Sarong Party Girls

chapter 5

“Aiyoh, what is wrong with you?”

Kani nah, people here are just trying to quietly sit and drink kopi on a Saturday morning also cannot. Why does Seng bloody hell have to come and bother me? I even went to the kopitiam quite early that day. Early for me, that is. After all, I came home at 10 A.M. — after showering, I didn’t want to listen to my mum complain about me coming home so late (especially after her lecture at the wet market yesterday). And the thought of having my dad join her in hantaming me—my god, I knew I’d better fasterly get out of the house. And on a Saturday morning, the kopitiam is the best place to go and stone for a bit lah. If you go to one of those atas western cafes with the croissants and shit, these smiley waitresses with the high-pitched singsong voices won’t leave you alone! “Miss, do you want more of this or that crap?” and all that bullshit. But in a kopitiam, the uncles there will usually leave you alone to sit and stare into your kopi for as long as you want. The only drawback—for me, anyway—was the bang balls possibility of bumping into Seng.

“What’s wrong?” Seng asked again, pulling out a plastic stool from under my table and sitting down. “I whole life never see you so quiet before.”

I couldn’t even really move my head that much. I just lifted my sunglasses and stared at him. “I got ask you to sit down with me, is it?”

“Eh, this one is free country, you know. You don’t own all the seats at the table. If got free seat—then anyone can sit lah! Now—what the hell is wrong with you today?”

Of course, Seng was the last guy I could tell. Even though the fucker was getting so comfortable at the table he took out his Marlboro Menthol Lights and nodded at the kopi uncle, giving him the “one” sign. Before uncle—in his long pajama pants and singlet that was so thin you can practically count all the hairs around his nipples—brought his kopi over, Seng had already moved the rusted empty lychee can near his elbow and lit his ciggie. I tried not to watch him slowly scratching his chin with his one long fingernail. I don’t understand when Seng suddenly became such an Ah Beng, growing a sharp fingernail on his little finger for digging his ears and nose and all. And why was I so unlucky to be sitting at a smoking table? Never think properly lah. I had wanted to avoid all those Saturday mothers with their noisy fat kids but now here I was, ending up talking to Seng. Really bang balls, man.

“You don’t want to tell me I also know lah,” Seng said, flicking his ciggie into the lychee can and exhaling through his nostrils. Actually I don’t usually mind Seng so much. Last time when we were young, before he became an Ah Beng, we actually hung out at the kopitiam together a fair bit. At that time, we were just seventeen—we still had no money to go clubbing so much, so might as well just sit in the kopitiam and drink Anchor beer. It was quite fun lah—on Saturday nights, you would see all the old neighborhood Ah Cheks and then the two of us sitting there, drinking beer, talking cock. Uncles would try to share their sad life stories, wanting to tell us young people all the mistakes in life to avoid. Crazy! As if we can’t see with our own eyes what their pathetic lives are like. Seng and I would always just laugh. Of course we’re smart enough not to end up drinking in a kopitiam with these old Ah Cheks when we are forty years old. Seng is not say very good-looking but he knows how to dress up nicely, saving up to buy Prada sneakers sometimes, carrying a Dunhill wallet and all. And he’s not big and buff like those ang moh guys we all like but his body is not terrible. (At least he’s not fat like some of his chubby friends. One good thing about his smoking, I guess.) And we all know how chio I am lah. So all those Ah Cheks should know better. Unlike them, people like us actually have dreams. As if we need their advice!

At that time I was not yet happening like I am now, where I have these guys at clubs buying me drinks and all. Back then—we were all damn poor, man. Must save up for a week so we can afford even one pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea at a club. To make the most of it, we knew we had to drink the pitcher fasterly so we could get a quick high. If your head immediately feels pain a bit then confirm is success. But if you drink so fast it’s not always shiok. Such highs always only last so long. But the good part is, if you are high and act happy a bit, sometimes guys will notice you more and come over to offer to buy you drinks. So in the end the strategy might have some payoff, after all. As tough as those days were, you know what those aunties always say—better to know hardships early in life, otherwise later when you have a good life, you won’t appreciate it.

