Uncle Zaid has been sold on the Viet girls months now. Can't do better. Very fine. The other morning he was passed in front of the Cheers store with one of the pair he has been seeing, going up to Four Chain View it turned out. At the moment Four Chain was charging $20 Mon - Thur. Saturday it went up to $25 and Sunday of course premium thirty and you often had to wait for a room. Best avoid Sundays. The other day with the Viet he was done in little more an hour, very fast. Uncle Zaid insists on mandi first of all. The lasses are clean certainly. Still, best to get completely fresh right off. The good body he has been describing the last few months was borne out in the pass that day. Straight parallel lines drawn this morning at the breakfast table at Mr. T. T. No lumpiness or bulge. Early/mid thirties. A fella could always go for the ten year younger Batam Indons, actresses and singers—at the karaoke bars no doubt—but they hurried a chap and squeezed on price. Not like the Viets, they were good. Good for communication too. This girl had been out on a thirteen day visa; not the usual 30. Might have raised suspicions at Immigration, too many entries. Initially she had drawn the number in the air as did uncle Zaid on the breakfast table-top at Mr. T. T. For confirmation she showed her passport. Thirteen days. Maybe she better not risk another attempt until after Ramadan. Gave her forty to keep things sweet. Thirty was usual, but she deserved the extra. Add $5 for the pill. Friend had been using those three years. American, not Chinese. Good pills. America strong economy, strong army; good, strong pills. Difficult to shake this morning. Usually uncle stands talking, respects the evident signs of occupation. Not this morning. Skiting. Warned to be careful of the CCTV brushes that aside. Those cameras were for speeding cars. Laughing. What about a PAP man caught though, a paid-up financial member? Guffaws. Anything happen I know YOU! John. Nobody else. HaHaHaHa.
NB. The common moniker worn these many, many months by the author has passed without mention. Didna seem worthy. Nothing in particular, all routine and understandable; certainly no offence taken. Almost daily, every two, three days minimum, one was hailed in passing, Hi John!... More often than not a stranger, a figure in the crowd, calling from a seat at one of the tables, or ambling on the path. Hello John. An endearment. Hi or Hello alone was unsatisfactory. John was better than Sir. Sir was truly uncomfortable, especially ten and more years senior. Big smiles for John. Not unknown a clap on the shoulder. One or two foreign observers have been more than a little startled to witness a kiss on the forehead, a little tummy-rub of appreciation. Ah, one needs to understand from whence we have come. Naturally here we are not talking about the business or tourist district (though in fact the gentle tummy-rub did once take place within the confine of the elevator of the National Library of Singapore—nothing untoward). A common dish at the Indian food-stalls was named Roti John. Roti Hindi and also Malay for bread, in this case served with various tidbits that once found favour with an old colonial beneath a pith helmet. When John was hailed in Geylang Road, especially lower Geylang, the Malay quarter, one knows to seek out the salutation. Hello there. Pagi. Abar khabar?... No complaints. Call me a donkey, call me what you will. Only don't beat me, the Montenegrins say. When the working girls too add their voice to the chorus one returns closer to home, the home of a generation or two ago now.
No comments:
Post a Comment