Stylist

Earlier the short regular waiter at Reaz here greeted from across the road. Seated outside the barbershop, man as if he was sunning himself. (Mooning more like, were there moons of substance on the equator.) Shortly after the fellow withdrew indoors, where he was later spied on tippy toes stretching for the top of a crown of a customer in a chair. Between times a chap had footed up the incline in an ugly NY City tee. (Prized in Pakistan no doubt, the same as on the Montenegrin coast.) Two minutes later out he comes with the waiter who had served the “uncle” a short while before, the man who bringing the naan after the vegetable and dahl had offered the encouragement, Makan, Eat. (Not the first time such short courtesy had been offered in these parts; known from other cultures too.) Difficult to find an example of a cooler, more commanding manner than possessed by this chap. Guys like this waiter had lured Western seekers to faraway Eastern ways from way, way back. Perfect ease, nonchalance, tightrope steadiness. There were no great voids or hollows in this man’s ambit; no such thing. Going down the incline in front of Reaz a few metres in company with the NY City, the latter had stroked his beard two times—three times—four. A bad itch you may have thought. The ten circuitous metres to the door opposite the pair wound over the broken pavement. (Roadworks had displaced Reaz from its original site, though the barbershop had remained on the bend.) In they proceeded at the door, Cool first as the other had pulled the wrong slider. It was understandable; none could give a better cut and trim. NY had gone to fetch the man especially. Why settle for second best? Cutthroat at the neck, turning the guy’s head left and right like a faucet. Masterful barbers had long been a fascination; the old masters, not the poncey new. (Though the waiter/barber was still only in his middle thirties, he had the old ways of eons past—deserts, oases, steep mountain scree traversed.) A short while after another was in the man’s chair, needing a buzz this one, the razor for straightening lines. Following there came a spray from a tall green bottle with the look of dishwashing detergent, then oil in cupped hands. A scalp massage often held little of interest. In the case of this young master old before his time, the pressing, kneading and fluttering of hands were captivating to behold. As always, variation was the key, the butterfly dalliance at the temples and frontal lobe a ballet of puppet form.

NB. When he first came down here from India old patriarch Mohammad Reaz, weighing in currently at something like 120kgs, had set up with plastic comb and scissors.

Rat Alley For Real - published by Midway Journal, Oct2020

After a short circuit round the block and being put off for further by the dark clouds, one of the girls pointed the way up the lane. You could get through there, yeah, she indicated. Back onto Jalan Trus, Straight Road. In broad daylight there was nothing to fear. (A newspaper report relayed to little Lia in Puchong, KL, had detailed the slashing death of a woman in the same suburb. Found by her car, you had to think robbery-gone-wrong. Li had been working illegally in Puchong so many years now and had herself been cut in a snatch-and-grab.) Groups of girls in the brilliantly coloured Indian dress lined the lane, though at least a couple might have been Indos like Lia. Again, the same as a year ago in the drab corner of Klang, the port up at KL, these painted ladies in their finery suggested the remarkable release offered the labourers, the construction and industrial workers in their harsh, dismal circumstances. Amid the broken paving, the dust and grime and grey, crumbling buildings, startling birds of paradise waited. In the age of affluence elsewhere there was nothing to compare; no possible costuming able to provide anything like the same contrast. Fantastically mesmerizing bright colours, the clasps for the hair, the flash of cheap glitter. Broken concrete, bits of garbage and streams of dirty water marked the wider lane where the first of the girls loitered. Younger girls there still in their twenties; around on Trus near the methadone clinic cheaper older women stood in the entryways of the blocks without any of this finery. Pretty and fresh young girls some of them in the lower end of the lane, some with smooth, clear skin; not all “used up,” as used to be said for working girls. In the clasp of those arms wonderfully soft comfort. On the other side the alley proper, once it was entered, was every bit as wondrous. Single file only up along there; if someone had started before you in the opposite direction you needed to wait your turn. Two or three rats darted under the treacherous concrete steps; handrails were unnecessary with the rearing walls so close. Any coddled boy would climb wide-eyed and flabbergasted; gritty noir movies could never hope to capture the scene. You would like to run the old corrupt former PM here up through there with a cracking whip behind him; he and his grotesque wife with her fondness for handbags. In the capital the pair was currently undergoing numerous trials, defended by expensive lawyers drawing out the legal process every which way.

