Memo from Region F

Sometime around 9.30 on Wednesday morning I was awakened by shrill squawks from my phone, but I paid no attention to it. There were only two people who knew I was in town, and one of them was there in the room with me. The other was in a mean concrete building about eight thousand eight hundred miles north of here in a large city called London.

It is better not to answer the phone under these circumstances. Wait until the bastard at the other end tires and give up, and you could then check their ID later and at more appropriate times, preferably after noon. However, after an ominous beep a hissy sort of voice leapt out of the phone, “Sen, where the fuck are you? You’ve been m –” Ye Gods! How did they get this number? I’ve been changing phone numbers faster than wharf rats breed and they have managed to track me through six cities and seven layers of deep cover. How is this possible? Before they had a chance to finish, I hurled the appalling Nokia out into the hallway, leering at it as it bounced off plaster walls, leaving a trail of miniature indentations about ankle height until it collided with a door frame and sputtered into silence.

“Rhea is not going to be happy about it.” I turned around. Jann was up; eyes the colour of dirty pool water, breathing up whiskey fumes with every word spoken.

“Yeah? We better get out before she comes back then. And deal with Mike, he’s easier to talk to.”

I wrenched the curtains apart, yowling as a burst of sunlight singed my eyeballs, leaving me slightly stunned and dizzy; Jann began muttering about Mike and young Asians as he shifted distractedly through piles of clothes for a T-shirt that doesn’t stank.

After that initial blast of UV rays, the room straightened itself and I felt that familiar tinge up my spine. Now that they managed to get my new number – just 48 hours after I bought it off a black peddler wearing a white fedora and a Billy Crystal smile somewhere down Fifth Street, the situation looked grim. Suddenly, the lines of giant flowering Jacaranda down the streets didn’t seemed so beautiful anymore; I kept seeing flits of shadows lurking under these overgrown shrubs, hidden under tall collars and dark sunglasses, smirking at the stupidity and naivety of two suckers who thought they could give them the slip. I started imagining these heinous, faceless Hollow Men stationed by the dozens around the crumbling fortress, each fingering huge carving knives and loading their glinting P99s.

It was too much. I tore into the bathroom, screaming for Jann to book the earliest tickets out of town and retrieve my phone from the hallway before Rhea’s ferrets chewed it into smithereens.

There is nothing much to do here except people watch and rereading the few miserable tomes you’ve managed to lugged through dusty airports and midnight dinghy rides through crocodile infested waters. Nestled among cotton shirts and disposable panties were Theroux’s The Old Patagonian Express with Yuka’s beautiful bookmark – a veritable weapon itself, six inches of stainless steel tapered at one end, and curved into a hook of sorts on the other – lodged tight in the middle, Neruda’s Five Decades: Poems and a mangled bundle of writings and sketches, haphazardly tied together with a green rubber band; I have tried to keep them secure, wrapped up in layers of Spar plastics, but the darn things were as fragile as tissue and the book edges continue to plug holes through them. A good many of the papers are now torn, shrivelled and smelt of swamp water.

There were around twenty of us here, a motley crew of hassled families, sunburnt backpackers and occasionally, one or two seedy travellers like Jann and I, with unpredictable schedules, suspicious leather bags and a penchant to request for meals to be sent up their rooms, away from the prying friendliness of the shifting mob in the dining room bellow. As much as we might have worried about security, it was relatively easy to keep tabs on the guests; Rhea’s guesthouse was one of hundreds in this tourist town, most stayed less than two nights, and we would always bump into new faces, shuffling round with a whole roomful of weight, or just a threadbare knapsack, depending on their destinations, across the landing, coming out of the communal bathrooms in pairs, at the counter where parents were sequestered between monstrous wails of grubby little children. At the breakfast table we were polite at best and hungover at worst, conversations we’ve made were mild and unappetizing and of which I have retained not one word except that singular moment when the bomb ‘nigger’ was flung into the midst of a frantic gambling session with a bunch of violent-drunk Nigerians and funny-drunk Germans. Before we got torpedoed by flying punches, Jann and I scurried back to our rooms, ignoring a nightgown clad, crazy-eyed Rhea as she dragged a reluctant Mike who was whimpering, “Just let ‘em have it, just let ‘em have it…” into war.