Later on, once Seng finished army, we all had a bit more money, but he and I would still go to the kopitiam sometimes. Drinks at clubs were expensive after all—so if you sit in a kopitiam first, drink four or five Anchors, get mabuk already then that’s the time to go clubbing. When you get to the club already high, you don’t need to spend so much on drinks there. Seng even hung out with us girls sometimes back then, but we hadn’t invited him in a long time. If you want to meet ang moh guys, if you bring a Singaporean guy along—aiyoh—you might as well just give up before going out. (Louis is different. A rich guy buying bottles for everyone—who doesn’t want to hang out with him? Even ang moh guys also like him.)

Seng also taught me to smoke back then—he said it would make me look sexy. The last time I smoked with him, he was trying to teach me how to do this stylo move, pushing smoke out through his nostrils like a dragon. But no matter how many times I tried, until my nose was fucking pain, almost want to nosebleed, I also couldn’t do it. This skill—Seng knows he is champion, and he was doing it now. My head that morning was so painful, however, I just sat there and watched him make those long dragon smoke puffs. Everything was quiet. I had nothing to say.

Earlier this morning—my god. I was still trying to not think about it.

“You hungover lah,” Seng said, taking one sip of his kopi that was so big that almost half the cup disappeared. I never understood how that guy can drink so fast. Kopi, whiskey, all the same. One sip, two sips—time for a refill already.

I didn’t want to respond to his cock comment. Usually better not to encourage him. If I answer one question, I will have to answer ten more. “This kind of obvious thing,” I just said, “no need to say lah. Waste saliva only.” Seng just put out his ciggie and pointed one more time at the kopi uncle, who immediately stood up, pulled up his pajama pants and shuffled over to make more kopi.

“Guniang, you last night didn’t vomit is it?” he said, shaking his head. I didn’t move, hoping that if I didn’t say anything he would just shut up. “You ownself ask for it,” he said, lighting another ciggie. I could see him looking at me—at first I thought maybe he’s pitying me or some shit but actually, it was quite funny. The fucker looked like he was concerned. Must be my lucky day.

“You should know this what,” he continued, “if you are going to get that mabuk, then must make yourself throw up before sleeping. Otherwise, if you get hungover until like this, what’s the point of drinking?”

It’s true lah. Right then, I was thinking, what is the point? That morning—aiyoh. That morning. At first, when we left Attica, I planned to just go that guy’s place, finish already then make some quick excuse and go home. But then, my god, guniang here was so tired and mabuk I just fell asleep! Not to say that the guy was that good—but luckily he was quick. So even though he was also quite mabuk it was almost literally like, garabing garabung then everything over already. If he didn’t shout one time when he came, I probably wouldn’t even know that anything happened. When he suddenly said “GOD!” guniang was actually lying there, still slowly adjusting my hair on the pillow and all, wondering whether I should try and turn over so I wouldn’t have to see his nose, which, once we got outside of Attica and I could actually see his face, I realized was not only big but also hairy as fuck. Kani nah, next time I go to Strip I’d better ask them whether they wax noses or not. If they don’t, next time I’m not even going to consider guys like this. I would have turned over from the start so I didn’t have to see that shit lah, but the first time with a guy, sometimes if you turn over they get the wrong idea. Hallo—guniang here don’t do backside.

Once the guy was done he went and got us some water—sweet of him lah. That move, I appreciated. But by the time he came back I was already asleep. Then this morning, aiyoh. When I woke up at around nine, I could actually see that his apartment was not very nice. It’s not small—one of those older condos, so it was quite spacious because when government first started granting land for building them, they parceled out bigger lots, so all of them were big big one. But even though it was not bad, it was totally empty! There was nothing on the walls—just white and more white. In the living room, there was just one sofa, one coffee table and one giant flat-screen TV and PlayStation. The fridge was empty. And walao eh, clothes were all over the place—half-rolled-up socks, dirty T-shirts, all thrown all over the living room floor. The bedroom (I guess maybe he doesn’t spend so much time there) was at least a bit neater.

I was still walking around the living room, thinking of what else I could look at, when he came out of the bedroom and said, “Hey babes. Hungry?” In the daylight he wasn’t, say, terrible-looking. The nose, it’s true, looked quite bad. (In the morning light I could see even more clearly just how much hair there was.) But his body—which I could see even more now since he was still naked (and also since I wasn’t mabuk and feeling a bit cross-eyed anymore by this point)—was quite thin and nice; his smile, quite cute. If I didn’t know by now that I’d probably have to end up picking up his rotting underwear from the floor my whole life, then I actually might consider. Also, I couldn’t remember his name. Babi, why didn’t I think of going into his wallet and find out while he was still sleeping? Now, what should I call him?

