The Lair in the white leather
flattie passing with the shopping accompanied by his wife: cap, silver studded
belt holding up apple-green trousers and pressed pale lavender shirt
tucked. On this view looked a wing-stretched eagle on the black tag
stitched on the rear. From a distance a few days ago at the Labu Labi
tables the emblem appeared an anchor. Mid-seventies; wife a couple of years
younger, traditionally covered Malay, heavily made-up and with an attractive
figure. A handsome couple they would have made in their youth even without the
present-day throne and plush drapery when bride and groom hold court on their
wedding day (often on the concrete ground floor of their parents' HDB tower).
Banana leaf padded high-chairs of some kind in their time perhaps, over
packing-cases from the wharfs. One thing for sure, the Indon Botticelli Belle
sitting close on the Bugis parapet wall the other night this wife has not in
her knowledge, the sly old dog. His generation favour the heavy, two-inch
diameter watch on a silver band (gold is reserved for the womenfolk in Islam);
and almost ringless in his case. There was so much metal the other night
shaking Mr. Tengu's hand here at the same place the sensation was of a
prosthetic attachment. Many of the men at Labu Labi carry a similar
weight, the various stones—jade, ruby, emerald, topaz, moon-stone, sapphire,
cat's eye—set in silver or bronze.
Nor is the fellow concerned the prince of the pack either in this bottom corner of Geylang at the junction of Changi and Joo Chiat Roads. That title would certainly pass to the big-chested Cowboy alternating cigarettes and panadol who haunts the same rear table at L.L. It is the scalloped, twin-pocketed Cowboy shirts with the piping over the shoulders—they number close to a dozen in various colours and prints—that produce the impression of enlarged lungs. Cigarette packs, pain-killers, cards and assorted in open-flapped pockets create the unusual puffed-out picture of robustness when a pal is approached at a table. Behold the aplomb with which the man crosses from one side of the paving to the other. Only the Sheriffs who have cleaned up the dirtiest towns were permitted swagger of this kind. Young beauties at the great fashion-houses are coached for that particular gait of leading shoulders and wide-swung legs on the cat-walk. Howdy partner. Buy you a teh?.... Standing up exceedingly well in the run-up to eighty. Jewelry as one would expect—numerous rings, bracelets and necklaces. This morning a contrasting pair of gold chain-link and silver plate slipping one over the other on the wrist as he passed. Was there a deft swivel of hand in the passage across the way?
Neither of these men has ever been sighted without head-cover, and never with the traditional songkok. Such run-of-the-mill millinery is far beneath them. Almost certainly at night for those of his immediate family the Cowboy uncovers a shiny bald pate. The dyed, stringy mullet that falls over his collars strongly suggestive. Even among the youngsters you don’t often come upon that kind of cut. The other is one of the rare ones who disdain dye. (Again, as for the Prophet's urging against the wearing of gold for men, dyeing of hair was reserved only for the projection of virility in battle. Not otherwise.)
A half hour after the handsome couple passed a casual look round the tables revealed the Cowboy in the usual seat out back. What suddenly struck the eye was the cap. As described, such was the dazzle of the man his own white flattie had never really been noticed before, not as a separate, discrete item. The alternations of appareil in his case obscured the matter further. Suddenly here he was fitted out with this most striking and one had assumed unique topi. Virgin snow-white. In the first instance the slightly lesser sheen could not properly be discerned. There was more than a minor jarring note—the brash old cattle Rancher suddenly confused with the little Cockney miner who was altogether a different kettle of fish. Yet here he sat at the tables of the Saloon bending an ear to his neighbour and gloving a goreng pisang—fried banana from the plate. What was going on here? The author most certainly needed a double-take. From fifteen metres it looked the very same article; one of a pair. One thing was certain: in all this time this couple of lads, these warmly amicable friends, had never once shared that rear L.L. back table looking across at each other bearing the same crowns.
Up close it was clear this was no leather. The Cowboy's accoutrement showed a crisscrossed patterning on the fabric. Converse brand, the large star logo on the rear and along one side the lettering. Somehow in these tropics, through the monsoon, the cloth was kept spotless. (Naturally leather was far easier to maintain.) Omitted in the portrait have been the sunglasses, rain or shine, soft autumn-leaf tinted Continentals. Somehow these too passed notice.
