Sarong Party Girls

by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

  Me, I think I’m OK lah. Can still make it. Not as sweet as Imo but luckily, not as bad as Fann. The ang moh guys I’ve met are always talking about how glossy and black my long hair is and how soft and smooth my skin is—­so I guess I at least have two things going for me. Of us all though, Sher was the best looking—­skin very fair like a Japanese princess, eyes not as big as Imo’s but beautiful almond-­shape type. And she really knows how to put on eyeliner so the sides of her eyes look pulled out a bit, like those exotic Asian girls in ang moh movies. Also, she was the tallest of us all. But she wasn’t the skinny giraffe type—­her breasts were small but quite nice (at least got cleavage, unlike Fann or Imo), and with her small small waist and legs long long and so shapely, my god, when she wears a miniskirt she almost looks like a Barbie doll. When she walks along Orchard Road, guys always steam. Even the atas guys also not shy—­they stare until crazy.

  Which is why, really, the way things turned out for Sher, it was damn bang balls to think about how everything was just so bloody wasted.

  “You see ah,” I continued, before the girls could get distracted, “Maggie Cheung actually, her features are not so pretty. Her teeth are so big, got gap some more, her eyes are so small, cheeks a bit fat. But still, ang moh guys love her! Because, you know why? She’s quite mysterious. Joan Chen also same thing—­her face flat flat also ang moh guys still steam. So we must learn—­better to be mysterious a bit. When we meet a new possibility, cannot same night everything also whack.”

  Fann waved at Ahmad for another round of drinks and took another chicken wing—­typical, never pay attention. Imo on the other hand, had taken out a little notebook and was writing things down. Good. The way her fishnet mind works, I know if she doesn’t have anything written down she confirm won’t remember.

  “Number two—­is behavior. You see ah, ang mohs in Asia, step one for them is to look for girls to pok. This one is not hard lah. SPG bars, office . . . everywhere in this country is easy for them to find girls. But once they are used to this, it’s quite difficult to get them to think differently. So the best thing is to grab them FOB—­if you snatch the ones who just moved here one or two weeks ago, then confirm is a win. But if you don’t manage to do that, when you meet them, you must act quite differently from those girls who just want to give them one–two nights good time type. Eh, Fann, I tell you ah, if you want to get married you better stop stuffing your face and write this down.” I pointed to her handbag and she fasterly opened it to pull out a pen and paper.

  “OK, until now, we have been quite good at the laugh laugh drink drink wink wink type of thing. But if we want to be more serious, we must know what kind of things ang moh guys like—­football, rugby, maybe things like rowing or tennis are also quite good. We don’t know much also must learn—­so every day, we’d better read the Straits Times. English league, Italian league, German players, World Cup—­everything also must know. If we know more, then we have more chance to talk more cock. If we talk more cock, then it becomes more like a relationship! Not just one night garabing garabung then everything is over already. If they think that we like what they like, then an actual relationship more likely is can.”

  Even Fann was very seriously writing things down now. Imo, however, asked, “What about them learning about the things that we like?” Fann nodded. I tell you—­sometimes Imo’s tootness is just really number one. “Hello,” I said. “If you are waiting for a guy who wants to hold your hand and have long conversations about the new Shiseido eye shadow then you’d better take off your shoes and sit down comfortably—­because you are going to wait forever!” Fann started giggling; Imo just blinked at her.

  “Next, we must understand the enemy. Cannot be like Jackie Chan in those kung fu movies—­in the beginning he’s always the goondu, everything also don’t know, don’t understand then alamak, suddenly his balls get whacked! No, if we want to win, then we must know who we are fighting: number one: China girls. This one is the worst one. Since they come from China and are desperate not to go back, they anything will also do. No standards at all! Old old, ugly ugly, smelly smelly also they don’t care. But because they are so willing and so pretend-­sweet, ang mohs like them! Some more they have no guilty conscience—­if a guy has a wife, a girlfriend, is engaged, has kids, they don’t care. All, they will also whack. China girls, aiyoh. This one is the number one to watch.