We didn’t exactly escape unscathed. Rhea scanned each newcomer like a starved hammerhead shark zoning in on a school of southern stingrays – it was a horrifying tableau, the sight of a stick thin old woman sunk into the depths of a pink sofa, a sawn-off shot gun nestled comfortably on her lap and her claws never a few inches away from the trigger, glaring twitchily at the us night owls who would congregate in the lounge for poker or wailing Norteno music from her beat-up jukebox. All attempts at being affable were futile, she shot our invitations with biting negatives, fidgeting and scowling as though she was trying hard to control some inner frenzy. We were all afraid Rhea might accidentally discharge that beast and shoot herself in the feet.

Gwynedd, Wales I

I’m the type of person who walks ahead of the group, the sore thumb that sticks out due to the lack of talent in orchestrating spoken words. I would unintentionally draw attention to myself just because my silence is creating a vacuum in the environment, sucking in words like bogs do to struggling bucks. Five minutes with me and you would most probably feel a dent in the atmosphere, and words that clung to the edge of your lips fading away like smog. You might also feel an uncomfortable need to confront, to address my presence. It’s not like I am in control of these phenomena; I wasn’t even aware of it until people start talking to me pointedly, then dismissing me, then addressing me; like regular clockwork, I was a scab that needed constant picking.

So how did I end up here?

It was partly due to money. Omer was sympathetic to my plight, but he also noted my inexperience in this trade and asked me to start with low profile events. When my writing style and editing skills improved, he called me into his office and asked if I would mind travelling a little bit, not too far, nothing too dangerous, somewhere within Great Britain of course. He also, not too subtly, mentioned a raise in wages for a complete article and reparations for all travel and living expenses.

I told him as long as there are internet connections and Chinese takeaways I’m game.

Omer pulled out a ring file. Scrawled across it were the words: Gwynedd, WALES.

*

About 15 hours later, I was outside The Lion Hotel, squinting against searing cold winds. It was a little before midnight, you could see the party goers ambling along streets alight with fluorescent orange sticks in tight little outfits for the ladies and flared collared shirts for the men. The last time I checked,  the temperature was hovering around low negatives. My hands, encased in under-sized leather gloves were already throbbing due to the cold, and I wondered how were they faring with thin cottons and mini dresses spliced with holes. Jem told me it was all alcohol, the ‘ang mohs’ were no different to the rest of the world in tolerating freezing temperatures, they were just too far gone to care, and most of them according to Jem, go home to fingers and toes swollen tight with chilblains. Jem for a change was sober tonight. I made him promise, since he was to be sort of a chaperone slash bodyguard, I want him around to arrest any brewing trouble instead of creating them.

Jem was referred to me; a colossus of a man topped off with a squat head and mop of thinning dirty blonde hair, cut close to the scalp. He has features that the local women might describe as ruddily handsome. He has been described as a cross between pugilist Chuck Wepner and martial artist Dolph Lundgren, with his face closer in resemblance to the former and height to the latter. Jem tells me he used to box a little; during his senior year in high school he met a coach who told him he had potential. Although he never dabbled in any sport other than football (his stature earned him a spot in defending) he readily took up the intense training mapped out and was soon lifting weights, skipping, watching championships, emulating his heroes’ style. He respects strategists such as Holmes and the Klitschko brothers – winning strictly by points and ‘smart punches’. But it was the brawlers who took his breath away. Slower, sluggish compared to their more skilled counterparts, brawlers often rely solely on their sheer will and stubbornness in the ring. They are the ones, even though bloodied and nearly blind from the lacerations criss-crossing their faces, stood up as if they were mere paper-cuts and carried on like inexhaustible demigods. For a year or so, Sonny Liston posters stared from the four corners of Jem’s room; His coach had lent him a documentary regarding the history of boxing to watch during summer hols. He had to scout the neighbourhood for a VHS player, finally borrowing one from a kebab shop, laying down 10 quid in case he ran off or forgot to return it. And in cracking black and whites he watched transfixed as Sonny Liston hammered in five knockout matches out of six in 1955, and in 1959 when Liston faced the (nearly) indomitable ‘Big Cat’ Cleveland Williams. Standing at 6’3, Williams was fast as he was a hard puncher. Liston seemed to be struggling against the behemoth in round one; Williams circled and jabbed while Lisbon had little offensive success. Lisbon ended the first round with a gushing nose and jeering audience. However he picked it up in round two, and spectators marvelled at Lisbon’s durability against some of the blows from Williams, which Jem was convinced “Couda knock the socks off any regular boxer.” Liston’s comeback drove the crowd wild, he delivered a series of crosses and jabs, Williams had nary a chance to dodge before another burst across his face. Jem described those few minutes as a miracle. Liston seemed to be in a trance, no one could touch him. In round three, Williams was completely defeated, crowds roared as a brutal left hook caught Williams on his ears and sent him out on a spectacular TKO.

