The translator was a wiry Brit who had lived in Vietnam for several years. When the kid saw that I had pointed to him, he looked the other way down the beach. When the translator started stumbling across the sand in his direction, the boy nervously adjusted his posture. The translator said a few things to him and then came back and sat by the fire.
The Brit said, the kid has a mom, but he said that she’s busy, his mom was ‘playing.’ This sobered the group for a moment. Playing; does that mean what we think it means?
He was about the same age as the girl who got my two-dollar bill, perhaps a bit older. He had nice-looking clothes, a clean haircut, and high-top shoes. In other words, he didn’t appear like a kid who didn’t have a home to go back to, but here he was, closing in on midnight by himself. He didn’t look upset enough to indicate this was the first time his mother had told him to make himself scarce.
The conversation turned to other things, but I was sitting in a way that I couldn’t avoid looking at the kid, looking quietly desperate. While the others chatted onward, I stood up unsteadily and brushed the sand from my shorts. When the boy saw that I was walking in his direction, he immediately turned his gaze to the surf.
I pulled out my phone and began typing into Google Translate. Do you live here? Where is your home? You cannot go home tonight? His lack of an answer was enough of an answer for me.
For a moment, I regretted that I had given the girl the $2 bill. Here was a kid who could use some luck. I pulled out my wallet and leafed through the bills. I had enough for the hotel and for the bike repair. I also had the $100 bill I kept for emergencies. I reached for it before I could change my mind.
He looked at it wild-eyed. When I held it out to him, he recoiled and shook his head. I tried to hold it out more emphatically and he shook his head harder. I typed, take this, it’s okay, it’s lucky money.