Morning Meeting

Morning for me began earlier than usual. Three coworkers have started to play basketball around 7:30am and I told them that I would meet them on the court in front of my building. They weren't there. I continued on to the office to find two of them sitting at the reception desk fidgeting with some new speakers.

"Hey! Why aren't you playing basketball?" I requested, a twinge of annoyance unintentionally escaping in my voice.

"P'Poo is on holiday. He has the ball," said Yai. Yai looks like a tanned Asian snowman with a thinned Beatles haircut. His eyes are beady and always steady, calm, peering out from behind two oval and petite lenses. He speaks English with a slight lisp, which always has me wondering if he speaks Thai with a lisp too.

Yai's sense of humor is terrific as he is the only one that tells me he hates me, often promising to kill me. I'd be lying if I said I didn't incite such threats.
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"P'Poo has the ball, huh? Is it, I don't know, in his office?" The sarcastic indignation was smeared like butter on my slowly spoken words. Yai smiled slightly.

"Yes."

"What the hell?!" I retorted, mirroring Yai's half smile and building the mock injustice in my voice. "Then why didn't you get it and come play?"

Both Yai and P'Keng giggled. P'Keng doesn't understand much English, but he has come to understand my sense of humor, and I his, enough that language is less of an obstacle. For example, the Thai word for 'to give' is said the same as the English 'hi'. So, for several months now, morning greetings have consisted of one of us saying 'hi', and the other one sticking out his hand and saying 'okay'.

The first day I arrived in the office, he introduced himself to me, unwavering and in a very monotone English. He has eyes like a basset hound, always at peace and calm in his brown, round face. His shiny cheeks are bulbous and he has a Buddha belly. This and his height give him a jolliness reminiscent of a mall Santa Claus. After he told me his name, he lifted his arm up a little high to put it around my shoulders, turned both of us to his wife, a secretary who was sitting behind her desk, and said, "Look, twins." Laughter exploded from all corners of the office.

"I don't know," said Yai, his tone going up and down with the last syllable.

"Well, dude! Next time, call me so I know and don't wake up at freakin' 7:00am to play a game that won't be there!"

Again, they both laughed. There are times when I'm not entirely sure if they are laughing because they understand or because they enjoy watching me feign frustration. Like with most friends, it's likely both.

The whole exchange took place over a minute, but the camaraderie present in our words and facial expressions left an impression that makes it feel like it was my entire morning. Only three months ago I struggled to establish a sense of belonging, a fresh identity amidst a sea of street vendors and stray dogs. But this morning, more than any other, I felt like I belonged in my office. That my comfort was not only established but present didn't dawn on me until the mid afternoon, when I reminded myself that I'd be waking up again the next morning at 7:00am, hoping to find two coworkers playing basketball in the settling Bangkok fog.