NB. Since published by Midway Journal (US), #14/No.4 Oct 2020

Literary Community feature - Digging Through the Fat

Hello all

A US literary magazine called Digging Through the Fat is currently highlighting a couple of my recent publications on its site.

“Buddhist Christmas” was published by UK Storgy Lit. Mag. late last year. It was first drafted in the run up to Christmas 2016.

“Game On” presents an afternoon of dam/checkers in Geylang Serai, first written in 2013. Published by Paragon Press late last year.

Both pieces appeared in an earlier form on the blog.

Here is the link for both at Digging.

https://diggingpress.com/category/community/

Community Archives • Digging Through The Fat Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email. diggingpress.com

Cheers & Pozdravs 

Pavle

The Heat Is On

Experimenting with the noon day sun at the City Plaza bus stop going out for lunch. Nearing 1PM in fact, the last quarter. Leaning against the bollard without touching the surface with the hands. The bollards kept us safe from any careering vehicles—nutters, sleepy-heads and terrorist  alike. In order to see the oncoming buses you needed to lean out a little. Leaning, swaying, rocking a little. Through the course of the play, at some point it became apparent the radiant sun was in fact grazing the left ear. Radiant sun, mark you; not direct rays. Minute gradations of heat the further you lent out, was it really? Hmm….Some part past the zenith, up on high the torch was difficult to locate at first. There it was alright, seemingly out of place holding eastward. Sometimes the first drops of rain had one similarly doubtful on the equator. Testing. Testing with a series of swaying motions that must have had the guy on the bench behind wondering. The shadow line of the bus shelter lay only one foot out from the gutter. It did indeed seem to be the case: putting the ear toward the roadway like at a door for eavesdropping, a nice old flame-thrown singe palpably received. Checked and double checked. More than a feather touch that; concentrated. There was no tomfoolery involved. Getting some sun on you was supposed to be good against the virus. In the yard of the Carpmael house yesterday Richard the tour guide had sat sunbaking, if anyone can believe. When the winter in the north began to slip off we were a better chance in the fight, they said. (Rather similar to the position down in OZ vis-a-vis fire & rain.) The scorching power of the great flaming star in the sky here. Leaving a tad earlier, the No. 21 was good enough to get us where we wanted to go. Jeepers! The odour of ammonia along the walkway on Serangoon Road! Over the tiles it seemed. Protection against the germ wriggling up from the soles of the sandals. So far as reassurance for the passersby went, the potential customers, mighty good strategy; you could look over the items in those places with complete confidence. Returning the other way after lunch on the opposite side of the road the gold places had retained the burning of their lemon grass. Locally the hotels were down to 50% occupancy, after almost 100% prior to CNY. On the Mainland where 48 cities & eight provinces were in lock-down, not surprisingly the figure was a miserable 7%. The threat of recession here mooted last week by the retiring PM. A US scientist had forecast 50m worst case mortality globally. (Not difficult to imagine the man’s lab pinned with postcards and pics of wife & kids.) SG was vying with HK for highest infections outside the Mainland. All the prejudice against the latter was in full force in both corners of the diaspora. There had been a reported run on rasam at the Indian eateries across the republic—piles of Chinese at tables sitting before cups of the spicy yellow soup. That was late last week. Today at KV again only about half the tables were occupied: people alternated herd instinct and seclusion. Earlier staple food items & durables had disappeared from the shelves of the supermarkets; a quota on rice, noodles and toilet paper instituted. Masks of course. Matters had become so disturbing a Nominated MP had rashly used the “disgraceful” tag on a F-book posting overnight ala Donnie. Certain to be cautioned by the higher-ups as we speak.

