there are very few reports of real irregularities.
The restaurant, which is primarily a take away with a few tables, is devoid of any pretention, but that was not always the case. It is small and light, with pictures of the Thai king high on the walls. Thai custom prescribes that the king must higher up than anything else, so that applies to the photo's too. A Thai flag decorates the other wall and real Singha beer is not served, but can be taken from the fridge and is then added to the bill, or check-bin in Thinglish.
Circumstances forced it to close by seven p.m. rather than staying open to receive proper diners, but since proper diners were few and far between, their empty seats were soon filled up with tramps from the street who never have money to eat but somehow always have something to spend on alcohol. They sat there, spend two hours on one beer, preferably shared and made sure
that no other customer would stay longer than absolutely necessary due to their penetrating stench.
The owners, a Thai woman and her friend from Santo Domingo then decided this wasn't worth the effort, especially as the lunch hour was well frequented by civil servants working for the council who has their offices nearby. The seven o'clock curfew was introduced and tramps no longer allowed after an incident with a drunken woman who reportedly refused to leave the premises before she had had "a real good fuck." Not surprisingly, nobody felt obliged which made her even angrier with the world. The police had to come and take her away, but not before she had managed to cause a substantial amount of damage to food, drinks and the nerves of other patrons. The locals still talk about it. Their own Albert Square.
The food is good though. Reasonably original ingredients but the taste a bit swissified. Still, it beats cooking after a heavy day in the office. I come in and am promptly greeted with the usual cheer and courtesy in a mixture of Thai, Spanish and English. Almost like a local. And if you're in before seven, they let you finish your meal and won't throw you out.
I grab a Singha and sit down to read a bit and wait for my food. Dolores, not her real name most probably, comes over to my table, points at a large picture of Obama on the front of my paper and asks: "he won?"
"He did."
"Oh, thank God. Thank God for that."
"What happen?" Lek (definitely not her real name) from the kitchen, turning around with a bottle of beer in her hands, bound for the only other person at a table.
"Obama president. I'm very happy." Dolores informs her. The man getting his beer is older, sloppily dressed and does not speak much. His shirt is not entirely clean and not entirely tucked in. My guess is that he belongs to one of the women, whereas he thinks it's the other way around. The phenomenon is well-known: over-aged, overweight and over their peak. The pensioner who finally found the love of his life, quite by chance thirty years his junior. The illusion is normally left in place until the source of their newly found happiness, his bank account, runs dry.
Lek gives me my Tom Yam Gai. "You like Obama? You thing good man?"
"Er... yes. It 's a bit early, but he seems clever enough."
"I like him", says Dolores. "He is handsome too."
I don't fancy men, but you can't deny it. He appeals to a lot of people, and the fact that he is good-looking didn't hurt him of course.
Lek hangs around by my table. "Dolores' boyflen." She whispers. "Since two week - he evely day here. But no eat. Only drink. Me no like."
"Hum." I comment.
"You know. He no good job. Has shop but nossomuchmoney-no. I think no good man for her. Wat you think?"
I don't think it wise to volunteer an opinion here, but I can see her point, especially now I notice he has fallen asleep while sitting in his chair. He snors softly, but still louder than the fridge.
His right hand squeezes an almost empty bottle of Heineken.
I try to change the subject. "It must be good for the States. Things will go better now. People have new hope." Lek still looks at Dolores' old man.
"You know what. " She says." Before already bad. Could not go worse. That's why people like Obama. Not because black. Because different."
Dolores comes from behind the counter and upon approaching us, spots her newly found happiness with his head now resting on his arms on the table, snoring a bit louder. She looks disappointed, then turns to us.
"I think we all need a change."
She has got my vote.
".....not because black. Because different."
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