Sarong Party Girls (11 page)

“My god, no lah,” he said. “Other girls are competition for their business! Unless . . . it's a work situation. You know how it is—­nowadays there are women managers and everything. Sometimes we cannot help it. Must let them in otherwise they might scream sexual discrimination or some shit like that. KTV entertaining is business, after all. The lounge managers don't like it, but they know they have to let them in sometimes.”

This was my chance. “Bring me,” I said.

Kin Meng turned to look at me. “You serious? Why?”

“I just want to see. Why not, right?”

He was quiet for a bit. I was just thinking he was going to just say no.

“You can behave or not?” he asked.

Wah, guniang here was damn surprised. Of course I nodded.

“You'll dress exactly as I tell you and do everything I say?” he said. “If so, I could actually use a non-­KTV girl in the group for some clients I need to bring out tomorrow night. See how.”

Set lah!

After that I quickly switched the subject so he couldn't change his mind. But when Kin Meng dropped me off at my block, he kissed me on the cheek and said, “I'll text you tomorrow, babes.”

Walking through the gray concrete void deck underneath my apartment block, past the wrinkled uncles playing Chinese checkers, past the aunties burning joss paper offerings in the giant red communal barrels by the dustbins, I began to wonder what the scene would be like at a KTV lounge. If going to Lunar and seeing those shameless China girls was already so terrible, leaving us all feeling so bad, then wouldn't a KTV lounge be worse?

But Jazzy, I thought, you cannot be so scared. Must “yong gan de zhou.” Bravely walk.

Thinking about our mums—­maybe not Imo's but definitely mine, Sher's and Fann's—­they just did the same thing their mums did. They all had the same boring tunnel-­visioned approach to finding a suitable man and figuring out the husband landscape. So in the end, nothing happened for them! They never went anywhere. They just ended up having the same lousy lives that their mums had. And now Sher was doing the exact same thing. I can tell you her Ah Huat is never going to bring her to brunch at Relish. Ever.

Just thinking about Relish made me happy again—­so white, so clean, so perfect. Then the lift doors in my building opened and some small sweaty fat fuck ran out, almost knocking me over. His mum just casually walked behind him, not even bothering to apologize. When she noticed that I was staring at her, she just stared back and said, “Got problem is it?” and walked away.

Getting into the tiny five-­person lift, I could feel the air, hot and sticky, seeping into my hair. As the lift went up, floor by floor, I felt like I was swallowing warm clouds of urine and cigarettes. Bloody hell. And as usual, when I got to the flat, before I could even open the door, just from the turn of my door key, it all started back up again.

“Ah Huay?” my mum shouted from all the way back in the kitchen. “Finally come home already ah?”

 

chapter 8

Bloody hell. Kin Meng, as always, was late.

Not that I was that anxious to get to the KTV lounge or to see the fucker's face. But I had already told Albert I had to rush off to an appointment and now fifteen minutes later, guniang was still standing on the curb outside of Front Page waiting for Kin Meng. If Albert comes out for a smoke or something, he will think I was lying! Since it was Monday, it was a fairly quiet night at Mohamed Sultan—­on weekends, forget about trying to walk a straight line along the neighborhood's narrow pavements outside the rows of little prewar townhouses. The bars in those old shophouses are always jammed, which means the pavement is confirmed also jammed. Tonight though, there was almost no one around. So if Albert looked out, he'd definitely see me still standing there. What's worse, my toes were damn painful from the office pumps I wore just for Kin Meng. In this heat, I'm not used to closed-­toed shoes lah—­but as Kin Meng instructed, if I want to be less slutty for KTV mamasan approval then confirm cannot wear strappy heels. So, no choice.

But the main problem was that I was damn grumpy. That weird conversation with Albert on Friday—­aiyoh, I couldn't stop thinking about it today. Was Albert really thinking it's time for me to go? Why else would he be bringing up circulation as a good move for me in the company? Everyone knows that the girls in circulation are basically complete fucking idiots or are leftover girls from other parts of the company who are just shoved there to be forgotten about. And what was up with all that lecherous rubba-­ing? Did I somehow give him the impression that I wanted something? Of course he was right—­I know that I'm not getting any younger. Of course I understand that it's high time to grow up already. But it's not like I'm just sitting around waiting for my wrinkles to appear, not doing anything. Why else would I be trying so hard to hook an ang moh now?

Even though guniang here was upset I still had to touch up lipstick and pretend to be happy once five o'clock came because I had already promised Albert I would help him to entertain his guests, who in the end were quite interesting lah. The main guy was the foreign editor of some Ozzie or Kiwi newspaper. I know I should remember these things, but to be honest, Ozzie and Kiwi are all the same to me—­seriously, is there any difference? The guys usually look the same and sound the same. Unless it's an ang moh I think I might pok, once they tell me they are Ozzie or Kiwi I don't really care which one is which. All I know is that unless the ang moh is very rich, if it's a Kiwi guy, I definitely don't want. If we get serious and get married, then how? Who wants to move there one day and live in a country filled with sheep and grass? Fate worse than death, man.