Jem asked me if the youth in Malaysia have any interest in boxing. I thought about the late-night WWF, WWE and TNT on cable television – that was the closest I got to boxing in terms of combat sport. I wasn’t sure how Jem would react if I mentioned wrestling shows in the same sentence as boxing. In the end, I settled on neutral ground, which wasn’t far away from the truth; badminton and football rules the court in Malaysia. Jem deflated at my answer but offered a consolation comment; he described a history of watching tiny Malaysian players squaring off with larger Western opponents in numerous All- England Opens on TV, and if anything goes, “I was never surprised each time the Asians came out top. Like grasshoppers, tough ‘ittle buggers. ”

In between talks of golden age boxers and flashes of controlled smiles, I wonder if his interlocution on long dead pugilists was an admirably staged diversion, but Jem seemed like a great guy, and he knew Omer during the days of the Great Madness – in fact, Omer referred Jem to me, so he must know I was another sniffer dog on the same trail.

I asked him if he were comfortable talking about June 1998. Jem grinned before letting himself go and laughed outright; a teeth baring, back-slapping deep guffaw.

“Shure, but we need to see taid Liam first, as courtesy.”

There was a Liam in Omer’s write-up on Gwynedd in 1998. I hope to God he was not the same Liam who tried to bash Omer’s car with an antique mashie niblick.

I don’t have a car.

(…)

When I look at a strawberry, I think of a tongue

Seldom have I come across such painful self-interrogation done so well. It does not feign sensitivity, but revels in it. The whole essay is a strip-down of the human consciousness, a wide-eyed look at the trivial habits, prejudices and efficacies that in aggregation becomes us, or in this case a person who has never shared a bank account and wonders how the obese make love.

When I Look at a Strawberry I Think of a Tongue by Édouard Levé

(taken from Autoportrait)

When I was young, I thought Life: A User’s Manual would teach me how to live and Suicide: A User’s Manual how to die. I don’t really listen to what people tell me. I forget things I don’t like. I look down dead-end streets. The end of a trip leaves me with a sad aftertaste the same as the end of a novel. I am not afraid of what comes at the end of life. I am slow to realize when someone mistreats me, it is always so surprising: evil is somehow unreal. When I sit with bare legs on vinyl, my skin doesn’t slide, it squeaks. I archive. I joke about death. I do not love myself. I do not hate myself. My rap sheet is clean. To take pictures at random goes against my nature, but since I like doing things that go against my nature, I have had to make up alibis to take pictures at random, for example, to spend three months in the United States traveling only to cities that share a name with a city in another country: Berlin, Florence, Oxford, Canton, Jericho, Stockholm, Rio, Delhi, Amsterdam, Paris, Rome, Mexico, Syracuse, Lima, Versailles, Calcutta, Bagdad.

Essay in full

Do me a favour

and bid on SALE 4102/ LOT 151.

Valentine’s is less than a month away, so here’s a chance to make your darlings happy.

Guang by Quek Shio Chuan

The Reason

The girl stepped into the alley sandwiched between two rundown buildings. She was wearing a crisp white shirt and simple knee-length pleated skirts. Instead of her usual brogues, she had on a pair of grey Adidas walking sneakers. Under the hot sun, her sallow cheeks gained a slight flush. The afternoon heat matted her bangs against her forehead which was glistening with a mixture of sweat and runny face cream.

A few paces behind, the boy lagged. He stared at her slightly hunched back as she hurriedly shuffled on. He pinched his nose, frowning at the steam rising from the clogged ditch running along the length of the alleyway. It was very hot.

The walk took about 5 minutes, when they approached the end they were confronted with a junction marked by a streetlight. The girl halted, hesitating.

“What are you thinking?” the boy asked.

“Nothing.” The girl did not look at him.

“Don’t stop here. We’ve come so far.” The boy grabbed her hand and veered to the right, the girl stumbled a little.

“I was just… nervous.” The girl gave his hand, which was slightly clammy, a squeeze. “Even though we’ve talked about this and waited a long time and made sure, I can’t help it.”

