It’s been too long since I’ve shared a story on Sunday, so with the rain smearing up my mascara and running down the windows, I thought it would be nice to get clean and cozy and share a part of a story I’ve been crafting here in Bangkok. Happy Sunday to all of you! K.
The morning commute is a tight-rope walk. One false step and it’s straight into the drink. So, I keep my head down. Say my prayers, as usual. Cast my daily offering to the raging river below me.
I’m grateful for dry clothes, dry skin, and the right to build, but it’s hard to not taste desperation in the smoked banana leaves I sparingly chew for breakfast. Each day progress is measured in centimeters. One has only to look downwards to get a lump in the throat. We’re not winning.
“Smooth chin, Ringo.” My cousin waits for me at the place where the platform widens. “That’s gonna hook a pretty one.” Phantos makes a fishing gesture and labors to reel something imaginary. Watching him, I can’t help but laugh.
Phantos is probably the only Skywalker in Asok with a fish hook grin. His mouth got caught on a fishing wire when he was seven, and now he’s got a permanent sarcastic look about him, and a story to go with it. Works on the women every time.
“I traded up.” I say. “Got a sharp one, too. But it ain’t for no lady.. I was just tired of itching.” He shakes his head at me. We don’t have time for intimacy, but it’s still fun to tease. These days, I’d settle for an hour or two of female company.
We greet each other with a strong right grip, hands like anchors. It’s our family tradition. In identical uniforms, we look like brothers, but Phantos is three years younger than me. Our standard issue overalls feature layers of loops, and an assortment of tools dangle from them. Since age eight, we’ve been commissioned to build. Now in our twenties, we’re damn good at it. We’ve got experience with almost every machine on the skywalk.
His Highness, the Imperial Sky King has blessed us with a critical mission: to assist Ekkamai in emergency repairs, so our dreams of having more space in Asok, the home platform, must be put aside again. Bargaining is popular among Skywalker populations. Labor remains one of the few resources worth trading.
Only builders can board the trains without a special government-issued pass. We take a spot in line for the tail compartment. We’ve done our fair share of outsourced work before, and we’ve learned over time that the back car has an extra wide area and a few more seats. It also seems to hold the least scent.
It’s the little things. The journey is the easiest part of our day, and we both know it.
Below us, a few buoys float by loaded with the lost. They wave bright garments on sticks to get our attention. Some of the more tenderhearted among us toss them food, but I’ve come to believe it’s best to look away. I’m not the type of person to watch a dying animal take its last breaths for recreation. To me, the people below are in a similar situation. With no solid ground and no receding water in sight, they’re floating on borrowed time.
The greedy rain starts again. “Get your flippers on, friend. It’s Sunday.” My cousin slaps me on the back with a wet palm. “We’re gonna be wading in it.”
He pushes me playfully onto the train. Builders don’t get holidays. How could we? There’s no day off from survival. The waterline is close, too close. We can see it a platform and a half below. As the trainees start pumping their legs, the mechanized monster moves at a snail’s pace. Doing the math, I realize we’re only eighty centimeters above death, so we will work until there is no light.
We will rest only for the required hours, eat only the required caloric intake needed to fuel or labors, and then head back to work again. We’re builders. We get paid with our lives.
To Be Continued
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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