Greeted unexpectedly by the other Deaf up at Tasvee with an
invitation to a free table beside the pillar.
— Yours: wide-arm gallant flourish.
Smiles and nodding Thanks, showing two-handed the measure of a small square. Tight narrow table difficult, thanks all the same. Nodding.
— But the swivel fan hanging from the pillar? Pointing.
Ah, thanks again indeed. Much obliged. This here large, commodious round for the papers.
Near ten sticky as all hell of course and the fan always welcome.
Man knows the Scribe favors the small outer smoking tables directly against the gutter where the foot-slog of the Mainland and Indian laborers—the new coolie class—can be closely observed. Possibly he has noticed there was no more fagging, nor the long sitting of earlier years: the street’s powerful magnetism had passed. (The crowd had thinned after the government took heed of community dissent at the flooding foreigners; construction industry bosses feeling the strain.)
It was only recalled a few days ago that in fact the chap was a karung guni, cardboard and aluminum fossicker. A kind of shabby, insufficiently honored knight of the environmental movement for indulgent eyes. Back up the road the other night loading his trolley.
Short, impish, late forties, the balding adding years. Eyes the pretties going by with sometimes a squeaky call that never fails to surprise. Rejection leaves the man quite undaunted and occasionally one of the China lasses in the Chiang Kai Shek-era flouncy dresses will accept a seat, possibly even bestow a special favour.
— Yours: wide-arm gallant flourish.
Smiles and nodding Thanks, showing two-handed the measure of a small square. Tight narrow table difficult, thanks all the same. Nodding.
— But the swivel fan hanging from the pillar? Pointing.
Ah, thanks again indeed. Much obliged. This here large, commodious round for the papers.
Near ten sticky as all hell of course and the fan always welcome.
Man knows the Scribe favors the small outer smoking tables directly against the gutter where the foot-slog of the Mainland and Indian laborers—the new coolie class—can be closely observed. Possibly he has noticed there was no more fagging, nor the long sitting of earlier years: the street’s powerful magnetism had passed. (The crowd had thinned after the government took heed of community dissent at the flooding foreigners; construction industry bosses feeling the strain.)
It was only recalled a few days ago that in fact the chap was a karung guni, cardboard and aluminum fossicker. A kind of shabby, insufficiently honored knight of the environmental movement for indulgent eyes. Back up the road the other night loading his trolley.
Short, impish, late forties, the balding adding years. Eyes the pretties going by with sometimes a squeaky call that never fails to surprise. Rejection leaves the man quite undaunted and occasionally one of the China lasses in the Chiang Kai Shek-era flouncy dresses will accept a seat, possibly even bestow a special favour.
Usually middle outer table preferred
as it offers a prospect down Lorong 27 where girls work the first alley and
gleam briefly in the swing of car-lights. A little vicarious pleasure etched on
the face, chin up-tilted and jolting as the sign of his interest.
Once more too the belated recognition of Eurasian heritage, in this case the immediate preceding generation. Almost fully four years it had taken to discern.
Once more too the belated recognition of Eurasian heritage, in this case the immediate preceding generation. Almost fully four years it had taken to discern.
NB. After some recent focus on the karung guni and others at the bottom of the broad pyramid in Singapore a Government Minister made it his business to investigate particular cases. The man reported back that some aluminum and cardboard fossickers undertook their occupation out of a desire for physical recreation and in order to get out of the house.
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