So I just smiled and said, “Not really hungry, sweetie.” I was about to pick up my handbag and tell him I’d better go. But then the guy came over and hugged me from behind. I didn’t know what to do. Usually they’re not so sweet. So I just turned around and he suddenly kissed me, the open open type. I was going to push him away since we both hadn’t brushed our teeth yet—why would he want to kiss like that now? Damn gross, man. But then I could smell something minty. Wah—fucker brushed his teeth! I was so touched I actually wasn’t thinking and just kissed him back. Then I could feel that he was getting a bit hard. And I remembered that he was actually quite nice-sized. Also, last night, since I was so tired, fucker came but guniang here didn’t finish. (Actually, don’t say didn’t finish lah—the fucker was so quick that guniang never even started.) So when I thought about it a bit—OK, might as well not go home just yet.

Overall, it was all OK lah. At least the second time, both sides also got action. But the bad part is, hooking up like that tends to mean that it cannot just be a one-night thing. So when he asked for my number, I felt a bit like I couldn’t say no. Also, since the girls and I sometimes go to Attica, I might bump into him again! So better don’t give a fake number, I guess. The good part is, at least when we exchanged numbers, guniang here had a number one idea. I pretend-told him I don’t know how to spell his name, asked him how to spell it and all. So he slowly spelled out for me: R-O-Y.

So, now—like that lah! I don’t even know how, man. With a nose like that and with his lousy apartment and I don’t even know what cock job he has, this situation—aiyoh, it’s not good, man. Really not good. Confirm will end up wasting time. By the time I got back home, I already got a nice text from him. This one—is really susah.

“Guniang, your kopi so cold already—come, I buy you new one,” Seng suddenly said. I had forgotten he was even there. Actually, I even forgot that I was there.

Just the other day, my mum actually said to me: “Please lah—why don’t you just go out with a nice boy like Seng? You know, last week he brought me and your dad breakfast—I think he came looking for you, but in the end he just gave it to us and watched us eat. This kind of good heart—I can tell you, a white-skin man definitely don’t have.”

Seng? My god. Of course in my mum’s mind this is the kind of dream husband for me—Goh Kwok Seng, major Ah Beng to the extreme! But my mum mainly loves him because even though outside the house these days, he is one of those kwailan assholes who likes to go to Marina Square and stare at other Ah Bengs and ask them “You staring at what?” before throwing down his cigarette and whacking them one time, at home, Seng is very sweet to his mum. Only son, after all. And after his dad died a few years ago, if Seng doesn’t pamper her, who will? Plus his mum and my mum used to be old kakis, so Seng is very “auntie-auntie” around her, always finding all sorts of ways to carry her water.

But expecting Jazzy to marry this kind of guy? Talk cock lah!

I don’t even know what Seng’s job is—one time he told me he was applying for some fuck job at a shipping company and I zoned out. Please—I know shipping is a big business in Singapore, but people (especially those at Seng’s level) who are in it are basically nothing better than the coolies that our grandfathers were, working at the docks. And no matter how many TAG Heuers he buys for himself or Prada shoes he wears, at the end of the day, a coolie is a coolie.

So even though guniang here wouldn’t have minded a free kopi from Seng, better not say yes. Don’t give him any funny ideas.

“No need lah,” I said. “I better go home already. Must help my mum clean the house.” This one—I know is lies. Seng also knows is lies. But whatever lah. As if he cares.

After I started walking away toward my block, I looked back and saw him lighting another ciggie and slowly checking his phone. He wasn’t even looking up at me. Since that first time that I met him at the bus stop way back in primary school, he always super act-cool one. Fucker doesn’t need anybody.

I didn’t want to go home though—with my luck my mum would actually be cleaning the flat that day and guniang here will have no choice but to help. Imo didn’t live far away from me though—two bus stops—so I started walking to the bus stop. Normally, of course I don’t take the bus—come on, no matter how good the air-con or seat cushions are, you are still sharing that nice air-con and seat cushions with all the types of people who have no money to buy a car or take a taxi. But Imo’s house, two bus stops? Can endure a bit lah.

Imo had already warned me that she was helping her mum clear the storage room so if I come by, I’d better help out. This one, I don’t really mind—of all the aunties out there, I actually liked Imo’s mum the best. It’s true that now she is damn boring—looks like an auntie, acts like an auntie; whole life long doesn’t do much except cook, watch TV serials and crochet at home when Imo is not there. But her life before Imo and Uncle—from some things she says now and then about going to this club or that party, we all imagined that she probably was damn happening!