“We will be ok. Don’t think too much.”

“What if something goes wrong?”

“Nothing will go wrong.”

“If we get caught, if the whole thing fails…”

“We won’t. We’ve covered all the issues remember?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a quick operation. Before you know it, we’re out of there and out of town.”

“Yeah.”

They walked past a coffee shop. Two big cats were sleeping under the shade of a Formica table set outside the shop; their soft, vulnerable underbellies exposed to the world. A few plastic chairs littered the surrounding compound and years under the sun had bleached them from bloody red to a weak pink. Behind a glass counter, an old man sat alone with a half-empty glass and a burning cigarette. He stared at them as they marched pass.

“Hate this place.” The boy said. “Dump.”

“It’s not too bad. The area around Damansara is pretty ok. You don’t get much trouble there.” The girl said.

“You’re talking stupid. No way we can afford that place, even if we hold on to 5 jobs and save every cent.”

“I know, I was just dreaming.” The girl slipped her hand away from his.

“Don’t be like this. We’ve gone over this a hundred times.” The boy shifted the carry-all on his shoulders, “Besides, you know why we have to do this, if your parents had consented-”

The girl came to a stop and crouch down, burying her face in her lap.

“Hey.”

“I’m ok.”

“I’m sorry alright? I didn’t mean to say that. I know it’s hard for you.”

“I said I’m ok.” The girl’s voice was muffled. “Just give me a minute.”

The boy chewed on his lips. They were close now. He walked past this road a dozen times. A few paces more and they’d reach a squat, single-storey shop lot, built colonial-style with dusty columns, decaying wooden eaves and crumbling support brackets crudely juxtaposed against a modern, silver shuttered door.

It was a weekday; there shouldn’t be much people around. Especially during the late afternoons as trade slowed down, they would have the privacy they both desired.

The girl stood up, her face was dry.

“I’m fine. We should get ready.”

The boy opened the bag. For the second time, she saw the gun. “Don’t think too much. Just remember our plans ok? We’ll be fine afterwards.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re in this together.”

“Yeah.”

“I love you.”

The girl shuddered.

“I love you too.”

The Duke

Duke Ellington’s Prelude to a Kiss

Richmond Gimlet

You know you need a pick-me-up when you reach the moment where the future seems more like a threat than a promise.

The difficult part isn’t about getting over the funk, but to find a lounge where one can simmer without getting harassed every two minutes or so, or where the word ‘No’ is taken as it is meant to be, not an euphemism for ‘Yes’, ‘Maybe’, or ‘I’m just playing hard to get but in reality is a wanton, emotionally retarded person who would get in to bed with whomever that lavishes 5 minutes of his time on poor old me.’

I hope the alcohol in your eyes sting for days. It was the very least I could do to wake you up from that drunken stupor. While you’re recuperating, a etiquette class or two would be enlightening and would possibly deter future drinks-in-face incidences, unless of course, you derive some sort of perverse enjoyment from them (which I did, as a thrower).

The Pen and the Gun

I shall drench thee papers in BILE!

It is clear that examination stress is out to get you (or perhaps you’re already an unwitting victim) when your web browser history is a long list of Google Scholar articles, Warwick Student Intranet forums and Wikipedia articles on semi-auto pistols….

I hope someone would put me out of my misery if I start hyperventilating and throwing hysterics in examination halls. Please, the last thing I aspire to is to be remembered as a quintessential case of an Asian cracking up from academic stress.

I’ll even help you identify the signs of a potential examination-stress-induced Boomer(with term Boomer coming from the ever popular angst-busting game Left4Dead):

1. Uncontrollable twitching.
2. Facial tics that never occurred until..now.
3. Nervous laughter, accompanied by mantra-like repetition of  “ Help me.” to a variety deities out there.
4. Crazed look, shuddering loud wheezes as the distance between oneself and the entrance to the examination hall shrinks.
5. Inexplicable maniacal laughter that lasts for more than 15 mins.
6. A suspicious ticking sound coming from a large bag held by an exceedingly calm individual, whom when queried about test preparations, said in a eerily soothing manner, “After
   today, we shall be free of such trivial bindings.”

Its only serious when all symptoms occur together. If not, the ESI Boomer would probably just sweeten up your day with a faint or a hysterics or two.

Photo Credit: www.moddb.com

Here’s to you, here’s to me