Sarong Party Girls (8 page)

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
HEN
NESSY
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-­class 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 all.

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.

Now, we avoid Orchard Towers (unless we're craving Thai chicken wings from that stall on the second floor) but that one time years ago when we decided to go just to see whether the place had cute guys or not. The scene—­my god—­was damn scary man. First of all, all the corridors in the entire mall were filled with the smell of smoke—­you know that kind of smell where you step in the building and you know right away that you confirm must wash your dress the next day. Then, everywhere we looked, you could see ang moh guys with these very young-­looking girls in super short skirts—­schoolgirl schoolgirl type—­in very high heels just walking around, arm in arm, the guys sometimes rubba-­ing the girls' butts as they walk. All along those narrow corridors there were bars, yes, but also massage parlors, cheap Thai restaurants and also these small provision shops that not only sell all the kinds of cigs you want but also had gigantic displays of condoms. You know me—­I very not shy. But when I saw these condom displays—­my god, even guniang over here started to feel a bit embarrassed.

We decided to go into one of the bars, even though Imo and Fann didn't want to, saying they were worried about what kind of guys were in there. But Sher and I thought, we've never been here ­before—­at least check one out. What's the harm? Maybe it would at least be a bit entertaining—­and from the looks of just the outsides of the bars, I could tell that we could emerge with many stories to tell our friends even after just one drink there! So, why not?

Also, I know it's a bit crazy to think this in Orchard Towers of all places, but you never know where you can find love. Sometimes even nice ang mohs also go to sleazy places—­maybe they're there because their friends have brought them or it's some compulsory office party they have to attend or some shit. And we had already been talking about how, if you want to meet guys, sometimes you must adventure a bit. Cannot be so close-­minded and judgmental. Anyway, since we were already in Orchard Towers, I said, “Let's go.” So we just picked one of the bars that looked more open—­not one of those with blacked-­out glass windows or bitchy-­looking Thai girls standing outside to check your ID and charge you a thirty-­dollar cover fee if they think you're a girl that is potential competition. The one we picked seemed decent—­it even had a large barrel painted on the side of the door, giving it the same look as some of those touristy English pubs near Boat Quay. But once we walked in, we almost walked out. My god, the place was damn fucking sleazy.

The bar was filled with girls—­all wearing high heels and short flared-­out skirts. Most of them had long black hair, some tied up in sweet little ponytails. And their faces all had that fresh, clean kind of makeup to make them look even younger. I couldn't tell how old they were, but if I had to guess—­maybe seventeen or eighteen? And that's because I'm Asian—­I can tell they are actually not as young as they look. If I weren't Asian, I confirm would think they look more like fourteen or fifteen years old. And the whole bar was filled with these girls! Except for one—­this woman who looked quite ragged, maybe thirty years old or something. She was wearing simple black pants and one of those patterned auntie blouses and she had one of those big bulky fake Coach handbags on her arm. The moment we walked in she just sat in one corner and stared at us the whole time.

We ordered a drink—­we figured since we were there, we'd better order something or mamasan confirm will come over and whack us one time. When the drinks—­and bill—­came, we instantly regretted it. One simple gin and tonic—­fifteen dollars! Some more the drink was damn watered down. “Never mind lah,” I said to Imo when I saw her making a face. “Research is never free.” Once the drinks came, we didn't know what to do so we decided to just sit there and look-­see look-­see. Fann got excited when she saw there was a small pool table in the corner. “Hey, maybe we can play a bit!” she said, starting to get up. Luckily, Sher acted quickly and pulled her back down before Fann could make a move.

“Guniang,” Sher quietly said to Fann. “Don't be so blur. Look around the table—­is anyone actually playing pool?”

It's true—­even though there was a game in progress, and there certainly were ­people walking around carrying sticks, the only action we were seeing was when the girls would come and bend over the pool table, stretching for a really long time, sometimes even propping one of their legs up on the table until can see panties and everything. No one actually seemed to be noticing the game. The girls were just anyhow shooting—­striped ball, solid ball, anything also whack. Ball never go in also never mind one—­this game was really damn toot. Since when do you have ­people playing a game and not caring about winning?

If the girls missed a ball, they just covered their mouths and giggled like those teenagers in Japanese toothpaste ads. We watched this carry on for a bit, not quite sure what to do—­Imo at some point just gave up and started texting with god knows who—­until Sher suddenly elbowed me. She nodded her head very slightly toward the dark corner near the pool table. I had to squint a little bit at first but there was some tall, a bit fat oldish ang moh guy sitting on a bar stool and rubba-­ing this girl. At first, it seemed normal—­not like anything we hadn't seen in Attica before, except this guy was balding, had super gray hair, at least two chins and such big boobs that no decent Singaporean girl would ever give him chance. Hallo, even though he's an ang moh guy, us SPGs still have some standards, please.