Whether he's Ozzie or Kiwi, Leonard the foreign editor guy was bloody charming—­longish white hair combed back, high nose, nice wire-­rim glasses. Very cultured-­looking. If he wasn't so old I might consider. Albert also brought along his foreign editor, a Eurasian guy he went to uni with a long time ago. Even though Sean is half ang moh, he grew up here so he talks like a Singaporean—­not like me or Fann, but more like Imo, when she's at work and must impress ­people, that kind of thing.

Sean usually just ignores me—­when he needs to see Albert he never even says “Hi” before knocking on his door. And in the cafeteria he only talks to other editors or ­people higher than him. Sometimes, Eurasians are just like that—­just because of that little bit of white blood from how many donkey's years ago, they think they are better than most Singaporeans. But who can blame them? They are part ang moh after all. (Some more the ones who are guys usually know they are very good-­looking—­aiyah, this is from years of sarong party girls throwing themselves at them. Even if they are not fully ang moh, for those SPGs with lower standards, half or quarter ang moh guys sometimes also can.) So I guess, at the end of the day, they do deserve that special treatment anyway.

But that night Sean was quite nice to me—­probably because even though he and Albert kept trying to ask Leonard questions, Leonard only wanted to ask me questions. Before Albert's bottle of Chivas appeared, Leonard already started interrogating. “So, Jazeline, what is it like to be a modern Singaporean woman?”

Hah? What kind of nonsense question is that? When I first heard it, I felt quite blur. This kind of question, nobody has ever asked me before. Usually Albert's guests mostly just want to flirt a bit with me, maybe touch my knee or elbow now and then, but the serious questions? Those they will only ask Albert. Why should they ask me? Everyone knows that guys are the ones who actually know these things.

“Well . . .” I started to say, trying to smile and think at the same time. How to answer? Ask me where to eat the best chicken rice, which Hotel 81 is the cleanest for one hour or where to buy the best Vietnamese girls, these kinds of questions I confirm know what to say. But what it's like to be Singaporean woman? Aiyoh. We're all in a bar situation, you know—­it's not an O-­level exam! I could see Sean turning his face to one side so Leonard and Albert couldn't see it. I bet he was rolling his eyes. Kani nah.

The truth is, even if I felt like I could speak honestly, I didn't know how to explain everything—­or anything, really. How to tell him about a society where girls grow up watching their fathers have mistresses and second families on the side? Or one in which you find out one day that it is your mother who is the concubine and that you are the second family? A society that makes you say, when you are twelve or fourteen or seventeen, “No matter what, when I grow up, I am never going to be the woman that tolerates that!” But then you actually grow up and you look around, and the men who are all around you, the boys you grew up with, no matter how sweet or kind or promising they were, that somehow they have turned into the men that all our fathers were and still are. And you suddenly know what you have to accept—­that yes, no matter what you hoped for before, well, fuck, lumpar, kani nah etc., this cock road is just how my life is going to turn out also. Unless, unless . . . you can find your own way out to a different life.

“Well, if you ask me,” Albert suddenly said, when it looked like I was about to open my mouth and say something, “I think life in Singapore is great for women of Jazzy's age now.”

I could see him gesturing to the waiter on the side to bring his bottle over even more fasterly before he continued. “They get to have good jobs like hers, the freedom to dress however they want—­look at how sexy she is today! And the independence to date whomever they want! They are in the real positions of power in Singapore today, Leonard. We men are nothing but peons!”

Leonard didn't say anything—­though he did look at me a bit funny. I almost felt as if he was still half-­waiting for me to jump in and say something. And kani nah, guniang here actually half-­considered it! The one time Jazzy miraculously thinks of something that might be even halfway smart to say and Albert cuts me off. Bloody hell. I looked at Albert, who was now cheerfully chitchatting about some other cock topic and thought, I really don't want to go to circulation. So I just smiled and quickly looked away, pretending that I needed to take some tissue paper out of my handbag, and hoped that Leonard wouldn't still be looking when I actually did manage to find the stupid packet of tissues. At that moment, Albert started laughing—­even winking at me and everything. So of course Sean and I quickly laughed along with him. Luckily, at that moment the bottle arrived so Albert could just start pouring. After that, Leonard asked me a few more questions—­but those were more easy. Like, Did you grow up in Singapore? What do young ­people do for fun? That kind of no-­point question. I think, in the end, Albert was a bit relieved when I said I had to leave.

“Eh, woman! Daydreaming about me ah?”

Finally. I looked at my phone. Fucker was thirty minutes late. I made sure Kin Meng could see my third finger before opening the car door.

“Hey, don't be like that—­not nice, you know,” he said, leaning over a bit so he could pinch my cheek. “Be a good girl tonight, OK?”

Once we started driving, Kin Meng explained some things. “So I have these clients who are in town from a bunch of places. They're here to . . . aiyah, you don't need to worry your pretty little head about these things. You won't understand anyway. They are all quite fun guys—­my assistant thinks one of them is gay. And you know lah, those types of guys can feel a little weird in KTV lounges sometimes, so it's good to have a girl from the office or someone normal to just chitchat with them while all that other shit is happening, take their minds and eyes off the action a bit. So when we get there—­the guy's name is Keith. You just make sure you sit next to him and help me keep him entertained and distracted, OK?”

