Looked like Busker Rahim was back on the wagon again. That old noggin of his had taken a battering those weeks he’d been on the juice. Couple hospital stays, with bandages that could be mistaken for a hajii songkok from a distance. Best pal Yousef had distanced himself from the Busker and returned to the orbit of Reprobate Jack, whose own drinking was always under far better control. Boy, that was special last night Jack at the table a full half hour, where he was presented with a copy of his Reprobate piece, newly minted up in the States by Mr Barthelme. A3 card print in colour, protective plastic sleeve included. ($7.) On the return from town the Haig had been searched for Jack, but he was nowhere to be seen. Then, suddenly, come up to the Azhar table. Didn’t want a teh; said he had eaten. The flask was only noticed later when he brought it up for a nip. After he left Jack carried his little portfolio underarm like a briefcase, in that inimitable stride of his hands behind back. Plenty of times Jack had sat like that, but never quite glowing so bright. It was really something. A little uncanny. Handsome you could have called him, which surprised Jack hearing it, making him blush. When in his usual way he had begun with his God damn it, the line in the Rep piece was found and presented to him. Look here, Jack. Finger right on it, under the line. Jack needed to squint and bring his left eye into alignment. Sheet turned for the light, for best vantage. Oh! Yeah! Ha! Precious smiling. Subsequently another line too was pointed out following something else from the man. Repeat. None other than himself, there in print, large as life! How marvellous was that second time round again. Three lavender twos in appreciation were more than fitting, when Jack himself was the one mighty appreciative, he thought. It should have been a real tenner. Idea dropped at the last moment. The author had received kosong himself, mind, Jack was informed. Usual story; not a cent for the labour. First penned five years ago as he would see, and how many times revised. (No one would believe; you couldn’t blame ‘em.) Back in his digs Jack would read it through properly, he promised. The earlier piece Mr B had published he had kept this whole while, assuredly. We were gathering a treasure trove. Rotten old wastrel like him. That shirts, ties & polished shoes had never inspired this particular scribe, the man well understood. Stood to reason, yep. Nodding and smiling. Word on the street, up at the Haig in the morning, at least among those less enamoured of the Jack, reported the man had been inside a long time, for molestation. Few months before Jack had told of a molestation case brought by his ex-, when all he had done was pat her, maybe given a peck. But, no, this was no girlfriend here; this was serious molestation, Hasan in the scooter declared. Jack denied. Hasan said there were other cases pending too. Smoking—at the kopi shop table it musta been; feeding the pigeons, in plain view there at the Haig, which was very much Jack. Molestation reserve judgement. Not inside; in hospital, Jack corrected. That’s where he had been. Oh! it was mighty in there, very heaven. Bed sheets, your choice of food, a blanket. The aircon was bad. All the hospitals had it; only Tan Tok Seng had fans. Just recently he had come outta Raffles; it was good in there too. The angels hovering, especially at ICU. Hurts here, hurts there. Jack had then wrapped round his little finger, running hither & yon. Forget about virgins upstairs, right, Jack? You got ‘em there in the wards. Too true. Grinning. Mazing how handsome the man looked, gleaming, sculpted, unblemished. Positive stud. Skin tone, light frame, tousled dye. The missing eye was totally irrelevant, you would never have noticed. Strange. All the impressions were powerful, mounting one on top of the other, no chance to think of the camera. It would have switched the man to stand-off in any case. What a blast!
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