Sarong Party Girls

chapter 15

Saturday night started out damn cock.

First, Imo suggested going to Studemeyer’s. “The deejay tonight is quite good!” she texted. So, OK, we all agreed to go. But then, when Fann and I showed up at the VIP table Louis booked, Imo stood us up! Turns out she left Carlyle’s early last night because she wasn’t feeling well. Then, it turns out she was actually quite sick, so all we got once we were already at Studemeyer’s was a text from her saying, “Sorry, sorry!” (And a bunch of lines about how much exactly she was hugging the toilet bowl, which we looked at one time and fasterly deleted. Who needs that kind of shit floating around our heads on a happening Saturday night out?)

But at least Louis booked a table at Studemeyer’s and even though he hadn’t come out yet, he let us pull out his bottles from his liquor locker and all. So Andrew and Kelvin—who were so happy their wives let them come out to chiong for the night that they arrived at Studemeyer’s super early—had been drinking there since 9 P.M. By the time Fann and I got there, Louis’s bottle of Chivas was gone and they were asking the manager to bring out his Grey Goose and whatever the hell unfinished bottles Louis had in his locker.

“Come, come, cheers!” Andrew said, making vodka sodas for us four and passing them around.

“Eh, ladies,” Kelvin said after we bottoms-up and Andrew started making another round. “Tonight—be prepared. There’s an extra special show!”

When Kelvin said that, guniang here panicked a bit. I remember the last time we were out with Louis and his gang and they were talking about a special show coming on—my god, I could still taste the sourness of defeat from that night at Lunar, that Chinese club.

I looked at Fann, who was looking at her phone. I considered gesturing to her that perhaps we should leave. (Although I guess the more effective way of communicating that to her would have been to text her, even though she was sitting just one seat over.) The truth is, I was not feeling much like being in a club that night at all. Guniang here didn’t need any drinks to feel high—I was already feeling quite buzzed from a date with Roy. Yes—Roy!

My mum always says that good deeds bring good karma and guniang here has always thought that’s a bit bullshit lah. This kind of zen-zen-type stuff—please, it’s not very modern thinking! You think this one is what—ancient Japan, is it? (I know I should respect it and all but I always think it’s a bit wasting time only.) But this morning, after peeling all those bean sprouts and being a good girl for my mum, even clearing all the dishes after lunch, I got back to my room to find my phone beeping.

“I know it’s a bit late to be asking but are you free for coffee this afternoon?” Roy said.

After the awfulness of last night, guniang here was so happy to hear from Roy that I almost wanted to run back outside and hug my mum, I tell you. Maybe things were looking up a bit after all.

Of course, I waited half an hour before texting back—good, make him worry. Then I said, “OK.”

Roy had warned me to wear really comfortable walking shoes—a bit strange but I thought, OK, maybe he wants to go walking along Orchard Road to go shopping or something? It’s true—sometimes, when you’re doing heavy-duty shopping, especially on Sunday when all the families and kids are out, better be prepared to fasterly maneuver through all that crap. So I made sure to put on my nice sneakers—these were about five years old but guniang here uses them so little they’re still shiny shiny and all. I tell you—they look so new that if you put them on display in the store right now, people wouldn’t think twice about trying them on.

Roy had taken my coffee order by text so he had two medium-sized styrofoam cups in his car when he showed up downstairs. His car wasn’t too big or flashy—no Mercedes SUV here—but it wasn’t terrible. It was one of those MINI Coopers that were in fashion these days. Forest green, with one fat white stripe running down the side of it—not bad. Masculine and not that boring lucky red like so many Singaporeans were choosing when buying that kind of cute car.

The fact that he even had a car—and I deduced it was his because most companies wouldn’t buy a MINI as their company car, let’s face it—was promising. Cars are so expensive in Singapore—the island is so small, the government wants to discourage people from buying too many and clogging the roadways and all. So, first of all, they’re all imported and taxes on them are crazy. On top of that, even before you buy the car you have to bid on a certificate of entitlement to buy a car—each year the government only issues so few. So, my god, once those COEs are issued, everyone bids like crazy to get one. All in, you should know that if you want to buy a decent car, you know you’d better have at least a hundred thousand dollars in your bank account or you can forget about it.

So the fact that Roy has one—it’s not bad. Either he’s making enough to buy one himself or he’s valuable enough to his company that they factored a Singapore car allowance into his contract. Or maybe he came from a super rich family? From the looks of it, it was a brand-new MINI too. When guniang here saw the car—wah, I was immediately damn happy. This was promising!