This one is confirm can for me lah. Jazzy here is happening, OK—­so of course I've had some gay friends in the past. Usually we just went clubbing together lah. But even if there's no dancing involved, they usually can be quite fun. “Can,” I told Kin Meng. “As long as you are buying drinks.”

“Of course I'm buying lah! Please—­don't be stupid. Hallo, we are going to the best KTV lounge in Singapore. You save up for six months also cannot afford tonight's bill, I can tell you right now.”

It's true—­I had heard that KTV places were damn fucking expensive. Sometimes one night you can end up spending tens of thousands of dollars—­and that is not even counting what you might have to pay your individual hostesses for extras and bed rental. That's why most of the guys who go are either on expense accounts or they have a super-­rich lecherous friend who's happy to pay for everything so he doesn't feel like the only dirty old man around. Kin Meng at least is one of the decent guys—­I can tell that he only goes to KTV lounges out of duty. Business is business—­if you have to go to a KTV lounge for it, then you really have no choice. But many guys out there—­I tell you—­they are just sitting around waiting for clients to come in from out of town so they can finally have some fun. When clients finally fly in, wah—­they get excited like hell. Finally! They have an excuse to go to KTV! Company will pay some more. Being a guy in Singapore—­sometimes it really is a good life, man.

“Jazzy, when we go in, don't talk to the guys—­except for Keith,” Kin Meng said as his car slowed down near a bright car park near Tiong Bahru. “Keith is OK because he's gay. Mamasan will know that tonight, he is a losing proposition. Since she confirm cannot make money on him, it's OK for you to hog his attention. But the rest of the guys? Hands off, otherwise mamasan will stare and stare and then later come and whack your face. If that happens, guniang—­even I cannot save you. The mamasan at Temple of Heaven is damn fucking power.”

As Kin Meng turned into the car park, his SUV was suddenly filled with bright neon lights. I had passed by this place many times before—­usually in a taxi going to Tiong Bahru for supper after clubbing, so I'm definitely quite mabuk at those times. And when you are busy trying not to throw up you don't really notice a lot of things around you lah—­so I never really looked twice at Temple of Heaven even though the flashing signboard outside was so large it almost covered the entire front of the three-­story building. The sign was shaped like a pagoda—­like the actual Temple of Heaven in Beijing, I guess—­and outlined in Chinese New Year red and lucky yellow neon lights. And right in the middle were the two Chinese words for Temple of Heaven: Tian Tan. And underneath that, in words that were almost as huge:
MARTELL
.

Even before Kin Meng stopped his SUV, two tall slender women wearing tight red cheongsams (and at least five-­inch high heels) ran up to open his door. “Hi, hi—­ni hao!” they both said, smiling and ushering him in. One of them came to my side to open my door too, but when she saw I wasn't a guy, her smile disappeared. Kani nah. I wanted to slap her face one time.

Kin Meng was already halfway up the steps by the time I got out of the car. Wah, these steps were crazy—­covered in thick red carpet, with a shiny gold railing on each side and big lights shining down on you from the ceiling. Taking each step up made me feel damn high-­class—­I felt like I was in one of those Hollywood movies where Marilyn Monroe is walking up the steps to an old glamorous hotel in Italy or some shit and all these guys in white suits are all around, treating her like a queen. I never thought that just walking up steps could make you feel beautiful.

“Miss? Miss?”

I turned around to see an Ah Beng in a black tuxedo chasing me up the stairs.

“Miss? Stop! Stop, please!! What are you doing here ah?” he asked.

Luckily Kin Meng bothered to wait for me at the top of the steps.

“Boy—­she's with me,” he said. The Ah Beng bowed and ran back down again.

Aiyoh. This one—­North Korea is it? Want to enter KTV lounge also get interrogated until like that.

“Jazzy—­stick close to me ah?” Kin Meng said. “Oh, and remember—­don't try to get friendly, even chitchat, with any of the girls. That kind of lesbian shit—­not allowed. They confirm will throw you out.”

The mamasan appeared as soon as Kin Meng stepped through the round doorway—­kind of like the ones I saw in the Qing Dynasty Village years ago when I went there on primary school excursion. It was quite a toot amusement park lah—­no wonder so quickly close down—­but I remember thinking those old doorways and Chinese buildings looked quite authentic.

“Huanyin, huanyin! Long time never come!” mamasan said, leaning forward so Kin Meng could kiss her on the cheek. When he mentioned a power mamasan I had expected some old, powdery, sharp-­chinned dragon lady with fierce eyes and one of those Chinese fans that you know she's just waiting to use to whack you on the head. But this woman looked young and she was quite pretty—­a bit like Gong Li. Not the Gong Li now lah but back when she was still a young hot actress and Zhang Yimou still wanted to fuck her. The fierce eyes were definitely there though.