Throne & Stanchion

Cardboard encased TIARA pan & cistern just delivered at one of the bathroom supplies stores in Middle Geylang, where the people confused thrones & crowns. Earlier by the Kallang Bridge an old uncle struggling in the heat had crossed an unsheltered section and in prospect faced another 100m until the tree cover further along. Taking the shade hard against a tall lamppost, cringing a little at being observed. Big breath and swinging on down.

Lionel, Mooko & Pompom

After the ABC lunch and sec. duties bill-paying &etc, a long walk was in order. In the end it turned into a respectable fifty minute circuit. Seven or eight years now there had been not a single venture into the Joo Chiat area, nothing further than the bakery a little past Masjid Khalid. Sticking close to Geylang Serai it was easy to forget that quarter. One had left Melbourne in order to escape those kinds of bars, cafes and restaurants. The prolonged sits at the eateries and the desk had done damage already; walking and the exercise regime was fight back. Down along the strip on J.C. Road to East Coast, with some ill-at-ease under the panama, the red scarf and girly black sunglasses, as Auntie Helen had called them. It was a surprise Chinese shopkeepers didn’t call out greetings to the generic John passing by. In the mid-afternoon many of the places were empty, if not closed down. Then there was Katong further on after a similar period of absence. The place with the lacquered wine barrels out front was still operating, though at that time of day no tattooed Westerners could be found nursing their long glasses of beer, dogs curled at their feet. The Katong Mall was the oldest in Singapore. Inside there were perhaps twenty maid agencies; perhaps even thirty. All like pet shops with the young girls sitting in the window. The southerly end of Haig Road had never been walked previously. Tall condo towers and handsome bungalows all along. Even the shabby examples of the latter would fetch a couple of million. (Next morning someone mentioned a bungalow there on a larger allotment reaching $8m.) Numerous Indian work gangs in the gardens and on the roads. Back in the room it was straight onto the exercise mat, the sweat evaporating slowly under the aircon. (With the love-making of the day before, the exercises had been skipped with a good conscience; a hungry gal like Ni was more than enough exertion for one day.) Neck either side, then back & forward; toe-touching and finally the gut-busting pushes. Recently the pushes were in fact proving not so arduous. The tummy-tightener had been dropped before the return to Melbourne. Being concerned about her weight, her gastric and some constipation, Auntie Helen had been recommended the tummy-tightener. Flat on the back hands behind head, heels lifted a few centimetres and holding 10-15 seconds was  enough for beginners. Helen’s squats feeding her cats were some benefit, though more was needed. That evening Helen had been caught out front after her duties. As usual she was found zelna price, desirous of talk. Some local politics, neighbourhood gossip, the latest on the virus; updates on the mogs of course. Helen also had no TV. For the evening there were perhaps bible readings and the day’s verses to review. Young Wan Ling, or Maureen from further down Carpmael, might call in later, their voices ringing through the party wall. Through the night Helen’s sleep always sounded deep and contented. I want to tell you…Helen often began a conversational item she had stored. It was never difficult keeping patience with Helen. None of Helen’s ill temper or abruptness could be taken amiss. Recently there was another kidney problem among the Carpmael litter. Mr Chan, the feed merchant who lived in a condo and also kept numerous strays, got mention. There was Maureen’s uncommunicative older sister, who had recently given Wan Ling the cold shoulder on a visit—not so fond of cats that lady. The snooty Indian madam on the corner was complaining about the feeding adjacent her property. It was not always easy following developments with the mousers. ID-ing the different ones, correctly fixing gender, recalling behavioural characteristics was all tricky. At some point among the rest that evening it emerged that Helen did not like to give the tabs human names. Wan Ling was the one who gave those. Lionel for example was WL’s choice for the grey that often gave our Mooko a hard time—the grey with the pale discolouration on its lower back; not to be confused with Mooko and the other grey, the green-eyed one. Helen sometimes referred to Lionel as Wan Ling’s son, because the little boy came from a litter adopted by young WL. For some reason that fellow had been introduced into the Carpmael circle, for special attention it may have been—kidney problems again, possibly. Before this it had been assumed that Lionel had been named after the nice Chinaman with the younger Filipina wife formerly staying downstairs. Lately Wan Ling had been taking Auntie’s advice, christening a recent addition to their circle Pompom. Telling of the case it was clear Auntie H. approved. Rather chuffed she was at the inventiveness too.

