No Sweat

Like big Beefy, like some of the cricketers of old, many of these lads carry a little flannel in their rear pockets for wiping off. Case in point this chap turned up to see the brute as if in some kind of expectation. Beef perfectly nonchalant quickly turning back to his form guide. Most pals who come by, certainly those coming to Beef's table, receive a warm welcome, a deep growl usually as if from a beast in the depths of the jungle, sometimes a tongue-clacking vibration from a bird hidden in the foliage. Another matter afoot with this chap. One recalls the hawkers on Jalan Tubun, Jakarta outside Hotel Kalisma up on the narrow road-divider under the sun the live-long day. A trade in handkerchief-sized flannels for passing motorists stuck in the jams and melting. The improvised stick display racks in a range of colours held up by the men, pastels largely like this friend of Beef's draws out. A second time too fifteen minutes later the apricot square out from the pocket and refolded after use in a particular, irregular manner. Rinsed out overnight last him most of the year ahead. Little aircon in these chaps' daily round, none in the blocks where they live. Beef himself sleeps in the passage down by the Maid Agency, aircon turned off by management after-hours, but so are the fluro lights. For a breath of air from the street Beef jams a two litre plastic water-bottle between the pair of auto glass doors, couple chairs a litter. You don't see these articles on sale anywhere here.