Sarong Party Girls

by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

  So I just smiled and said, “Not really hungry, sweetie.” I was about to pick up my handbag and tell him I’d better go. But then the guy came over and hugged me from behind. I didn’t know what to do. Usually they’re not so sweet. So I just turned around and he suddenly kissed me, the open open type. I was going to push him away since we both hadn’t brushed our teeth yet—­why would he want to kiss like that now? Damn gross, man. But then I could smell something minty. Wah—­fucker brushed his teeth! I was so touched I actually wasn’t thinking and just kissed him back. Then I could feel that he was getting a bit hard. And I remembered that he was actually quite nice-­sized. Also, last night, since I was so tired, fucker came but guniang here didn’t finish. (Actually, don’t say didn’t finish lah—­the fucker was so quick that guniang never even started.) So when I thought about it a bit—­OK, might as well not go home just yet.

  Overall, it was all OK lah. At least the second time, both sides also got action. But the bad part is, hooking up like that tends to mean that it cannot just be a one-­night thing. So when he asked for my number, I felt a bit like I couldn’t say no. Also, since the girls and I sometimes go to Attica, I might bump into him again! So better don’t give a fake number, I guess. The good part is, at least when we exchanged numbers, guniang here had a number one idea. I pretend-­told him I don’t know how to spell his name, asked him how to spell it and all. So he slowly spelled out for me: R-­O-­Y.

  So, now—­like that lah! I don’t even know how, man. With a nose like that and with his lousy apartment and I don’t even know what cock job he has, this situation—­aiyoh, it’s not good, man. Really not good. Confirm will end up wasting time. By the time I got back home, I already got a nice text from him. This one—­is really susah.

  “Guniang, your kopi so cold already—­come, I buy you new one,” Seng suddenly said. I had forgotten he was even there. Actually, I even forgot that I was there.

  Just the other day, my mum actually said to me: “Please lah—­why don’t you just go out with a nice boy like Seng? You know, last week he brought me and your dad breakfast—­I think he came looking for you, but in the end he just gave it to us and watched us eat. This kind of good heart—­I can tell you, a white-­skin man definitely don’t have.”

  Seng? My god. Of course in my mum’s mind this is the kind of dream husband for me—­Goh Kwok Seng, major Ah Beng to the extreme! But my mum mainly loves him because even though outside the house these days, he is one of those kwailan assholes who likes to go to Marina Square and stare at other Ah Bengs and ask them “You staring at what?” before throwing down his cigarette and whacking them one time, at home, Seng is very sweet to his mum. Only son, after all. And after his dad died a few years ago, if Seng doesn’t pamper her, who will? Plus his mum and my mum used to be old kakis, so Seng is very “auntie-­auntie” around her, always finding all sorts of ways to carry her water.

  But expecting Jazzy to marry this kind of guy? Talk cock lah!

  I don’t even know what Seng’s job is—­one time he told me he was applying for some fuck job at a shipping company and I zoned out. Please—­I know shipping is a big business in Singapore, but ­people (especially those at Seng’s level) who are in it are basically nothing better than the coolies that our grandfathers were, working at the docks. And no matter how many TAG Heuers he buys for himself or Prada shoes he wears, at the end of the day, a coolie is a coolie.

  So even though guniang here wouldn’t have minded a free kopi from Seng, better not say yes. Don’t give him any funny ideas.

  “No need lah,” I said. “I better go home already. Must help my mum clean the house.” This one—­I know is lies. Seng also knows is lies. But whatever lah. As if he cares.

  After I started walking away toward my block, I looked back and saw him lighting another ciggie and slowly checking his phone. He wasn’t even looking up at me. Since that first time that I met him at the bus stop way back in primary school, he always super act-­cool one. Fucker doesn’t need anybody.

  I didn’t want to go home though—­with my luck my mum would actually be cleaning the flat that day and guniang here will have no choice but to help. Imo didn’t live far away from me though—­two bus stops—­so I started walking to the bus stop. Normally, of course I don’t take the bus—­come on, no matter how good the air-­con or seat cushions are, you are still sharing that nice air-­con and seat cushions with all the types of ­people who have no money to buy a car or take a taxi. But Imo’s house, two bus stops? Can endure a bit lah.