Back home the nearest equivalent might be the old Lairs of the racing fraternity that one used to see Sundays on World of Sport. In the great southern land one almost never saw a flat-cap, not even back in the earliest sixties. There of course a longer peak was required. In Singapore, among the Malays especially, they appear quite regularly, though only at Labu Labi the blindingly snow-capped. Back in the day here one would presume various English navies sporting the article on the water-front, sauntering hands-in-pockets around the cheap hotels and in and out of the stores. How the bare-foot sun-burnt lads must have looked on from afar.... How beguiled by the sight…. Third World to First in the space of thirty years thanks to the fore-sight of wise Mr. Lee (ailing in recent time). An attainment by any measure. Should their own suppliers ever run dry, the author knows where to point these fellows for their Eagle Pills. (See the post of that name from 18/09/2011.)
Nor is the fellow concerned the prince of the pack either in this bottom corner of Geylang at the junction of Changi and Joo Chiat Roads. That title would certainly pass to the big-chested Cowboy alternating cigarettes and panadol who haunts the same rear table at L.L. It is the scalloped, twin-pocketed Cowboy shirts with the piping over the shoulders—they number close to a dozen in various colours and prints—that produce the impression of enlarged lungs. Cigarette packs, pain-killers, cards and assorted in open-flapped pockets create the unusual puffed-out picture of robustness when a pal is approached at a table. Behold the aplomb with which the man crosses from one side of the paving to the other. Only the Sheriffs who have cleaned up the dirtiest towns were permitted swagger of this kind. Young beauties at the great fashion-houses are coached for that particular gait of leading shoulders and wide-swung legs on the cat-walk. Howdy partner. Buy you a teh?.... Standing up exceedingly well in the run-up to eighty. Jewelry as one would expect—numerous rings, bracelets and necklaces. This morning a contrasting pair of gold chain-link and silver plate slipping one over the other on the wrist as he passed. Was there a deft swivel of hand in the passage across the way?
Neither of these men has ever been sighted without head-cover, and never with the traditional songkok. Such run-of-the-mill millinery is far beneath them. Almost certainly at night for those of his immediate family the Cowboy uncovers a shiny bald pate. The dyed, stringy mullet that falls over his collars strongly suggestive. Even among the youngsters you don’t often come upon that kind of cut. The other is one of the rare ones who disdain dye. (Again, as for the Prophet's urging against the wearing of gold for men, dyeing of hair was reserved only for the projection of virility in battle. Not otherwise.)
A half hour after the handsome couple passed a casual look round the tables revealed the Cowboy in the usual seat out back. What suddenly struck the eye was the cap. As described, such was the dazzle of the man his own white flattie had never really been noticed before, not as a separate, discrete item. The alternations of appareil in his case obscured the matter further. Suddenly here he was fitted out with this most striking and one had assumed unique topi. Virgin snow-white. In the first instance the slightly lesser sheen could not properly be discerned. There was more than a minor jarring note—the brash old cattle Rancher suddenly confused with the little Cockney miner who was altogether a different kettle of fish. Yet here he sat at the tables of the Saloon bending an ear to his neighbour and gloving a goreng pisang—fried banana from the plate. What was going on here? The author most certainly needed a double-take. From fifteen metres it looked the very same article; one of a pair. One thing was certain: in all this time this couple of lads, these warmly amicable friends, had never once shared that rear L.L. back table looking across at each other bearing the same crowns.
Up close it was clear this was no leather. The Cowboy's accoutrement showed a crisscrossed patterning on the fabric. Converse brand, the large star logo on the rear and along one side the lettering. Somehow in these tropics, through the monsoon, the cloth was kept spotless. (Naturally leather was far easier to maintain.) Omitted in the portrait have been the sunglasses, rain or shine, soft autumn-leaf tinted Continentals. Somehow these too passed notice.
Back home the nearest equivalent might be the old Lairs of the racing fraternity that one used to see Sundays on World of Sport. In the great southern land one almost never saw a flat-cap, not even back in the earliest sixties. There of course a longer peak was required. In Singapore, among the Malays especially, they appear quite regularly, though only at Labu Labi the blindingly snow-capped. Back in the day here one would presume various English navies sporting the article on the water-front, sauntering hands-in-pockets around the cheap hotels and in and out of the stores. How the bare-foot sun-burnt lads must have looked on from afar.... How beguiled by the sight…. Third World to First in the space of thirty years thanks to the fore-sight of wise Mr. Lee (ailing in recent time). An attainment by any measure. Should their own suppliers ever run dry, the author knows where to point these fellows for their Eagle Pills. (See the post of that name from 18/09/2011.)
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