  “Number two: Filipinas—­this one is quite dangerous because they are quite ang moh already, so it’s very easy for them to talk to ang moh guys. They have a lot in common. Some more they sing so well—­if we see them in a karaoke lounge, I think we better just siam. No chance there. Better don’t fight.

  “Number three: other SPGs—­this one is quite easy to spot in a bar lah. But girls, we are all on the same side, all looking for the same thing, so if we see them, just show respect. No need to fight unless they try to potong your catch—­if they potong, then we hantam them one time.

  “Number four: ang moh girls. This one is actually not so dangerous because they’re all so fat and white chicken-­skin type. Some more their hands and legs are usually damn hairy! If ang moh guys want that kind of thing, aiyoh, they know that if they go home there are better ones there lah. Down here in Singapore, these ang moh women know that Asian girls are better. But still, sometimes, the ang moh girls also can win. So it’s just better to keep an eye on them.”

  At this point I was a bit hungry but Fann and Imo were so quiet I thought I’d better carry on. I was starting to feel like I was giving one of those opposition rally speeches you see on the Internet. My voice was getting louder and louder, Fann and Imo were both sitting up, leaning forward, listening carefully to each word. If I waved a flag, I tell you, they confirm will shout “Merdeka!” (At least, this is what I was thinking in my head lah.)

  “Last one: This one is not hard,” I said. “We should just know the places to go. We already know the bars—­Hard Rock, Studemeyer’s, Chaplin’s, these are all good places to spot ang mohs. But we also must try and see them in normal situations—­for example, ang mohs like brunch! And hello, I’m not talking about going eat roti prata or prawn noodles type of brunch. Pancakes lah, eggs lah—­that kind of thing. Even if we don’t really like to eat that crap, we must also whack brunch. Cannot just whack the bars and clubs. Sunday lunchtime—­must try.

  “OK? Now, we must be serious a bit. If this is what we want, then we must really understand all of this. Cannot anyhow anyhow anymore.”

  The two of them were very quiet and looked at each other blankly. “Jazzy,” Fann finally said. “I think this plan—­we cannot be like that lah. Love and relationships must be natural, not so calculative. We cannot plan plan plan until like this. Otherwise, what does it all mean? We might as well be like our parents.”

  My god, when she said this—­this really got me upset. The whole point of my plan, of us trying so hard on all this, is exactly so we won’t end up like our parents. Fann of all ­people should know—­when her father dropped dead her mother was actually happy! No one to kau beh and fight with her for the TV when she wants to watch her Cantonese serials anymore. No one to sit on her sofa, smoking and peeling dried skin off his toes for hours each evening. Finally—­after all those lousy years, peace inside her own house!

  “Fann,” I said, blinking hard at her. “You wake up your own head! If we don’t follow this plan, we will end up like your parents, my parents or even worse—­Imo’s parents!” Even though I was angry, I felt bad about saying that last part lah—­hello, this guniang here isn’t heartless after all. But when I looked over at Imo and said, “Eh, sorry,” she just shrugged.

  “It’s true,” Imo said very softly. “We can’t end up like them.”

  All this, I know, was a lot for Fann and Imo to think about. But you look at us—­now, we are still chio, still happening. But twenty-­six and twenty-­seven is not young already, you know. Fann has always been a bit c
annot make it lah, and Sher is a gone case already, but Imo and I still have a chance! Even then, I can already see, sometimes when I look at our old photos, that last year and the year before that, we were even more chio. So if we carry on like this, that means next year we will be even less chio! This matter of getting an ang moh husband—­if we are smart—­it’s best to try and fasterly settle.

  “In fact,” I added, “I think we actually must hurry up a bit. If you are serious about this, then, come, we set deadline. Today is Feb first—­by end of month, must try and confirm something.”

