The veteran Madura gunslinger stopping by the breakfast table for a second time this morning. Couple English words included I eighty-one. Thumb hooked back at his midriff like the cowboys used to do in the movies. (Hear what I'm saying? I, me & no one else is gonna personally run you outta this town by sundown, if you haven't cleared out...) What the man wanted to hear in response was duly delivered, on a silver platter. Not a worry in the world; glad to be of service, Uncle. Nobody give you... Ah! Pleased as punch. That was welcome any tick of the clock. Echoing: Nobody give, huh... Smiling; chuffed. Chest more puffed than usual. Putting on the vice squeeze earlier when his health had been enquired, just like at the doc's for check-up. Recent dye in the mullet retained (tight flattie super-glued on the scone). In the usual way, no one was more surprised than the man himself at the number he carried on his back, like a monkey in a circus. All of eighty-one… From the early seventies they started with that challenge. Can you believe it? Whatdaya say? Joke, aint it?... Beautifully upright pacing with his bright buckle, twin pocket shirt & sunnies, never mind the overcast. Back in Madura they still ran their famous cow races across the sodden paddies, the events of late become tourist attractions. Not to say the gleaming row of choppers weren't the man’s own either; many retained here well into old age. The abundant fruits of the forest helped. Like the others, Uncle had noticed the absence. Easy to understand. Who in the heck else was keeping such a close eye on this community and marking them with such dedication?
Geylang Serai, Singapore
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