The Pillar

Cost of a pack here was about the same as back home—$10-11 and more at the supermarkets. The chaps in this stretch of town who burn 30-40 a day can't afford that of course, just like elsewhere. Here there was no space for illegal chop-chop, that toxic stuff they fertilise and spray with god knows what. 

         Over the Causeway, about nine hundred metres—30 seconds in a fast boat—same pack costs quart the price. Easy to figure. Even with fines one hundred times the tax evaded, can be got if you know where. Naturally the lads who need to know know.  

         Problem was a big raid last weekend which sent all the dealers to ground. Nothing for goin’ down with the tehs. Toe-tapping all along the pavement tables like a chorus-line pretty much up to Haig Road bus-stop.  

         The author's long walks in the evenings uncovered some hidden corners that even the old crocodiles didn't know about. When they were tried by one or two fellows, returns empty-handed and complaints of frustration. Eventually, when the seekers happened upon the lads in the particular lorongs, wouldn't you know it. Only Marlboro Reds & Greens. Gudang Garangs zilch. They weren't going to pay even five for the other. 

         Last night an act of charity was performed. This was a different locale, needless to say needing to remain nameless. The arrangement had been seen previously in two or three other places. Unlike the elaborate chain of a dozen or more lads in a long row, with the goods themselves kept well outta sight, here was a one-man simple operation.  

         Under a covered walkway beside a pillar, an old cardboard box holding eight or nine packs in the bottom. M.Greens, a Red or two, and a couple of glinting Indon deep, lustrous mauves, blinking and glinting their lights like a semaphore somehow.  

         There may have been an unobtrusive spot trained from a hidden railing. A little shady in the walkways, and uneven floors. You needed to watch where you were planting your feet there. 

         Ah! Brought up sharp and a step back needed.  

         Set-up nicely mounted. The box sat against a pillar and just at that place there seemed to be more than the usual other pillars thick along the pavement. This was an ancient, if not Roman scene.  

         One found oneself in the midst of old, established cultures in Sin’pore. Well practiced.

         From behind one of these extra pillars, man entered. 

         If you ain’t ever seen a rabbit pulled from a hat, you can't properly appreciate.  

         A sea of Chinese faces, like every night along that nameless, long-winding street. Outside of this dark shuttered shop there was none.  

         Then there was. 

         A foreigner wouldn't stand a chance of picking the fellow in a line-up. In that area of Geylang an experienced portrait painter would never be able to differentiate the chap two minutes later. Two seconds later.  

         Generic Chinaman. Raised his chin. Incapable of producing a single English word one would have wagered. Wrongly. 

         — Five. 

         It would have been unseemly to bargain. There was no time; best not linger; cameras and microphones assumed everywhere in Sin'pore. (The purchaser was in deep poo like the seller.) 

         Somehow, without a hand coming to light, without naked flesh uncovered, the five no longer anywhere. 

         Somehow it was clear the fellow wasn't going to stoop to pick up for you either. Usually a customer got first rate service in Sing'pore, white fella especially. Customer is king. Usually. The mainland Chinese were not known for their delicacy.  

         Did he step away in the other direction? Didn’t mind if you took two? 

         Sometimes one can catch the tails of lizards scampering up these pillar.