Hell yes!

 

 

Two old couples & a third lady, perhaps a widow, on the No. 51. For a good ten minutes their scattered seating masked the association.

Initially two ladies sat together, the other behind facing out the side windows. One of the pair later tripped behind to engage the third properly, squeezing beside a gal who had just boarded.

In the front two seats either side of the aisle, two chaps sitting alone, the one on the right chatting a bit at first, it wasn’t immediately clear with whom. One of the chaps who had gotten off, it seemed.

Much criss-crossing, sporadic talk, to which the chap on the right had briefly contributed, it emerged later.

One particular lady, the one who had shifted seats, kept up various hand gestures with her chat—pointing, flipping, giving the halt sign. Among a number of others.

The husband, if she had one, if one of the chaps in front was attached, would have become accustomed to it all over the years.

Late-70s; unlikely pitched beyond.

Little of account; routine.

Nearing lunchtime, the buses were invariably populated with the uncles & aunties. A former bad boy their age, heavily tattooed, now with a stick, sat on the other side of the aisle to the rear ladies. Over the course of their lives, none of these regulars would ever have had any truck with chaps like that; given them a wide berth.

True to form, bad man alights at Lor 20, where there was always a bit happening even middle of the day. China girls mostly, strolling & stationary. (Late-30s, still got some form; perhaps could drop to $35 for the local uncles. Earlier days the two on the bus might, or might not, have taken those resorts. Earlier days.)

Routine. Inconsequential.

Possibly up from Malaysia. The chap on the left spoke no English, he said, when he was asked. Likely just over the Causeway; doubtful they were Mainlanders.

The reason why the uncle was enquired was because of his cap. (The other went without.) Light camel baseball, carrying an insignia that had never been struck previously. One could vouch for that.

Upper case, two lines.

Smilingly the uncle answered, No. Flapping hands a little. (💡.)

Well, pretty fetching. Readers would understand.

Telling Stories

Inspiring Action

Earlier in the morning there had been an item in the newspaper on some nice Chinese posters that mocked Mr T. following the Mid-terms, the AI competition and the honeytrap of the Nividia guy just emerged.

            Shortly after the brief exchange, the uncle removed his cap to survey the slogan he was bearing, unbeknownst to himself.

Could he read it? Unknown. It was difficult to guess from the resulting look. Didna matter.

Having been approached in the right, respectful manner, uncle returned shy, warm smiles.

            The matter needed some explanation.

            A scribbler was signed for the pair of men. (Thinking they may be able to help each other out.)

Uncertain whether it conveyed. In any case, all sweet.

As it happened, the scribbler here was off to KinoKun at Orchard to pick up the Juan Rulfo that had been ordered. The matter of “narrative activism” needed examination. Garcia Marquez had greatly esteemed the Mexican. Forty-five years ago at the U, mention had been made of the forerunner. In Yogyakarta last month, Yanuardi had brought him up.