This was all still sort of OK, but then once or twice when the girl started moving away from him, he would grab her wrists and pull her back so she was facing him, her thighs wedged between his legs. This guy wasn't even wearing pants or jeans—­he was wearing bermudas! Some more they were not even branded berms—­got no logo! As we watched, the guy got more daring—­he not only started reaching underneath the girl's skirt to rubba her backside but at some point he turned her around to face his friends on the other side of the pool table. His fat fingers were all over the front of her shirt, rubba-­ing her stomach and everything and then moving down to her skirt. Sher looked damn angry. We thought all this was quite bad already, but then the guy lifted up the girl's skirt and started rubba-­ing her through her panties, pretending to try to pull them down. His friends just started laughing and cheering. Aiyoh! No shame! We thought the girl would give the fat guy one tight slap but she just giggled a bit and patted his hand, firmly moving it away. Mamasan in the corner was keeping an eye on all this, even though she had this heck care look on her face. What kind of mamasan is this? Where got ­people give things away for free?

“Should we do something?” Imo asked. When I looked at her, she looked like she was going to cry. It's true lah—­the four of us have seen all sorts of public rubba-­ing in our lifetime of clubbing (and also participated—­a bit—­of course) but this, my god, this really made me want to vomit blood. The girl was so young, the guy was so old and ugly—­some more from the looks of him, he confirm is not rich. Not even middle-­class. Where got point? No amount of money he gives you can be worth that shit.

Then suddenly we saw mamasan raise her right hand and rub her thumb against her fingers. Cash sign. The girl turned around and kissed the guy on the cheek then whispered in his ear. He smiled, nodded; then she took his hand and led him around the pool table, right past us and headed to the darkest corner of the bar. We had seen the door in that corner earlier—­some thin wooden one with a slightly frosted glass window. At first I thought it was a karaoke room because through the large window we could see a couch and coffee table. But then there was a sign on the purple wall saying
STAFF REST AREA.
Quite weird, I thought at the time. Working as a bar girl—­is it really that strenuous that you need a rest area? But once the girl brought the ang moh into the room, closed the door and turned off the lights, I realized how toot I was.

Which is why, once Harry's opened—­thank god. If you want to meet ang mohs, then you didn't need to be so LC as to go to Orchard Towers. All Harry's bars are confirm not low-­class—­they have nice tables, waiters treat you like normal girls, and the menu even has atas drinks with happening shots like Lemon Drops.

Of course, if you are truly happening at Harry's, you don't need to look at the drinks menu. In fact, Charlie was so famous here she didn't even need to order her drinks. The moment the bartender saw her walk in, he already started mixing. So by the time she pulled out a ciggie to put in her mouth, the waiter had already brought over a vodka green tea. He even stood to one side, waiting for her to be ready and all so he could pull out his lighter to light her cigarette. Imo, Fann and I all looked at each other—­kani nah, this woman was damn impressive.

Charlie looked sexy. In fact, I don't think we had ever seen her not nicely made up, but tonight she looked more chio than usual, wearing a tight short dress. “Is it one of those Harvey Leggy types?” Fann whispered to me. I wasn't sure but with the stretchy bandage-­straps crisscrossing her chest, showing off her B-­cup tetek, it very well could be. Her hair at that time was quite short, in a very straight bob, fringe long long one, swept to one side so when she leaned over to talk to you, she always had a fan of hair brushing across one side of her face, making her eyes look even bigger. For those guys who like those Sailor Moon kinds of blue movies, Charlie is the shit lah. Since secondary school days, she was always quite cute—­but back then, her kind of cute was mostly the sweet sweet type. It wasn't until she came back from Ozzie that she suddenly became so sexy. I don't know what happened to her there, man—­or why she never stayed. But when she came back last year and we met at Zambo the first time, we almost didn't recognize her. All the guys we were with that night got super steam the moment they saw her. But because none of them were ang moh, all also knew they had no chance with Charlie.

Midway through her cigarette at Harry's, Charlie was leaning back, crossing her legs, looking quite bored and blinking her eyes a bit as she slowly smoked. Fann and Imo looked at each other, then looked at me, both not sure what to do. Toot is toot. So I just started explaining. “Um, Charlie—­you know, we've all known each other how long already . . .”