Publication news: “The Ukraine Again” - Tulane Review

Hallo all & everyone

A publication to announce again, this by a New Orleans journal based at Tulane Uni, The Tulane Review, Fall 2019.
A short story here that originally dates from the first return down to the land of Oz in 2017. Title is “The Ukraine Again;” subject an old Inner Western Melbourne plumber, a delightful bloke called Mick - Mihail originally.
It ‘s a print edition, costing— $US25++. Later I think they launch a web version.
After a decent interval I’ll repost on the blog.

Cheers & best wishes
P

Secret Passage (Virus)

Crossings no more appealing a year plus later. (Well, the special kids waiting were still a mark above some other places, there was certainly that.) Thankfully the pee-dribble R&B turned down, not to the point of unintelligible, but still. Before a young, junior grade schoolgirl entered it had been only the single occupant with the four staff on hand for his every whim. As in her classroom, the sweet raised her hand in order to draw attention from one of the waiters lounging behind the counter. Lads on their screens unresponsive, the well-brought-up lass waiting patiently. Unexpectedly, leaving the adult in the room quite discombobulated, a neatly presented front-of-house type lady (as presently she proved), coming from out behind and passing along the passage, craned her head back to deliver a big, wide, Austin Texas matron kinda of smile!!... Lookin at you Bud, there was no one else. Bigger than Texan & the sun both. Gollie! Really brightening the dial. Met with blankness and hesitation in taking the proffered hand when she came over, the mask suddenly slipped to be replaced by the visage of Senior Mistress at the young schoolgirl’s institution of learning. None too happy about the behaviour. Josephine…. Geylang Serai…. Miffed, clearly & cruely. The first helped not at all. Catlady Jo was the only woman with that tag on the home turf; there was no other. Josephine. From which pile of rock had this pretender popped up?... Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Hang on a sec. Hang on. Gotcha now. Took a while, granted. Ya, it was the Mick coming back with Raj from J. C. Complex that day after vespers whatnot at the church on Tanjong Katong Road. (Holy Family?) Almost unrecognisable with the loose hair and swinging gait on that occasion. The lady’s teh tab had in fact been picked up that afternoon. What you doing here?... Just wah it looked like, lady needed to be informed. Briefly the Senior Mistress had overpowered. She worked at the hotel behind, on the other street. You knew it. They had commissioned the graffiti on the wall along the cobblestoned lane in order to screen the blind side of the adjacent tower. Was there a passage connecting the two, the hotel and Crossings here, the café? (Like the Vatican had engineered post-WWII for all the old Nazis out to Latin America. Easy access secret & secluded. No two-hourly rooms in that case to be sure. A natural Mick link, incorporating the entire block….) No, no, no. Nothing to do with, that was joining widely distant dots. The hotel was owned by the Koh Bros., the construction tzars whose names were up on all the cranes across the island. Something here set off a bulb; illumined. Something suggested knowing to the lady, Empress Josephine. The look in response signing an acquaintance perchance. With the family of renown. The big side of town…. Well, what to do? No harm hinting at an association with squillionaires every once in a while, the opportunity did not arrive every day of the week. Take your chances when they came. —Ah. (Pause.) Someone connected with…. Let the lady think the g-daughter was being knocked willy-nilly any time of the clock; cocaine, cocktails, canapés. Why not? For all she knew…. Mathew 15:32 on the wall, with a blurred rep. of either what the disciple might have looked like, or else the master maybe who went down for the short count. Warm water after the café was a good idea; certainly not iced. The virus spread more easily in dry mouths and nostrils; keeping lubricated was better protection than face masks and hand washing. Jo of the felines from Block 4, after eventually finding the misplaced Whatsapp No., had been sending the latest hints and news items the last five minutes again immediately before her namesake showed. A specialist at a US research lab had warned that elevators were one of the most dangerous sites, both because of the close confinement and also the danger lurking on the buttons that everyone fingered. Best to deploy a pen perhaps there, especially one with a removable cap that could seal nasties afterward, the prof. advised. (They had established the germ lived a half hour on some particular type of surface, another of Jo’s missives had informed a day or two before.) In the video that accompanied the last, a little mounted pin cushion holding numerous toothpicks had been installed in a handsome wood-panelled elevator. In HK & Shanghai they might have been de rigueur now.