  Imo had already warned me that she was helping her mum clear the storage room so if I come by, I’d better help out. This one, I don’t really mind—­of all the aunties out there, I actually liked Imo’s mum the best. It’s true that now she is damn boring—­looks like an auntie, acts like an auntie; whole life long doesn’t do much except cook, watch TV serials and crochet at home when Imo is not there. But her life before Imo and Uncle—­from some things she says now and then about going to this club or that party, we all imagined that she probably was damn happening!

  Before we found out about Imo’s dad’s first family, we didn’t think much of how auntie spent her time. In Singapore, so many men travel for work or get posted overseas but leave their families behind, it’s no big deal to see mums and aunties sitting at home with nothing to do except wait. But since we found out about Uncle’s first wife, every time I see auntie sitting at home cleaning the already-­quite-­shiny altar for the fifth time that day or rearranging the framed photos of Imo on the living room wall again, I can’t help but feel a bit sad lah. Who wants to always be number two?

  The bus doors opened, and I stepped out of the super power air-­con into the sticky morning. It wasn’t even noon yet but I already felt as if someone had thrown a gummy blanket of steam over my face. Even though Imo didn’t live far from my place, the two neighborhoods could not be more different. Looking out the smudged windows of the bus, you can always see it. First, in my government-­housing neighborhood, there are the skinny streets jammed tight with white blocks and blocks of flats; trees, each one a perfectly rounded blur of green zooming by, interspersed by rows of dusty old hardware stores, provision shops and kopitiams and then, one or two gigantic buildings that on their own look quite boring lah, except that they’re wrapped all around with flashing neon Chinese characters and words like HENNESSY and RéMY MARTIN. Then, slowly slowly the roads get a bit wider, the buildings a bit shorter, the puffs of green get bigger and bigger, the trees fuller and darker.

  By the time the bus doors open outside Waikiki Towers, there’s no neon anywhere around. Even Imo’s bus stop is atas—­a cube of shiny metal and clear glass. Every time I get off here I always think—­the government damn toot lah. If you are going to make something so shiny, atas and clean, why not make it the front window that bus drivers have to look out of instead of some fucking high-­class bus stop that ­people in this neighborhood never use anyway because everyone has at least one Mercedes in their covered car park?

  Even though the security guard station to Waikiki Towers is right next to the bus stop, walking into Imo’s building is quite terok, especially this close to noon. The driveway to her building is damn fucking long for starters. Then, it’s also obviously not a space designed for ­people to actually walk—­after all, everyone here has a car. The pavement got not much space one—­some more, got no shade! But once you get to the lobby, everything is all OK again. Pure white marble everywhere, everything is always clean, the air-­con is always power. The first time I visited Imo, I remember thinking that this place was a bit strange—­if it’s called Waikiki Towers, then why is it not beachy like Hawaii? Back then, we were all still in primary school but Imo already knew what she wanted to do in life.

  “Aiyoh,” she scolded me, “you are the toot one lah. Hallo, Waikiki is not just stupid stuff like palm trees, beaches and bikinis. Those kinds of things—­excuse me, even low-­clas
s towns in Malaysia also have! It’s not special one. No, what’s special about Waikiki is all the shopping there—­how come you don’t know this? Japanese tourists and ­people from all over the world go there to buy branded names and all. Apparently there’s even one shopping center in Honolulu that’s so big that the corridors are bigger than Singaporean roads. And in the center of it all there’s a four-­corner walkway—­north, south, east, west, each one has a big store. Louis Vuitton one corner, Gucci, Prada and Chanel on the other three.

  “I tell you,” Imo said, her voice suddenly turning less fierce, “one day, I will go to the real Waikiki and visit all four corners.”

  Imo’s door was already open by the time I reached the twenty-­first floor and I could see that auntie had set out cold packets of barley water on a plastic tray by the foyer for us. Visiting Imo is always quite fun lah, since auntie always takes care of us like this. (When anyone visits our flat, they’re lucky to get even a hallo from my ma or pa. Want some water or soft drinks? Please. I will be the idiot fetching it from the kitchen—­or even worse, being sent downstairs to NTUC to buy some for my guests because there’s nothing in the house. So yah, ­people know that if they get thirsty in my house, they can go ahead and wait until tomorrow.)

