The
Malay waitress at the hot-spot corner Lorong past Aljunied was asleep upstairs when
the brawl took place two or three weeks ago that ended in a young lad dying
from his wounds. There was not much to say about the event, certainly by this
almost-witness. Some matters of course speak for themselves.
There were two Malay lads, two Chinese involved. As usual the police made prompt arrests. That was the whole extent of the report from the Malay waitress.
Stationary and concentrated, she stands in place lowering her chin slightly at the interrogation, an odd cast of shyness over the features, something like childhood guilt before an accusation. In previous encounters when the woman had been called over for something particular the response had been the same.
This nice Malay woman is the kind that very much keeps her nose clean, doesn't poke it where it's not her business. Under no circumstances would she look and gawk at something that doesn't concern her. The same no-regard she pays day by day to the working mainland Chinese girls on the opposite corner, less than ten metres away. Ten or fifteen girls hang on that corner there at any one time, and many more passing through. Like birds flitting overhead for this woman. After a twelve hour shift of course, twelve or thirteen days in the fortnight, the woman would hardly have felt inclined to rush downstairs on the night of the brawl to see what was happening.
Both the Malay woman and her younger mainland Chinese colleague, a girl from Xi' an, sleep on the second floor above the Eatery. Being a 24 hour establishment, there would often be a bit of noise. After long shifts nothing to worry either gal. The night of the brawl created a disturbance. Not enough however to raise the girls from their beds.
Twelve hour shifts, one day off every alternate week, for a wage of between $120 – 150pw, depending on the business cycle, food and keep included. There would be no arguments and no shifty dodgyness from the operator one fully expects. Certainly the Malay waitress expects none. That there are good weeks and bad she knows. An adjusted wage no more than reasonable. On the other side of the Lorong many of the girls would earn that money on a good afternoon; the younger, shapelier and prettier ones a good bit more. Never once have this Malay waitress's eyes followed the action on the other side of the street, spitting distance away. To see this young woman at her workplace one might think she works on any non-descript, dreary street corner. Dull every-day, Ho-hum, never a change. Which is precisely how the skin trade must seem from her vantage.
The Malay waitress is short and squat, perhaps mid thirties, no more. Settled early into middle-age. The girls opposite are the same age as herself. Adding to her look of premature years is a large gap between her two front teeth. Between visits it is always uncertain whether the woman is missing teeth, or the gap is natural. More than ten visits the same forgetfulness. Such is the lively and warm reception the Malay waitress bestows. Boyish hair-cut easily maintained; the issue of dyeing not arisen as yet. A Singaporean Malay early school-leaver; basic English. (The Xi'an girl's non-existent.) Fun is to be had with the Xi'an colleague and with a number of other work mates too. Pleasant, innocent fun of the kind from a generation or two ago—hiding the plate of food that had sat on the table a moment ago; tapping the shoulder going past on the opposite side. The resulting smiles and guffaws in excessive childhood scale. Seeing a regular customer first and creeping up on him unawares brings the Malay waitress delight and pleasure. A little animal triumph of pouncing.
It was a shock for a killing to have taken place at one of the favourite eateries. Daytime hours there at the corner of the Lorong near Aljunied little beer is sold. In those hours it is all sweetened tea and soft drink. Daytime everything always under control, never mind all the girls and milling men, the pimps and look-outs. At the tables there are granddads more than anything; ancients with a bit of spunk retained.
Again on the first visit since the brawl that ended in the unfortunate death, one old Pop clearly in his eighties, going down the slope slowly with the chosen girl. Dressed down this lass, without too many trinkets, a kind of solicitous and dutiful grand-daughter. Crop the old man's photograph and one has the revered portrait from the Memorial pages. There are countless Massage shops the length and breadth of the road. Not what this Pop has in mind.
The traffic sporadic, of the usual kind. Neat and clean men without exception, older mostly, spruced up a bit that morning after waking with the thought. Amongst the Geylang raggedness it immediately noticeable.
