The drunken old street-wreck had been treading on exceedingly thin ice lately. (Not such a stretch on this portion of the equator in fact, where there were numerous rinks and sculptural fantasias of various kinds.) Emboldened recently, the man had been stopping at the tables to chat with the regular punters, the diners and tea-sippers. Children strongly drew Rep, extended families, proper scarves & whatnot. Most endured the man’s blather patiently and well enough; kindly and allowing many. But of course there was always a fine line, inevitably. In the morning he had approached the table while Mr. Ee, the old agarwood trader, had sat for a while. God damn it! one thing. God damn it! something else. Watching from the side the burly prata-maker had come out from his hot-plate, snarling and ready to pounce. In this case the Wreck had quickly calmed down and in fact made himself useful. Discovering Mr. Ee was over for a pack of the untaxed, he was just the man to oblige, ready and willing. What was the preference? Name your brand. Indo Garam. Marlboro Red. What?...Twenty minutes later there it was, duly delivered. ($7, one added for services rendered. Mr. Ee had established that from the start.) For the evening however the man had picked the wrong table. No nose at all for the matter. Elderly stout scarves, pious and proper, sitting in council; they were unwilling to tolerate any unmannerly intrusion. One saw from three rows back the temperature rapidly rising. God damn it! God damn it! Wheeling away from the table and rounding back the Wreck, flaying his arms; flapping. All was not well and far from it. Coming down to unburden it was clear the complaints had wounded the man; badly and cruelly wounded. Spittle flying in his delivery. (What was noticed now too in the evening was the dye. A recent application, given during the course of the day.) God damn it! Damn it! They call me stupid!...Am I stupid?...Wheeling and spluttering; tottering while somehow keeping his feet. Flaying windmill arms; chicken wings flapping. It was best to remove the cup from the line of fire. The spectacle this time outside the eatery drew Zahruddin, the goodly manager at Al Wadi. An understanding, fair man Rudd, with whom the Reprobate had had trouble before. Told to move off. The pair jousting, holding their respective ground. It made an unfortunate spectacle. At the pleading sign from the side Zahruddin graciously withdrew. He was stupid was he, the Wreck? Is that what everyone thought, then?... Well, granted he had only his O Level, maybe that was stupid. (In classrooms school-teachers often confronted such doldrums from confused teens.) Cripes man! No. No. Not stupid. That was unfair and uncalled for. No-one had a right to that language. (Many roundabout on Geylang Road of course fell far short of even the O Level, as the Wreck knew well enough. In the meritocratic Republic the distinctions ran through the community with military order.) Dribbles by this stage. Tears what was more, full and flowing. Unrestrained tears from a man in what, his early-sixties. Chap had begun stealing from his father in early teens, the Reprobate had confessed some months before. And progressed from there. Twenty-something times in the lock-up; errors freely owned and duly paid. This Reprobate had never accepted a teh, nor requested alms. Once he had offered the present of a broken winged angel he had been given by someone or other. When the Reprobate had discovered the significance of the figure, he immediately threw the piece into the gutter, where it shattered into pieces. I'm a Muslim, God damn it!.. And the fellow did hold to that with some firmness. All men searched for god, the Wreck had offered the private insight some months earlier. Whatever their profession, whatever their rank or standing, that was the chief endeavour of man. So memorably did pronounce the Wreck of this Geylang street on one particular occasion; a chap who ranged from the Haig Market down to Changi corner and not much further. Two hundred meter ambit. (That morning he had crossed to the larger Malay market for the fags. Where though might he have obtained the hair colour was a wonder.) Saturday night spluttering at the table, leaning close, listing. The tears issuing from the turned eye pitiful to behold. The right socket seemed to have the depth of an inexhaustible well. (Street fight you had to conclude, what else?) Difficult to settle. Hearing himself quoted on the matter of human yearning might have registered and helped in the present case. Helped pacify. Some slow, slow simmering. The storm slowly subsided. In the finish there was safe journey wished the mat salleh traveler, this white guy who had become a fixture in the quarter and soon needed to leave. Among the others of that community that had been accidentally found in that back corner of the city-state, the Reprobate too would be sorely missed.
Geylang Serai, Singapore
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