Before we found out about Imo’s dad’s first family, we didn’t think much of how auntie spent her time. In Singapore, so many men travel for work or get posted overseas but leave their families behind, it’s no big deal to see mums and aunties sitting at home with nothing to do except wait. But since we found out about Uncle’s first wife, every time I see auntie sitting at home cleaning the already-quite-shiny altar for the fifth time that day or rearranging the framed photos of Imo on the living room wall again, I can’t help but feel a bit sad lah. Who wants to always be number two?

The bus doors opened, and I stepped out of the super power air-con into the sticky morning. It wasn’t even noon yet but I already felt as if someone had thrown a gummy blanket of steam over my face. Even though Imo didn’t live far from my place, the two neighborhoods could not be more different. Looking out the smudged windows of the bus, you can always see it. First, in my government-housing neighborhood, there are the skinny streets jammed tight with white blocks and blocks of flats; trees, each one a perfectly rounded blur of green zooming by, interspersed by rows of dusty old hardware stores, provision shops and kopitiams and then, one or two gigantic buildings that on their own look quite boring lah, except that they’re wrapped all around with flashing neon Chinese characters and words like HENNESSY and RéMY MARTIN. Then, slowly slowly the roads get a bit wider, the buildings a bit shorter, the puffs of green get bigger and bigger, the trees fuller and darker.

By the time the bus doors open outside Waikiki Towers, there’s no neon anywhere around. Even Imo’s bus stop is atas—a cube of shiny metal and clear glass. Every time I get off here I always think—the government damn toot lah. If you are going to make something so shiny, atas and clean, why not make it the front window that bus drivers have to look out of instead of some fucking high-class bus stop that people in this neighborhood never use anyway because everyone has at least one Mercedes in their covered car park?

Even though the security guard station to Waikiki Towers is right next to the bus stop, walking into Imo’s building is quite terok, especially this close to noon. The driveway to her building is damn fucking long for starters. Then, it’s also obviously not a space designed for people to actually walk—after all, everyone here has a car. The pavement got not much space one—some more, got no shade! But once you get to the lobby, everything is all OK again. Pure white marble everywhere, everything is always clean, the air-con is always power. The first time I visited Imo, I remember thinking that this place was a bit strange—if it’s called Waikiki Towers, then why is it not beachy like Hawaii? Back then, we were all still in primary school but Imo already knew what she wanted to do in life.

“Aiyoh,” she scolded me, “you are the toot one lah. Hallo, Waikiki is not just stupid stuff like palm trees, beaches and bikinis. Those kinds of things—excuse me, even low-class towns in Malaysia also have! It’s not special one. No, what’s special about Waikiki is all the shopping there—how come you don’t know this? Japanese tourists and people from all over the world go there to buy branded names and all. Apparently there’s even one shopping center in Honolulu that’s so big that the corridors are bigger than Singaporean roads. And in the center of it all there’s a four-corner walkway—north, south, east, west, each one has a big store. Louis Vuitton one corner, Gucci, Prada and Chanel on the other three.

“I tell you,” Imo said, her voice suddenly turning less fierce, “one day, I will go to the real Waikiki and visit all four corners.”

Imo’s door was already open by the time I reached the twenty-first floor and I could see that auntie had set out cold packets of barley water on a plastic tray by the foyer for us. Visiting Imo is always quite fun lah, since auntie always takes care of us like this. (When anyone visits our flat, they’re lucky to get even a hallo from my ma or pa. Want some water or soft drinks? Please. I will be the idiot fetching it from the kitchen—or even worse, being sent downstairs to NTUC to buy some for my guests because there’s nothing in the house. So yah, people know that if they get thirsty in my house, they can go ahead and wait until tomorrow.)

“Hallo!” I heard Imo say from the dining room. “In here.”

Old photos were scattered all around the dining room table—I could tell they were quite old because a few of them were square, with that crinkly white border all around the picture. Most of them were faded rectangular ones though—I could see that they were mostly filled with people, not scenery. Before I could look closely at any of them though, Imo waved me over, quickly turning the big photo she was holding facedown on the table.

“I bet you you’ve never seen this before,” she said, smiling. “Ready?”

