Archetypes (3)

On the bus returning from Bugis the Ruski on the Priority seating was swivelled round 45 degrees, blaring into her phone. Blah blah. Blah blah blah unceasing. Early/mid-40s, able-bodied; lady had no right to the place. Beside her a Chinaman fifteen or twenty years her senior sat eyes bent to the floor. A possible husband practiced in enduring his wife’s barrage, had it not been for the racial divide. (The earlier generation had not crossed so readily for partners, and this looked nothing like.) Lady dressed in easy, comfortable street wear, without any adornment; not the ugly, showy type. Man similar, a notch simpler; nondescript attire. His dye was a couple weeks old, grey yet to show; hers was natural mousy tone, minimal and artful. Blah blah. Blah blah blah. Not top of the dial megaphone, but nonetheless, channeled directly into the right ear of the victim; funnelled precisely. Not that the man flinched in any way at all. Not a single blink or flutter; perfectly unperturbed. Water off a duck’s back; completely unruffled. Was the chap deaf by chance? There was an instinct to protest on his behalf, sign the woman sharply. Let her know; don’t let her get away with it. Blah blah you silly old so-and-so! Have a mind! (Shaming the Slavs.) After lunch earlier that day Yasu in Tokyo had reminded of the uncanny Japanese delicacy and consideration: shortly he would be getting on a train and unable to continue the conversation. In Japan there was none of this rudeness on public transport; the old decorum remained—the report of a few years before was confirmed. Even twenty years later after the routine had taken over the rest of the planet, the Japs were still holding to the old standards: circumspection, respectfulness, tact. Astonishing. Not a single twitch of any kind from the guy, the old master. Magnificent. Better than any of the Olympic gold in Paris. The silly old duck got herself off at Lavender and the Taoist a few stops later, padding off quietly, eyes fixed on the ground. At Tanjong Katong corner shortly afterward, it could only have been an Oz gal. Half a generation younger than the Ruski, turned thirty and looking a few years older. Pink & green highlights grown out; creased and misshapen. Crossing against the lights. In the States or UK they might not have progressed to wearing this particular billboard. It took a couple secs to gather properly. Fire engine red caps on white: SLUT FAMING. Progressing this particular campaign in this fashion would need some good while in Sing & the region. Japan it would need an eternity.