The most interesting assignation of the lunch hour—stretching to two and a half hours with the theatre-show so captivating, the good cheap food and the conversation—the most interesting assignation took place on what might have been an unscheduled break in the working day. Highly unlikely the chap concerned had a free Friday otherwise. Almost certainly he was Mainland, like all the girls on this corner. The arrangement here is carefully calibrated and managed. The working girls have followed where their compatriots in the construction industry have led. Indeed the Labour Hire companies involved might be one and the same in either case. There is little doubt, at some level an arm of government must be assumed in consultation here, if not directly over-seeing. This is after all Singapore.
One either catches these flashing interactions or one does not. Often even with a sharp look-out the decisive single and solitary moment can be lost. In many cases the sign is as rapid as literally the blink of an eye. Two consecutive blinks.
Here was the gal on the corner chatting quietly with her pal in the shade, leaning against the wall to take the weight off her feet. The girls would naturally get weary hanging all day, in the heels particularly. That would more than likely be more tiring than the brief episodes up in the rooms. The pair here taking a break from the unending circling of the men on the corner, withdrawing themselves for a couple of minutes.
The little short-arse when he comes by she does not notice. Out of no-where he has appeared, soft-toeing down the incline. Likely he had not even been engaged or encountered around the corner. First she knew of him. Almost past her he is when she gets a tap on the forearm that she has crossed on her midriff as she holds her bag half on her hip. The unexpected strike causes her to start momentarily.
What was that? almost escaping.
The quickest of glances at the girl beside her before she started up after him?
There was no breaking of stride from the fellow. Down he trotted. Paced rather. If they were workmen’s boots he had on there was nothing in the tread. This chap was marching, not sauntering.
Some of the fellows when they go down the slope after the girl put on the air of a walk in the park. Fine day. Up with the larks.... Casting a glance or two at the sky. Train a closely focused camera on the Joe as he goes, an ignorant audience would never in a month of Sundays pick the man as on his way to getting his rocks off with a flying fuck. Not in a million years.
This chap is more In-a-hurry-for-the-bus type. Or the boss has just called and he wants to get his arse over there pronto, no messing around. A hard-arse that boss-man.
Knew where he was going this chap. Not a single look behind. No doubt whatever she was following, dogging his footsteps. Yet it seemed from the glance back there against the wall she had never laid eyes on this fellow in her life.
It took her twenty, almost twenty-five metres down the slope to head him. Past she went as if on a busy footpath. This needed to be done in case the chap didn't know it was the first turning, immediately after the lane. Most of the girls entered that driveway, but not all. Likely there were numerous rooms up on the second and third levels of the block behind. Not as many rooms as girls, so there had to be some kind of system or signal up there for vacancies.
Almost certainly there was no word as the girl overtook. There was no word exchanged from the moment of first contact. If there was to be any word at all that would wait for the room. There would not be much opportunity for talk. The girls are quick about it. For the old granddads it might be a bit different. They would need some conversation, almost certainly.
Within ten minutes she was back. Same black dress, low-cut but not especially revealing (not like some of the others, one big chesty one in particular). Long black hair. Keeping it simple. The European high-style of half a century ago. Heels not especially high or hammering. A half hour later a second hook, after which she couldn't be sighted again. The hook is the appropriate term on this beat. With the narrow five foot walkway from the time of Sir Stamford Raffles himself, the squeeze along the path was perfectly suited for slipping a hand under the arm and claiming one's quarry. The older men especially seem to half expect the seizure. In the case of many that's why they're there in the first place. Even those who return rejection display infinite politeness. Never once has there been a shaking free or word of rebuke. It’s always nice to be asked.
Likely it was twenty a time here. Asking oneself would not establish the truth. Almost certainly an ang moh would be quoted a different price. The young and often very pretty girls standing against the pillars under the walkway a short distance off signal twenty-five for the working men passing. For the Westerner fifty—all the fingers flashing.
These women here have drinks and meals regularly bought for them by the old men at the tables where the Malay waitress serves. Not always are the men customers. Almost certainly some of the purchases come out of fellowship and compassion. It is a similar case in the lottery ticket round. The hawkers of these that work the Eatery tables are usually Mainland women too, ones who have not fallen into the game. The women prevail with a nice smoothness, very similar to that of many of their compatriots doing the tricks. Through daylight hours the whole scene on this corner sits fairly easy, ugliness, hardness and desperation not much in evidence. Little drama. Small preliminaries. Nothing untoward. The old game that remains what it has always been.