  “Like what?” Fann asked. “You want us to be married in a month? Be engaged?” Imo joined in. “Crazy, lah!” she said. “That’s only a month! I’m very busy at work, you know. Our big Club 21 sale is happening this month!”

  Aiyoh, my god. These ­people! Hadn’t they been listening to anything I said?

  “Look,” I said, “no one is asking you to hold a wedding banquet in thirty days. All I’m saying is, by the end of the month, we should at least have an ang moh boyfriend—­a serious one. If we really focus and put our minds to it—­and follow the strategy—­this one, I tell you, is probably can. So how? Set?”

  Imo looked at Fann, who looked back at her for a moment. “OK,” Imo said, raising her glass and waving her hand at Fann to follow. Together, we clinked our glasses and said, “Set!”

  chapter 2

  I still remember the night when everything went to shit.

  Of course I didn’t want to go to the wedding banquet. Sher, if she could actually bring herself to give a flying shit about our donkey’s years of friendship, should have known that. After everything that happened, after everything we discussed over the years and everything we planned and tried for, and then everything just going to hell at the end because of some cock decision she suddenly made—­just the fact that she was asking me to come to her wedding was damn bloody daring.

  But then she texted me one day, and then that night, and then the next day asking—­no, actually, begging—­for one small favor. “I need you there, Jazzy. Sit at the reception desk, Jazzy. You don’t have to do anything, Jazzy. Just smile and greet ­people and be there for me, Jazzy. How long have we been good friends, Jazzy? You know you are practically my own sister.”

  That last bit was the part that made me feel bad lah. I don’t have that many ­people I still know—­or care about enough to actually text and see—­who have been my kaki since primary school days. Or ­people who were there with me at Zambo until 3 A.M. in the morning on so many nights, holding my hair back as I’m throwing up into a longkang by the side of the road after a really good night out. At the end of the day, I have to honestly say I have never had a better friend than Sher. Friends like her are really A-­plus-­plus, man. Long long then will come one time. This, I always knew—­and I always assumed we would be best friends until we were old fat aunties sitting in our rocking chairs looking out at our colorful English gardens, sipping tea or whatever it is they drink over there.

  So, I felt a bit bad. After all, even though Sher changed her mind and abandoned the three of us in the end, I couldn’t ignore the fact that we used to be good friends.

  I remember when we first started really hitting the SPG bars—­Studemeyer’s was one of the first places everyone used to go. Right when the club first opened awhile ago it had all these good-­looking ang moh guys hanging out there on weekends. But then very quickly all these Ah Bengs in their old-­fashioned pleated baggy black pants, shiny silk shirts and overgelled blow-­dried hair starting rushing in and taking over the club on weekends. Aiyoh—­when I see those guys I just want to throw up. I know these Ah Bengs are Chinese-­Singaporean guys who probably feel like they need to action a bit more to stand out—­but I don’t understand how ­people can actually want to look so low-­class! Even so, Sher wanted to see Studemeyer’s and we’d all never been. So somehow we ended up there on a Friday night—­Louis had started reserving a table there on weekends the moment it opened, so we had a VIP spot. I didn’t mind going for that. Otherwise, I confirm won’t go.

  When Louis saw me at Studemeyer’s, he was nice as usual, holding up the bottle of Chivas after we double-­kissed. “Better faster get high,” he said, starting to pour even before I could find a place to put my handbag. “Where have you been? We’ve all been here since eleven drinking already. You’d better catch up. No fun being sober when we’re all so high.” After that, he just kept pouring. Every time my glass was even half-­empty he would bring the Chivas over. I can’t remember whether he was also pouring so much for Sher, Fann and Imo. He must have—­I think—­but then in the end, it was only me, about one hour and six double-­shot whiskey sodas later, who was suddenly feeling like not dancing anymore.