Roy reached over to give me a hello kiss on the lips the moment I slid into his car. I turned my face slightly so he got my cheek instead, but made sure to give him a sweet little smile.

“Afternoon,” he said, smiling and turning his music down a little. I had thought he might be listening to pop or club music—I guess I’ll always associate him with that since that’s what was playing when we first met. But he was actually listening to the Beach Boys. Interesting. I wondered if he’d lived in the States before—or if maybe he might get posted there in the future? A lot of these oil guys I know often get stationed in Houston or some shit. I don’t really know how I would like living there lah—but it seems pretty fun from all the movies I’ve seen. I was trying to think whether that’s where all the cowboy movies are? Can consider.

We chitchatted a bit as he drove—nothing serious lah. Just how was your morning (I didn’t tell him about the bean sprout peeling—too LC), what have you been up to, that kind of thing. I was hoping he’d say something about why he hadn’t texted me since our date a few nights ago (and wondered about asking or commenting on it, but I didn’t want to seem needy). Besides, I guess it had really only been just over a day, really.

At that moment, I was just feeling happy to be sitting in this cute little car, with Roy, slowly driving past the tall boring buildings in my housing estate, turning onto a road near downtown that would lead us to leafy Bukit Timah, where the rich or expats with kids live. The trees, each one perfectly spaced apart and elegantly shaped, along the wide road medians were getting greener and fuller. As we neared the botanical gardens, Roy slowed down, turning into the car park. Ah, this kind of walk. To be honest, guniang here is not really a nature nature type of girl. (Please, not many Singaporeans truly are. If they say they are, I can tell you—confirm it’s all lies and posing. With all these great malls and cinemas around—who wants to spend time in a dirty garden?) But I had decided that Roy had potential—and he did seem sweet. So I guess, why not?

Roy handed me my coffee—“milk, two sugars, right?”—as we got out of the car. “It was such a nice day,” he said as we entered the tall iron gates to the gardens. “I thought perhaps it might be nice to get out.”

Once we got inside the park, I let Roy take the lead. Seemed like he’d been here before and probably knew his way around. Of course I’d been to the botanical gardens before—only once though, on a primary school excursion and even then I found it damn boring. Except for the couples doing photo shoots in their wedding outfits, seriously—what else was there to see in this place? But if Roy likes it then I’ll keep an open mind lah.

“I like coming here to clear my head,” Roy said, leading me down a narrow path toward the heart of the gardens. “Singapore’s so different from where I grew up—not quite the countryside but definitely not the city,” he added. I tried to think about whether I’d asked where he grew up in the UK. And decided not to risk asking him again, in case we’d already had this discussion that night when I was drunk.

I was starting to feel strange. Not with Roy, but just the general feeling that something very odd was happening. It wasn’t that I hadn’t been around gardens before—it’s true, I hadn’t done this that often but hello, once you’ve seen one bush or one orchid jungle, do you really need to see more? Is each one really that different? I mean, of course if I had bothered to go on one of those school trips to Malaysia to go camping or some shit I might know a bit more about wilderness lah. But please—ask me to spend money on these kinds of toot things? Might as well ask me to buy ticket to see an opera or some useless crap like that. It’s not as if I’m printing money.

But I quickly realized what it was that made me feel like something was off—the silence! Roy wasn’t talking; neither was I. And while there were people around us—joggers, couples, the occasional family—everyone was fairly quiet, just slowly strolling, looking at flowers. I even heard birds. My god, I couldn’t remember the last time I heard birds just chirping at each other in Singapore—actually, maybe like in the 1990s, when for a few years it was quite happening among old uncles at the kopitiams to buy parakeets or other small songbirds and put them in pretty little round bamboo cages and bring them to the coffee shop early in the morning to show off. Back then, I tell you, this trend became so popular that kopitiams all over Singapore actually started creating sections of their terraces where there were hooks on the ceilings for these Ah Cheks to hang their birdcages.

Don’t ask me why this was fashion. Please—these are really old uncles we’re talking about. Who cares? But if I have to guess, I think it’s maybe something quite symbolic, that if their real birds cannot perform anymore then they might as well buy birds to rear and compete so they can at least feel better about one thing in their pathetic lives. You know how guys are lah—no more good bird to fight also still want to fight.

I guess that’s why when it was so quiet that I could hear birds in the air—immediately, I felt like something was wrong. After all, we definitely weren’t in a 1990s kopitiam!