After waiting a moment for me to come and sit down next to her, Imo turned the photo over. At first, I didn’t quite understand what I was looking at. It was some glamour head shot, like those you see in that wall of frames outside KTV lounges or cheap Chinese nightclubs. From the haircut, I could see that the photo was from the 1980s—shoulder length, layered tight curls, a bit like old TV show Dynasty. Since it was a head shot, you couldn’t see much of the dress except that it was sparkly and red, with silver sequins all around the neckline. And the makeup was equally fierce. Glittery glittery type—and greenish-blue eyeshadow!

“You show me this for what?” I asked.

Imo just laughed, handing me the photo. “Aiyoh,” she said, “you blind is it? Look closer.”

I held the photo closer to my eyes, squinting a bit so I could see it more carefully. Puffy hair, pencil-thin eyebrows—the old-fashioned kind where the hair is plucked until there’s almost nothing there and you can really see the dark pencil lines—and eyelashes so thick, long and dark that even if you looked at this person from two floors up you confirm can tell it’s all fake. But the eyes… and maybe the nose? There was something a bit familiar about them, even if the dark red glossy lips didn’t quite seem to match the face that popped into my mind. I looked at Imo, squinting at her eyes and her nose and then looked back at the photo.

“My god,” I said, putting the photo down.

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s my mum!”

Her mum? I couldn’t believe it.

“But…” I started to say. I had so many questions I didn’t know where to start.

Imo put her finger on her lips, making a very quiet “Shh” sound, pointing to the storage room nearby where we could hear her mum moving some boxes around. Rummaging around all the photos on the table, she finally picked up a small brochure and handed it to me. It was one of those folded pamphlets that you’ll see in boxes outside shops or offices trying to get your business. Although it was quite old, a bit yellowing, it was in good condition. I could tell from how sharp some of the corners were that it had obviously been very carefully stored.

The front of it was filled with square photos of what looked like a quite happening nightclub—not the sort that Imo and I go to in Clarke Quay but the kind that businessmen will bring clients visiting from Korea or Japan, that kind of thing. There were a few glamour shots of women who were dressed and made up just like Imo’s mum, along with some photos of a big stage outlined with bright lightbulbs. In some shots, the center of the stage was packed with a few girls in short sequined dresses, dancing; in others, there was just one singer, always a woman, in a long shiny gown, holding a microphone. Across the top, in large words: “Golden Lotus Night Club.”

Walao eh! Auntie was a nightclub escort? OK, this time, even Jazzy didn’t know what to say.

Imo saw how shocked I was and just laughed.

“I tell you,” she said, leaning close to me so she could whisper, “I’ve never seen your face like this!”

Of course, all of a sudden, this explained everything.

The thing about Imo’s mum is—yes, she’s quite chio and yes, she’s very sweet and nice. (And also has become quite a champion crocheter over the years, as you can tell from the cushion covers and blankets that you see all over the apartment.) But something I always wondered is how on earth she managed to get a semi-rich man like Uncle. I mean, Uncle is not super rich—hallo, Imo lives in Waikiki Towers, not in some two-story bungalow with a swimming pool—but still, he’s rich enough to give them all this. (And obviously more—but all the best stuff goes to his first family of course.) And Auntie after all is not say super hot or very smart and her personality is about as happening as a piece of paper.

But this photo, this brochure. Now, I see.

“It’s how they met!” Imo said, after I finished thinking through all this and looked at her again. “It was a long time ago though. She left the business when she fell pregnant.”

She looked like she was going to say something more but then Auntie suddenly came back into the dining room, holding a box. “Imo, talk less, finish faster,” she said, setting the box on the table and dusting off her hands.

Watching Imo’s mum’s round backside slowly leaving the room in her auntie auntie housedress, I guess I could see why she never told us about any of this. I’m sure, even though Imo thinks it’s funny—and now I have new respect for Auntie—it’s something maybe she’s a bit ashamed about. Also, I guess this is why Imo also never really sees her mum’s family—in fact, I think she’s only met her grandparents a few times, a very long time ago. Her mum told her that her family lives in Penang and we all just believed it. Who knows? They probably live in Singapore also, maybe even nearby! But of course once Imo’s mum became an escort they probably wouldn’t have wanted to have anything to do with her anymore lah. I guess if you think about it, it’s sad to see parents treating their children this way but, what to do? At least, in the end, life sort of worked out for Imo’s mum. Come on—Waikiki Towers! Don’t play play!

I was about to ask Imo something else but Auntie poked her head in again. “Girls,” she said, “stop daydreaming!”