  “Ehhh,” a voice came, so close to my ear I could feel a sticky hotness. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. I could feel him already, the front of his bulky jeans rubbing against my bum. Sher and Imo were convinced that Kelvin stuffed his crotch with socks—­no way someone so short could be so big. “Aiyoh, please lah,” I said, turning my head around to shout so he could hear me. “Guniang here mabuk almost to the point of throwing up already and you still want to be like that.” But he just kept rubba-­ing and didn’t go away. By the time I fully turned around so I could actually push him back, I could see from his saggy lids and big smile that he was quite gone. Kelvin just blinked and stumbled off to try his luck with some fresh girls near the next table.

  “Jazz, you OK?” Sher had finally come back from wherever she’d gone. Neither of us had seen Imo—­or Louis, for that matter—­in a while.

  “You look a bit . . . too high,” she said, cupping my face.

  “No lah, I’m OK. Don’t worry. I just need some air.”

  I turned back around again, leaning against the cool stainless steel railing that kept us from falling over onto the sprawling dance floor beneath. I could feel Sher rubbing my back. It felt good. Her face leaned in next to mine. We both looked over at the floor beneath us, filled with bodies jammed next to each other. I couldn’t remember the last time we went to a club and didn’t have a VIP table—­we were all getting older already lah. Going clubbing on the main levels is for the youngsters—­us old birds have no energy anymore to push and squeeze and get noticed in such a crowd. Sher was pointing at something below, a group of Ah Bengs in a small circle with one of them in the middle. Each one stood firmly in a spot, holding on to his pleated pants waistband with his right hand, as if trying to steady himself while he rocked violently from the waist upward. The other hand was raised up high waving above his head. Even though we were one floor up, we could hear them shouting, “Yo ah yo! Yo ah yo!”

  Aiyoh—­this phrase so old already still want to say! Back in the eighties everyone was lousy at dancing lah, so the main way was just to yo back and forth to the music and shout “Yo ah yo!” Nowadays, everyone knows much more about dancing, but these Ah Bengs somehow are still out there doing this nonsense.

  “Oi!” Sher suddenly shouted, leaning over slightly as she waved and pointed at the group. “Yah—­you, Ah Beng! This one not 1985 anymore, you know. You still Yo ah yo? Lau pok lah!” The Ah Bengs stared up, looking confused. When they saw Sher waving her third finger at them, they started to whisper to each other, holding their hands up to cover their mouths as they talked. Typical brainless type—­we are so far up, how to hear anything?

  My god. It was too much. I started laughing, at first just a little bit, but then when Sher started laughing also, we held on to each other and just started laughing louder and harder. I even slapped my hand on my thigh so hard I could feel it getting hot from how painful it was. But then suddenly I started to feel something else—­it began in my chest. A burp, I thought? Next thing I knew I was leaning over the railing, shooting crap out of my mouth like one of those big fire engine hoses—­I could taste Chivas, and some green tea mixed with bits of the noodles my mum
made me eat before coming out.

  I remember two things happening as it started—­Sher’s left hand catching my shoulder as I bent over, and her right hand quickly grabbing and holding back my hair. She waited one minute for all of it to really finish before saying, “Eh, we’d better faster siam.” When I opened my eyes, I saw the Ah Bengs all staring up at us, pointing and shouting. A few of them were touching the tops of their heads and then pointing even more. I could hear myself start to laugh again as I wiped the corner of my mouth, making them point even harder. Then one of them pointed toward the staircase and they all started to move. Sher grabbed my hand, swiped my handbag from the booth and we both started running for the secret back VIP exit, not even stopping to see where Louis was so we could give him his two air kisses goodbye. We didn’t stop laughing until we reached the roti prata stall ten minutes away.

  “Aiyoh, Jazzy,” Sher said as she clinked her mug of hot ginger tea to mine when we had laughed until there was no more sound coming out and we actually had to buy a twenty-­cent packet of tissues to wipe our tears dry. “You tonight ah,” she said, “were really number one.”