“Shall we sit?” Roy suddenly said, bursting my kopitiam uncle-bird memories. We had come upon a bench in the shade. I looked around—Roy wasn’t bad. He had managed to pick the only bench all around us that was nicely painted and not speckled with birdshit. (Although if my mum was here, she would say, “Bird shit—very lucky!” Not that she would actually dare go near a bench that was filled with bird shit, of course.)

Roy quickened his step a little before getting to the bench, taking out a packet of tissue from his pocket, pulling a sheet out and wiping down the bench before looking over at me. Tilting his head a little, he waved his hand with a big flourish, like those emcees onstage before introducing a singer or some shit.

“My lady?” he said, smiling and bowing a bit. OK lah—this move, even I have to admit, is quite can. It’s stupid lah. My god. So stupid. But I couldn’t help but smile.

We sat quietly for a bit, just sipping our coffees—lattes from Starbucks, mind you. (The thought of Seng buying me kopi at the kopitiam popped into my head all of a sudden. I was trying to imagine him asking me out on a coffee date like this in the park. My god, the guy would confirm show up with those old coolie-style clear plastic bags filled with kopi and then tied together with fluorescent pink plastic string into a loop so you can hook the hot bag of kopi on your finger and bring back a whole bunch, one for each of your Ah Beng friends. That’s just what happens when you buy takeaway kopi from a kopitiam. I wondered if Seng had ever even been inside a Starbucks and actually laughed out loud.)

“What’s so funny?” Roy asked.

“Nothing, nothing,” I said, feeling a bit embarrassed. When he still looked a bit curious, I figured I should say something. “Just happy to be here.”

Roy smiled. “Good, I’m really glad, Jazzy,” he said, taking a long sip. “You know, I asked you out here today so we could maybe get to know each other in a slightly more relaxed setting. I was starting to think maybe we’d started out on a bit of an intense footing, with, you know…” He looked over at me, slightly embarrassed.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he continued, “it was lovely how things began. You were so lovely. But it’s just not how I usually go about things. I’m really not like that back in England. I just… wanted to slow things down a little. See where things go.”

Interesting. In all my years of dating—especially with ang mohs—I had never heard such a speech before. Usually when guys reach the promised land, they like to stay there. No need to go anywhere else type. But here Roy was saying he wanted to get to know me outside of clubs and the bedroom? I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this piece of information. But then I remembered that he did just move to Singapore not too long ago. The scene probably hadn’t corrupted him—yet.

So I just smiled and said, “I’m glad.” From the slightly relieved smile on his face, I could tell it was the right response.

“You know,” Roy said, leaning back, draping his arm around my shoulder and looking out at the trees, the pond, the swans in front of us, “in some ways, I feel I was destined to come to Singapore. When I was ten, one of my dad’s friends who had come here on a business trip gave me this Singapore five-dollar bill and it had this drawing of the bulbul on it—do you know what that is? No? It’s a small tropical bird that you find in various parts of the world. It’s nothing very special to look at but it’s a songbird… Anyway, I was just getting really into bird-watching at the time and had just been reading about the bulbul—the idea of it being on a five-dollar bill, wow. I couldn’t get over it! I guess Singapore has been on my mind ever since…”

Bulbul? Bird-watching? This guniang was definitely in new territory here. If it had been any of my friends telling cock stories like this I would have just laughed and whacked them on the head and said, “You talking what cock? Don’t pretend to be deep lah!” But I remembered Roy’s car. And how tenderly he wiped down the bench for me, for us. And I decided to just be quiet a bit. Let him talk. See how. And actually, by the time we finished our coffees and walked back to the car, I was feeling like maybe—just maybe—even if the oil refinery career is not quite part of the big plan, even if he has that bloody hairy nose, maybe Roy has real potential.

Just thinking about our walk while at Studemeyer’s with Fann and the guys was still making me smile. That’s how happy I was, I guess. I took out my phone and thought about texting Roy, wondering what he was up to tonight. But I thought, I just saw him earlier today. Just let it rest for a bit. See how. I put my phone back in my clutch.