  “Hallo!” I heard Imo say from the dining room. “In here.”

  Old photos were scattered all around the dining room table—­I could tell they were quite old because a few of them were square, with that crinkly white border all around the picture. Most of them were faded rectangular ones though—­I could see that they were mostly filled with ­people, not scenery. Before I could look closely at any of them though, Imo waved me over, quickly turning the big photo she was holding facedown on the table.

  “I bet you you’ve never seen this before,” she said, smiling. “Ready?”

  After waiting a moment for me to come and sit down next to her, Imo turned the photo over. At first, I didn’t quite understand what I was looking at. It was some glamour head shot, like those you see in that wall of frames outside KTV lounges or cheap Chinese nightclubs. From the haircut, I could see that the photo was from the 1980s—­shoulder length, layered tight curls, a bit like old TV show Dynasty. Since it was a head shot, you couldn’t see much of the dress except that it was sparkly and red, with silver sequins all around the neckline. And the makeup was equally fierce. Glittery glittery type—­and greenish-­blue eyeshadow!

  “You show me this for what?” I asked.

  Imo just laughed, handing me the photo. “Aiyoh,” she said, “you blind is it? Look closer.”

  I held the photo closer to my eyes, squinting a bit so I could see it more carefully. Puffy hair, pencil-­thin eyebrows—­the old-­fashioned kind where the hair is plucked until there’s almost nothing there and you can really see the dark pencil lines—­and eyelashes so thick, long and dark that even if you looked at this person from two floors up you confirm can tell it’s all fake. But the eyes . . . and maybe the nose? There was something a bit familiar about them, even if the dark red glossy lips didn’t quite seem to match the face that popped into my mind. I looked at Imo, squinting at her eyes and her nose and then looked back at the photo.

  “My god,” I said, putting the photo down.

  “Yeah,” she said. “It’s my mum!”

  Her mum? I couldn’t believe it.

  “But . . .” I started to say. I had so many questions I didn’t know where to start.

  Imo put her finger on her lips, making a very quiet “Shh” sound, pointing to the storage room nearby where we could hear her mum moving some boxes around. Rummaging around all the photos on the table, she finally picked up a small brochure and handed it to me. It was one of those folded pamphlets that you’ll see in boxes outside shops or offices trying to get your business. Although it was quite old, a bit yellowing, it was in good condition. I could tell from how sharp some of the corners were that it had obviously been very carefully stored.

  The front of it was filled with square photos of what looked like a quite happening nightclub—­not the sort that Imo and I go to in Clarke Quay but the kind that businessmen will bring clients visiting from Korea or Japan, that kind of thing. There were a few glamour shots of women who were dressed and made up just like Imo’s mum, along with some photos of a big stage outlined with bright lightbulbs. In some shots, the center of the stage was packed with a few girls in short sequined dresses, dancing; in others, there was just one singer, always a woman, in a long shiny gown, holding a microphone. Across the top, in large words: “Golden Lotus Night Club.”

  Walao eh! Auntie was a nightclub escort? OK, this time, even Jazzy didn’t know what to say.

  Imo saw how shocked I was and just laughed.

  “I tell you,” she said, leaning close to me so she could whisper, “I’ve never seen your face like this!”

  Of course, all of a sudden, this explained everything.

  The thing about Imo’s mum is—­yes, she’s quite chio and yes, she’s very sweet and nice. (And also has become quite a champion crocheter over the years, as you can tell from the cushion covers and blankets that you see all over the apartment.) But something I always wondered is how on earth she managed to get a semi-­rich man like Uncle. I mean, Uncle is not super rich—­hallo, Imo lives in Waikiki Towers, not in some two-­story bungalow with a swimming pool—­but still, he’s rich enough to give them all this. (And obviously more—­but all the best stuff goes to his first family of course.) And Auntie after all is not say super hot or very smart and her personality is about as happening as a piece of paper.

  But this photo, this brochure. Now, I see.

  “It’s how they met!” Imo said, after I finished thinking through all this and looked at her again. “It was a long time ago though. She left the business when she fell pregnant.”