There were two Malay lads, two Chinese involved. As usual the police made prompt arrests. That was the whole extent of the report from the Malay waitress.
Stationary and concentrated, she stands in place lowering her chin slightly at the interrogation, an odd cast of shyness over the features, something like childhood guilt before an accusation. In previous encounters when the woman had been called over for something particular the response had been the same.
This nice Malay woman is the kind that very much keeps her nose clean, doesn't poke it where it's not her business. Under no circumstances would she look and gawk at something that doesn't concern her. The same no-regard she pays day by day to the working mainland Chinese girls on the opposite corner, less than ten metres away. Ten or fifteen girls hang on that corner there at any one time, and many more passing through. Like birds flitting overhead for this woman. After a twelve hour shift of course, twelve or thirteen days in the fortnight, the woman would hardly have felt inclined to rush downstairs on the night of the brawl to see what was happening.
Both the Malay woman and her younger mainland Chinese colleague, a girl from Xi' an, sleep on the second floor above the Eatery. Being a 24 hour establishment, there would often be a bit of noise. After long shifts nothing to worry either gal. The night of the brawl created a disturbance. Not enough however to raise the girls from their beds.
Twelve hour shifts, one day off every alternate week, for a wage of between $120 – 150pw, depending on the business cycle, food and keep included. There would be no arguments and no shifty dodgyness from the operator one fully expects. Certainly the Malay waitress expects none. That there are good weeks and bad she knows. An adjusted wage no more than reasonable. On the other side of the Lorong many of the girls would earn that money on a good afternoon; the younger, shapelier and prettier ones a good bit more. Never once have this Malay waitress's eyes followed the action on the other side of the street, spitting distance away. To see this young woman at her workplace one might think she works on any non-descript, dreary street corner. Dull every-day, Ho-hum, never a change. Which is precisely how the skin trade must seem from her vantage.
The Malay waitress is short and squat, perhaps mid thirties, no more. Settled early into middle-age. The girls opposite are the same age as herself. Adding to her look of premature years is a large gap between her two front teeth. Between visits it is always uncertain whether the woman is missing teeth, or the gap is natural. More than ten visits the same forgetfulness. Such is the lively and warm reception the Malay waitress bestows. Boyish hair-cut easily maintained; the issue of dyeing not arisen as yet. A Singaporean Malay early school-leaver; basic English. (The Xi'an girl's non-existent.) Fun is to be had with the Xi'an colleague and with a number of other work mates too. Pleasant, innocent fun of the kind from a generation or two ago—hiding the plate of food that had sat on the table a moment ago; tapping the shoulder going past on the opposite side. The resulting smiles and guffaws in excessive childhood scale. Seeing a regular customer first and creeping up on him unawares brings the Malay waitress delight and pleasure. A little animal triumph of pouncing.
It was a shock for a killing to have taken place at one of the favourite eateries. Daytime hours there at the corner of the Lorong near Aljunied little beer is sold. In those hours it is all sweetened tea and soft drink. Daytime everything always under control, never mind all the girls and milling men, the pimps and look-outs. At the tables there are granddads more than anything; ancients with a bit of spunk retained.
Again on the first visit since the brawl that ended in the unfortunate death, one old Pop clearly in his eighties, going down the slope slowly with the chosen girl. Dressed down this lass, without too many trinkets, a kind of solicitous and dutiful grand-daughter. Crop the old man's photograph and one has the revered portrait from the Memorial pages. There are countless Massage shops the length and breadth of the road. Not what this Pop has in mind.
The traffic sporadic, of the usual kind. Neat and clean men without exception, older mostly, spruced up a bit that morning after waking with the thought. Amongst the Geylang raggedness it immediately noticeable.
The most interesting assignation of the lunch hour—stretching to two and a half hours with the theatre-show so captivating, the good cheap food and the conversation—the most interesting assignation took place on what might have been an unscheduled break in the working day. Highly unlikely the chap concerned had a free Friday otherwise. Almost certainly he was Mainland, like all the girls on this corner. The arrangement here is carefully calibrated and managed. The working girls have followed where their compatriots in the construction industry have led. Indeed the Labour Hire companies involved might be one and the same in either case. There is little doubt, at some level an arm of government must be assumed in consultation here, if not directly over-seeing. This is after all Singapore.