At that moment, Kelvin pointed to the small oblong podium in the middle of the dance floor that was, as usual, jammed with four or five people trying to action for everyone to see. When Studemeyer’s first opened and they were still trying to be a bit atas, they actually selected podium people—sexy sexy girls and guys who actually know how to dance, dress well and also look quite steam lah. At that time, those podium people were quite inspiration—you see them dancing like in those music videos (sometimes even making the exact moves—this was especially effective with Janet Jackson songs), it just makes you want to dance harder and look sexier. Everybody feels good. But as I mentioned before, their standards really dropped after the Ah Bengs started coming. Now, they just anyhow let people go on the podium and dance. Good clubs—how can they let such things happen? No wonder all the serious clubbers don’t really like coming here anymore.

The podium tonight was a perfect example of this—my god, the variety of losers on it were A-plus-plus, man. There was one classic Ah Beng with the gelled hair and lumpar face, two Ah Lians, both wearing sequin cheena dresses like those KTV bar girls, one fat ang moh guy who confirm is a tourist—must be American, some more, judging from his T-shirt and baggy berms. I tell you—sometimes being ang moh is quite the good life. When they go to a club, they’re not Singaporeans so they don’t need to watch the dress code. Whatever you wear also any club will let you in.

And then—wah, this one I actually had never seen on the podium before—there was one vainpot auntie up there, a bit chubby chubby but still damn bloody vain. Auntie looked quite old—maybe thirty-something? — but even so, somehow she was the most energy, the most action of all the podium dancers. She was wearing tight jeans—but not those fashion fashion dark blue one. Hers were light blue; the denim looked like those cheapo, buy from the “fashion” stalls at the wet market kind. And yeah, her jeans were damn tight on her—but I can tell you it’s not because the jeans were designed to be tight. Even though the dance floor was quite dark, I could see from here that her legs were blown up like two sausage rolls. But lagi best was her top—she wore this loose, a bit see-through white tank top with such big arm holes that you could see her lacy bra. And this auntie’s bra—don’t play play! Fluorescent orange! Plus, she danced until so powerful that her bra straps kept slipping, so every few minutes auntie had to stop dancing, catch her breath and pull up her bra. She would stop, rest for a few seconds and then—action again!

I tell you, the four of us watched her for a few songs—and we laughed until we almost fell over the railing, man!

“Ladies,” Kelvin said, raising his glass to cheers with us again. “Please—promise me that when you are that old I won’t see your saggy backsides up on that podium!”

Aiyoh, socks-crotch tonight was really quite daring—having the balls to arrow us like that.

“Eh, Kelvin,” I said, clinking my glass with his. “Thanks for the advice—I see you are listening to your own advice as well? You and auntie over there are both the same age but I don’t see you joining her up there on the podium.”

Kelvin stopped smiling—his face had this bang balls look. He gave me the third finger but Andrew, Fann and I just laughed and laughed.

Just when I started to be in OK mood, settling into the clubbing scene and not really thinking about texting Roy anymore or wondering what he’s doing tonight, I saw someone waving at me from the dance floor. Kani nah—it’s Seng! Why does he have to be so bloody GPS—know how to find me and all? I didn’t want to be rude, so I just waved back then looked away. But ten minutes later, the fucker showed up on our level and was standing next to me in our booth!

“Excuse me?” Kelvin said to Seng and the even bigger Ah Beng friend he had dragged up with him to the VIP section. “Sorry, but this is a private table that we have reserved.”

“It’s OK,” Seng said, giving Kelvin a big fuck-off face. “That one,” he added, pointing at me, “my friend.”

Kelvin laughed, then looked at me. “Jazz? Real or not?”

Seng look at me; I look at him. I felt quite bad, especially after thinking about what my mum told me the other day, about how he bought her and Pa breakfast last week and all.

“Yeah, yeah, no problems—he’s my old friend,” I said, feeling damn bloody embarrassed. “But this one—is from a very long time ago!”

Kelvin just shook his head and gave me a dagger look before going over to whisper to Andrew. Fann looked at me and mouthed the words: “Why is he here?” I had nothing to say.

“Jazzy—this one, my friend Richard; Richard—Jazzy, my neighbor,” Seng said. His friend was one of those really smelly-face Ah Bengs—the kind of face that always looks like he just ate something wrong. Richard just looked at me, tilted his chin up and nodded. When Ah Bengs say hallo—is like that one. They never shake hands.

“What are you doing here?” I asked Seng.

“I sometimes come here,” he said. “Studemeyer’s is damn happening!”

Aiyoh, my god. Of course Seng is the exact sort of guy who would think this club is still happening.

“Don’t angry lah, Jazzy,” Seng said. “Long long time never see you in club already. Let’s just dance a bit.”