Up With the Larks

First the pigeons over the grass feeding on seeds blown down from the trees perhaps. (There had been some breezes the last number of weeks, causing rustling of leaves on more than a few occasions.) On the other side of the utility block where the illegal Feeders deposited their scraps over the paving there had been none. A middle-aged Chinese lady was burning paper money in the incinerator at the base of her block, good orange flame got going within. If the woman kept a maid the girl must have been busy taking the grandchildren to school. On the other side of the sheltered walkway branching off from the long one leading from the back blocks a mynah triggered a lachrymose face with the plastic sleeve for the styrofoam cups in its beak, just lifting itself up to the trees and its nest there.

Call of the Wild (Tennis Triumph)

Confused for a minute over the pic of young Novak holding the latest of his Australian Open trophies down in Melbourne. An over-sized cup in this case that the winner usually fills with champagne and then takes draughts for the cameras, &etc. Here the Serbian star had brought the cup over to the stands where his team it must have been reached down from their seats above to share the triumph, with the tricolour flag spread. In the usual way, the chaps were roaring their delight as they placed their hands on the rim of the silver cup below, a bearded man with two others, older than their young charge. One of the men stretching down had one hand on the cup and the other signing something with fingers. Not the thumbs-up here but three fingers stretched. Oh yes. How did that go again, the three fingered sign? The three Ss was it, or Cs in our Cyrillic script? Samo Sloga... No, that old emblem was four: Sama Sloga Srbina Spasava, Only Unity Safeguards the Serb. (Disunity destroys.) Initially the thought was for the team collective. It was a team effort always in high performance sport; neither Novak nor any other outstanding sportsman could do it all alone. Like the others, Nole was always generous in these acknowledgements. Well then, not in this case. Three fingers were for out Orthodox crossing in prayers and in church. The Catholics did it with a lopata—all five fingers that looked like a shovel. Children used to be taught from earliest days, even secretly during the communist era. We were all back to the future now, however, narrow ethno-nationalism, which in the West began to get underway with Milosevic in the last of the 1980s; specifically the 600th anniversary of the battle at Kosovo Field. None shall harm you, Slobo on a famous tour had promised the locals Serbs in the Southern autonomous region, where they were greatly outnumbered by the Muslim Shiptars. Months later the great anniversary was held on that field that had been drenched so profusely with Serb blood, Milosevic officiating again with leaders of the church and the cat fully out of the bag. Above the great, seething crowd at the commemoration in 1989 at Kosovo the chief of the Psychiatric Unit at the Sarajevo Hospital had watched on. Years later the man was encountered in the former house of the Nobel Winner, Ivo Andric, in Herceg Novi. Before he turned his hand to politics, Karadjic had been on the same staff in Sarajevo. With Putin in power in Moscow rather than Yeltsin (to say nothing of the incumbent in Washington), fair chance Slobo could have achieved his plan of driving the Muslim population of Kosovo over the border into Albania. The position in that corner of the Balkans festered still. Young Novak often put down his determination and strength of will to the period of NATO bombing and hardship.