published in a longer sequence, titled Strange Fruit, by New World Writing, July 2020
Sheer desperation. Bus ride into Lil’ Ind. did not appeal. The uncles and aunties were perfectly alright of course, much preferable to the smartly polished on the trains. But as one slowly/not so slowly approached years of sere, you felt a little.… out of sorts among that company all the time. So, with the late hour following some extended labour on the pages, after a local lunch at the Haig, a café. This was the second in the last ten days. Since the return the third or fourth. There had not been a single café in three months on the Peninsular; a few in Jogja and Jakarta, so no more than three/four since old/new Melbourne town. The Starbs outlet here on Tanjong corner was renovated last year; enlarged after it overtook Superheroes next door. There had indeed been a noticeable downturn in the heroes on the street in recent times. It may have been almost a week Superman had not appeared; the Bat was holding up better, film treatment and related helping him retain some grip. Meanwhile Starbs had justified its investment in spades, weekends and evenings in particular chockers. Cheap wifi—and pretty rapido at that; aircon always precious; escaping the pigeon-holes of course. Eric at Wadi the other night had mentioned the enthusiasm for Starbs among all the young guys at his ad. agency. Starbs and only Starbs for that crew; they held all their meetings there, lounged and dated under the F&B golden arches equivalent. Window lounge chairs today all taken except close by the White guy up on the stool fixed on his top. Impossible to park one’s bottom in that vicinity. Two guys of an age, stubbled, oozing plenty cool between them, sitting adjacent would not be right. Dispirit the locals on the one hand, and inevitably dilute the brand on the other. No way. Worse still, another chap of the favoured race sat only ten metres distant hard against the window beneath a cheap, fake panama. Imagine that triangle had one stumbled blindly, switched off and witless. Over to the other side with you Buster well outta harm’s way, beside the escalators, good back-rest against the wall. Not prime viewing in that corner and sucked into the mall proper, but what to do? decision had been made. Almost immediately like a sprung trap the Malay girl from the cosmetic shop on the other corridor swanning past Helloing. Scarf and baju; a sweetie beneath all that assemblage. The layers were always laid on a bit thick by that gal. Occupational hazard maybe; but only maybe. The confession must not be withheld: today the lounge and blues re-masters actually hit the spot more or less at Starbs Tanjong corner. Satchmo, Billie and two or three other hoarse voices. Love is like a prophet (if that was right). As long as I have youuuu. I—love—you—madly. The dial down a bit. There had been no music many months now. It was possible even the notices of publications during the term on the Peninsular had not been celebrated with the usual Maria Call. and Jussi. Steely cold discipline had to give eventually. You make me feel so young / You make me feel Spring has sprung was not a favourite. What a strange, strange period it had been, that two or three years of Deano in his tuxe, Bob dropping his well-timed lines (and later learning he had in fact been such a dunderhead; all scripted and the man himself boring as batshit), the ladies in the flouncy dresses. Shaky B&W TV back then, songs, chat, dances, joke routines. Here they had never quite overcome the attraction. There had been no rebellion in the 60s or 70s here. We had all come full circle now of course across the globe, back to the future. But Sing’ had kept the home fires burning all the long while. They were hanging a man here in the morning; first light. There had been no news locally. Up on the Peninsular the family had received a letter from the prison on Monday advising them to make their arrangements. Friday tomorrow. Hangings here always took place Fridays; the powers found value in the designated marker day. Beefy had said 100gm was enough for the noose in Sin’pore. He showed the usual 300 pack about the size of two ciggie boxes; a bit larger. A third of that. In a comment on the Malaysiakini piece that delivered the news the writer had suggested that doubtless Sing’ Pharma would in short order be involved in the medicinal trade in this changing climate. Too late for the man tomorrow.
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