They actually changed the music—muzak—at the food court. Lately they’ve been looping a country-sounding Thai-crooner. Change her lyrics to English and she could stand in for fill-in-the-blank-female-country-singer. Sorry—that is obviously not my forté.

The female Thai teachers of one of the Thai language schools continue to squish tables together. I notice a different white male eating with them—it is a new term. New student? New boyfriend? 

There’s also a group of women who descend en masse in coordinated costumes. One day they were dressed in smart corporate suits. Another time—in a nod to Northern Day—they all wore traditional woven dresses made of rough cotton and flip flops. It was Prom Night when they sauntered in wearing kelly-green satin off-the-shoulder-with-fluttering-sleeve-ensemble. At least they break up the team-polo-squads that dot the food court. Honestly, it looks like bowling teams huddled together—the black team, the powder blue team, the fluorescent green team. Today, the white-trimmed-in-navy-blue team hosted their own potluck. Platters of food crammed a table in the back corner. Around twenty employees filled the tables in that section. 

Then the teen with Down’s Syndrome entered (from now on known as the Teen). He crossed the Crêpe lady’s stand and Crêpe lady called out to him. They shook pinky’s, then she returned to flipping her crêpe. He made a beeline for the potlucking employees, dragged a chair over and inserted himself into their squad. They smiled and greeted him. He didn’t eat; he seemed content to sit there. Then he got up and moved to the other table. Then he stood between the two tables with his arms resting on the low barrier wall (yes—same wall that cordons off the children’s play area) so he could view everyone at the same time. He exuded an air of a satisfied boss. Then his grandmother came to fetch him.

Enjoying a freshly made crêpe—and—it’s pink prom dress day.

The Teen and his fans

It turns out, the Teen does not come to the mall alone. I saw him last week walking behind his grandmother, holding a plate of rice with a smile on his face. He followed her to the rice cooker which is in the middle of the food court. It is not filled with rice, but filled to the brim with water that is continually on a low-simmer. The purpose is for customers to hold their utensils over the steam for a few seconds to further sterilize before using them. It is so homey, unpretentious, and functional. 

Another day, he walked up to a group of female employees while they were eating lunch. He showed them a large sticker—it was a cartoon illustration of a little girl. They appropriately “oohed” and “ahhed.” He left them and approached a group of male employees. At one point, it looked like he was trying to give a choke-hold to one of the young men—he was standing behind him with his arms draped in front of the man’s neck, with his wrist clasped. The young man had no reaction, no response. His face literally did not change, as if it was normal for someone to try and half-Nelson him. The Teen moved to an older man and did the same thing, but it was definitely a hug from behind because the Teen was hugging the man’s head to his belly. His eyes were closed; he had the most serene look on his face. He held this pose for some minutes, not concerned with what others or even the man thought. The man, in return, reached up to touch the Teen’s arm and kept his hand there for awhile. The table of women noticed and took pictures. 

Then it was time to go back to work and the men dispersed. There was a left-over orange-soda drink that had absorbed the Teen’s attention—he kept staring at it. One of the men topped it up—he had an entire bottle of the soda—inserted a fresh straw, and handed it to him. The Teen walked past the ladies who smiled at him, and he walked past the Somtum lady and the Crêpe lady who called out to him. And he left the food court, sipping his orange drink.

The Teen: Gangnam Style

The Teen smashed moles, but there were no moles. He drove the car, but it didn’t honk. He had no 20 baht note; he was broke. He continued to try and engage lifeless games but they didn’t cooperate. He turned around and saw his reflection in the window of a vacant store space. Spontaneously, he came to life and began to dance! Hearing a beat that no one else could, he bounced and bobbed like a backup dancer in a boy band. He waved his arms, punctuated with some air punches. He smiled at his reflection—who needs Gangnam Style? He was Gangnam Style!

He walked toward one of the entrances to the food court—next to the Crêpe lady’s stand. He weighed himself on the public scale that stood next to her station. Crêpe lady called to him but he ignored her. Another elderly woman gave him such a warm greeting—pointing to his belly; patting it and poking it as if he were a Thai Teen Winnie-the-Pooh.

He moved on and hovered at a table of young girls; he drifted to the adjacent table and peered over the shoulder of a boy playing a game on his phone. Then the Teen pulled out a chair and sat at a table by himself. Crêpe lady noticed, and when she completed an order, she pulled out a chair to sit opposite from him. She said something and smiled. With her hair pulled in a hasty bun, clad in apron and crocks, she emanated an unassuming and infectiously warm presence. Fresh faced—possibly greasy from working over two griddles—she continued to try and coax a response from the Teen. Unsuccessful, she got up and returned to her stand. The Teen sat. And sat. I looked at his face. He occasionally rolled his neck, sometimes his eyes. Then he got up and left.

He returned, holding a large plastic can. He walked directly toward a table of Thai school girls, but instead of approaching them, sat down on the floor. He removed his slides, folded his legs in half-lotus, and placed the empty plastic can in front of him. He looked like a meditating alms mendicant with his begging bowl. Crêpe lady saw him and burst out laughing. Other customers noticed him and didn’t exactly burst out laughing—they looked confused. I noticed he had positioned himself at the other entrance to the food court, which is also closest to the children’s play area. He was begging for baht to play games!

For awhile, everyone ignored him. As soon as Crêpe lady was free, she walked over, fished out some coins from her apron and leaned over his can, as if to drop them in. Instead, she put the coins directly into his hand, and laughed all the way to the Drinks lady. She swung her arm around Drinks lady and they both giggled at the Buddha of the food court. The Teen fingered the coins with a large smile on his face. I gathered my bags and walked with purpose. Without a word, I bent and dropped some coins into his can. May he whack moles—Gangnam Buddha!