  She looked like she was going to say something more but then Auntie suddenly came back into the dining room, holding a box. “Imo, talk less, finish faster,” she said, setting the box on the table and dusting off her hands.

  Watching Imo’s mum’s round backside slowly leaving the room in her auntie auntie housedress, I guess I could see why she never told us about any of this. I’m sure, even though Imo thinks it’s funny—­and now I have new respect for Auntie—­it’s something maybe she’s a bit ashamed about. Also, I guess this is why Imo also never really sees her mum’s family—­in fact, I think she’s only met her grandparents a few times, a very long time ago. Her mum told her that her family lives in Penang and we all just believed it. Who knows? They probably live in Singapore also, maybe even nearby! But of course once Imo’s mum became an escort they probably wouldn’t have wanted to have anything to do with her anymore lah. I guess if you think about it, it’s sad to see parents treating their children this way but, what to do? At least, in the end, life sort of worked out for Imo’s mum. Come on—­Waikiki Towers! Don’t play play!

  I was about to ask Imo something else but Auntie poked her head in again. “Girls,” she said, “stop daydreaming!”

  chapter 6

  The cool thing about Charlie is how she says the word know.

  She’s Singaporean, yes. But then her life changed—­she went to Australia for uni and came back sounding different. Now when she says some words, there’s this sexy sexy twang. Like know, for example—­instead of just “know” like we all say, she says “naeiooe.” My god, when ang mohs hear it, they also steam. As if she’s Nicole Kidman or some shit.

  But the thing that’s quite happening about Charlie is that even though she’s not in Ozzie anymore, the way her life is, it’s almost as if she’s still living there. Even after she came back, she still only dated ang moh guys. Plus, they’re all serious serious, crazy about her. (Not like all our one-­night stands or one-­hour rubba rubba in the club and never see them again type.) The guys Charlie sees all want to see her again and again and take her to nice restaurants and a
ll.

  Charlie, even though she went to Ozzie to study, at the end of the day, she actually is just like me, Imo and Fann. (But less cute than Sher.) We all look quite the same—­quite chio but not so pretty that can say, win Miss Chinatown or something. And it’s not like she has a super power job or her family has a lot of money. So if she can have so many ang mohs wanting her in a serious way, maybe we also have chance! When I look at her—­wah, I feel very inspiration.

  When I called Charlie after leaving Imo’s place and asked her for help, she suggested meeting her at her usual bar that night, even calling it her “office” and all. Really vain, this one. Since when is a bar someone’s office?

  Even so, I knew the evening was going to be productive. In fact, Charlie taught us her first lesson even before she showed up: Always be late. Walao, this woman. Tell us to meet her at Harry’s at 9 P.M. then don’t show up until almost 10 P.M.? By the time she showed up we had just ordered the third round of vodka Ribenas so we were definitely a bit happy. When Charlie sat down, she just looked at us.

  “Aiyoh—­mabuk already?” Charlie said, blinking at us one time while she pulled out her cigs from her handbag and threw them on the table. This woman was really damn action! Her eyes are quite big and pretty, so she knows that when she acts drama a bit with them, men confirm will steam when they see it. Some more she always outlines her eyes with thick thick black black pencil, so it makes them look even bigger and darker, a bit like those chio Bollywood actresses. This type of move—­yes, is quite obvious drama, but that night, I thought to myself, Jazzy, better take notes. If you can pull this off well, it can be quite useful.

  Even though Charlie was talking to us as she was sitting down, her eyes actually were not looking at us. Instead, I could see her scanning the whole room, trying to see who’s there. A few times she would smile and wave “Hi hi,” blowing kisses at ­people sitting who knows where. When she saw Imo and Fann trying to turn their heads around to see who she was waving at, she just blinked at them one time and rolled her eyes. “Guniangs,” I whispered to them. “Try to act a bit cool, OK?” The two of them just quickly picked up their drinks and hid their faces a bit. I felt quite bad scolding them, but they should know better—­if you’re going to go to Harry’s, must act cool! Of all the SPG bars in Singapore, this one is damn history. Must respect a bit. Before Harry’s, I don’t know where decent girls went to meet ang mohs. Last time we only had those sleazy Orchard Towers bars where the ang moh sailors and tourists go for cheap hookups or Thai prostitutes.