I was trying to think about what to do when the deejay started playing Black Eyed Peas and everyone around us started dancing like crazy and singing, “I gotta feeling… that tonight’s gonna be a good night!” and all. I didn’t want to kill the mood so I decided to dance along, but each time I looked over at Seng and Richard, my blood would really boil. The Ah Bengs were just happily dancing along, ignoring the dirty looks that Fann, Kelvin and Andrew were giving them. Why on earth was Seng here? Isn’t it bad enough that he harasses me in my own neighborhood, he comes to my house when I’m not there, but now he has to talk to me in clubs when I’m with my atas friends? And he even dares to bring his mega Ah Beng friend along when bothering me! Please. He really doesn’t understand his place in life.

Halfway through the song, Andrew slowly danced closer to me, moving between me and Seng, who gave him a dirty look. Andrew leaned close to my ear and said, “This bugger—is he really your friend?”

I nodded but made sure to roll my eyes.

“He keeps giving me dirty looks—bodyguard, is it? Or boy toy?” Andrew said, purposely putting his arm around me now. I’ve never been Andrew’s type so he’s never done anything like this to me before—and I knew that this move tonight wasn’t about that, really. And I knew his strategy worked—I could see Seng glaring at him even more.

“Aiyoh, Jazzy,” Andrew said, getting closer and really whispering in my ear now. “We’ve been partying together for so long, why are you giving us no face by bringing an Ah Beng cock blocker? Want to make us jealous, is it?”

Andrew was rubbing his nose on my ear now and kept looking over at Seng to make sure he was seeing everything. This was getting out of hand. I don’t know what Andrew was playing at but guniang tonight had no mood to flirt with anybody. Not even with Chairman Andrew with his millions of dollars, thank you very much. After last night with Alistair and then today’s sweet walk with Roy, all I wanted tonight was some good clean fun—no hooking up, no drama. My god, that Alistair guy was still texting me! Guniang here just wanted to forget that it ever happened.

I sweetly smiled and moved away from Andrew. “No lah,” I said, smiling even more. “This guy is my teenage friend—from a long time ago. I also don’t know what longkang he came from tonight. Trust me—this kind of guy, I definitely didn’t invite him.”

I looked over at Fann, who had stopped dancing awhile ago and was sitting on the banquette, texting and looking grumpy. I looked over at Seng, who was staring at me and Andrew, probably trying to figure out if he should interfere and try to whack Andrew’s face or something. Like that—how?

My phone was in my pocket vibrating—actually, it had vibrated a few times that night but I didn’t care about answering since it was probably Alistair. But at this moment, I needed an excuse to take a break from all this manhood crap so I sat down next to Fann and checked my texts.

There were two texts from Alistair. I didn’t bother to look at them.

Then, from Louis: “Jazz—Inferno is damn happening tonight. You girls come here lah. I’m not going to Studemeyer’s.” After that he sent a few more saying, “Hello? Hello?” then “Coming or not?”

“Fann,” I said, “let’s go.”

“Thank god,” she said, quickly picking up her handbag and getting up. “Bloody boring here, man.”

“Andrew,” I said, giving him a hug. “We make a move first.”

As Fann and I ran out, I gave a quick wave to Kelvin, Seng and Richard. They all looked a bit blur. I could see them wondering if we were going to the toilet or leaving for good. Whatever, lah.

Once we were outside, Fann said, “Eh, I think I’ll go home first.”

“Home your head lah—it’s only eleven P.M.!” I said. “You think I don’t know where you going—to see Melvin, right?”

At least Fann had the decency to look a bit embarrassed.

“Aiyoh—it’s Saturday night!” I said. “Come on, woman—this is not nice.”

“Jazzy,” she said. “Weren’t you the one who told us that we must be focused on our mission? I am being focused! Melvin is a good catch. Things are going well,” she said, smiling as if she was remembering something about him, and then giggling a little.

Watching her made me feel bad. It’s true. I shouldn’t lose sight of the mission. If Fann has a chance to be happy, then I really shouldn’t be so selfish. I guess this is how it is lah—when people have wings already, they know how to fly. You cannot hold them back.

“Aiyah, OK fine—just go and give your backside to him lah!” I said, smacking her pantat one time and smiling.

Fann pointed her third finger at me. “You? What are you going to do?”

“Don’t worry—I’ll join Louis at Inferno,” I said. “The night is still young—maybe I’ll meet my ang moh billionaire tonight!”