One either catches these flashing interactions or one does not. Often even with a sharp look-out the decisive single and solitary moment can be lost. In many cases the sign is as rapid as literally the blink of an eye. Two consecutive blinks.
Here was the gal on the corner chatting quietly with her pal in the shade, leaning against the wall to take the weight off her feet. The girls would naturally get weary hanging all day, in the heels particularly. That would more than likely be more tiring than the brief episodes up in the rooms. The pair here taking a break from the unending circling of the men on the corner, withdrawing themselves for a couple of minutes.
The little short-arse when he comes by she does not notice. Out of no-where he has appeared, soft-toeing down the incline. Likely he had not even been engaged or encountered around the corner. First she knew of him. Almost past her he is when she gets a tap on the forearm that she has crossed on her midriff as she holds her bag half on her hip. The unexpected strike causes her to start momentarily.
What was that? almost escaping.
The quickest of glances at the girl beside her before she started up after him?
There was no breaking of stride from the fellow. Down he trotted. Paced rather. If they were workmen’s boots he had on there was nothing in the tread. This chap was marching, not sauntering.
Some of the fellows when they go down the slope after the girl put on the air of a walk in the park. Fine day. Up with the larks.... Casting a glance or two at the sky. Train a closely focused camera on the Joe as he goes, an ignorant audience would never in a month of Sundays pick the man as on his way to getting his rocks off with a flying fuck. Not in a million years.
This chap is more In-a-hurry-for-the-bus type. Or the boss has just called and he wants to get his arse over there pronto, no messing around. A hard-arse that boss-man.
Knew where he was going this chap. Not a single look behind. No doubt whatever she was following, dogging his footsteps. Yet it seemed from the glance back there against the wall she had never laid eyes on this fellow in her life.
It took her twenty, almost twenty-five metres down the slope to head him. Past she went as if on a busy footpath. This needed to be done in case the chap didn't know it was the first turning, immediately after the lane. Most of the girls entered that driveway, but not all. Likely there were numerous rooms up on the second and third levels of the block behind. Not as many rooms as girls, so there had to be some kind of system or signal up there for vacancies.
Almost certainly there was no word as the girl overtook. There was no word exchanged from the moment of first contact. If there was to be any word at all that would wait for the room. There would not be much opportunity for talk. The girls are quick about it. For the old granddads it might be a bit different. They would need some conversation, almost certainly.
Within ten minutes she was back. Same black dress, low-cut but not especially revealing (not like some of the others, one big chesty one in particular). Long black hair. Keeping it simple. The European high-style of half a century ago. Heels not especially high or hammering. A half hour later a second hook, after which she couldn't be sighted again. The hook is the appropriate term on this beat. With the narrow five foot walkway from the time of Sir Stamford Raffles himself, the squeeze along the path was perfectly suited for slipping a hand under the arm and claiming one's quarry. The older men especially seem to half expect the seizure. In the case of many that's why they're there in the first place. Even those who return rejection display infinite politeness. Never once has there been a shaking free or word of rebuke. It’s always nice to be asked.
Likely it was twenty a time here. Asking oneself would not establish the truth. Almost certainly an ang moh would be quoted a different price. The young and often very pretty girls standing against the pillars under the walkway a short distance off signal twenty-five for the working men passing. For the Westerner fifty—all the fingers flashing.
These women here have drinks and meals regularly bought for them by the old men at the tables where the Malay waitress serves. Not always are the men customers. Almost certainly some of the purchases come out of fellowship and compassion. It is a similar case in the lottery ticket round. The hawkers of these that work the Eatery tables are usually Mainland women too, ones who have not fallen into the game. The women prevail with a nice smoothness, very similar to that of many of their compatriots doing the tricks. Through daylight hours the whole scene on this corner sits fairly easy, ugliness, hardness and desperation not much in evidence. Little drama. Small preliminaries. Nothing untoward. The old game that remains what it has always been.
.
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