Last Tang Standing

by Ho, Lauren

  Once we were out of the restaurant, Ralph having stayed back to speak with the chef while Valerie reapplied her face in the ladies’, I pulled Eric aside to unleash my frustration. “Your friend was a jerk today.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You saw how he was in there. Loud, rude to Valerie and me, drunk!”

  He pulled out a cigarette and stuck it, unlit, between his lips. “So?”

  “So!” I sputtered with indignation. “That’s just not the way it’s done, that’s what. You don’t act like this on a date.” I was also very disconcerted with his attitude. Birds of a feather flock together, etc.

  “And what do you want from me?”

  “An apology. An explanation for his appalling behavior. I don’t know.”

  He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. “I’m going to smoke this cigarette, then I’m going to address the situation. Do you smoke?”

  “No,” I said sulkily. “I quit.” (Although I did occasionally stress-smoke, I did not add.)

  “Then please excuse me.”

  He then walked to the other end of the parking lot and smoked his cigarette while I gradually cooled down. By the time he was back I was much calmer.

  “OK, here’s my take. Ralph’s being rude today, and I apologize on his behalf, but he’s a curmudgeonly dog most of the time. He’s a highly stressed individual, that’s why he looks so bad. I’m not telling you this to excuse his behavior, more to give you some context: the man’s been hurting from his divorce and he’s not masking his feelings even though you’re not close to him, and you’ll find that in some circles that’s about the most refreshing quality a man can have. Isn’t that what you millennials love to harp on about? Being authentic? And Ralph is not much older.”

  “Why, I mean, I don’t … well, I guess when you put it that way, we could all … you know. Well! This!” I blathered on in this fashion, flattered at being mistaken for a millennial. Then the penny dropped. “Wait—how old is Ralph Kang?”

  “Ralph? He’s thirty-nine.”

  My jaw dropped. He looked so weathered.

  “And I think your friend is old enough to decide what she wants without you policing her. Did she even put you up to this tirade?”

  “No,” I conceded. “But I could see that she was uncomfortable with his actions.”

  “Maybe you were projecting. Because from where I’m standing, those two have not come out of the restaurant in the last twenty minutes or so that we’ve been out here. I’m pretty sure they’re in the toilet getting acquainted.”

  I glanced at my watch and groaned.

  “You need to relax, Andrea Tang,” he admonished. “You’re very … tightly wound up.”

  “So I’ve been told. It’s part of my charm.”

  Without missing a beat, Eric said, “No, it’s not. You have much more going for you than your anxiety.”

  I waited for him to tell me what I had going on for a few beats, even if it were irreverent or inappropriate (“—like your crazy eyes or your hefty body odor!”; “—such as your ability to tell, from one sniff of a baby’s head, whether they will grow up lactose-intolerant/racist!”) before realizing that he had stopped talking and was looking at me expectantly. I guess the kind of witty rejoinders I craved, that people like Linda and Suresh supplied at the drop of a hat, were not everyone’s forte, and at that moment I missed Linda. “I’m glad,” I said. “So tell me about your authentic self then while we wait for those knuckleheads.”

  He chuckled. “You mean you haven’t Google stalked every last bit of available information?”

  “There, um, isn’t much about you dating back more than twelve years.” He was an older man, and having a scant digital (especially social media) trail was pretty common with men his age, was what I wanted to say. Although it did not explain why Valerie couldn’t find much on Ralph on the internet. “And not a lot on Ralph, either.”

  “Ah, my skimpy Facebook and LinkedIn profiles.” He grinned. “What can I say, I like being mysterious. And Ralph, like me, is just about as discreet as you can get, for his level of wealth. I respect that.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t do mystery; in fact I got badly bit just a few weeks ago by mystery.”

  “Oh, how so?”

  “Someone I met online stole something from me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe I can help.”

  “It’s a dead end. Never mind.” I was sorry I’d brought up Orson and tried to change the subject. “So tell me, what’s not on the WWW? Who are you?”

  “Well, it looks like those two are still in there, so clearly we’ve got time. But first things first: do you smoke cigars?” He had magicked one out of his jacket pocket.

  I nodded. He lit the cigar and passed it to me. I puffed on it a little self-consciously, coughed, and passed the cigar back.

  He cocked his head and listened to the faint music from the restaurant. “They are playing my favorite song, by Teresa Teng. That’s a good sign. Would you do me the honor?”

  He held out his hand and made a gesture for me to step into his arms. I did so after a slight hesitation. It seemed no more unusual than our previous interactions had been. Why stop now?

  We started to slow dance in the parking lot, him puffing vigorously on his cigar over my head while I listened to the beating of his heart.

  “Here’s the deal, Andrea Tang. I know you think I’m a wild card because you can’t google my life story, but I’m going to change that: I’m going to lay all my cards in front of you. I’ll do that because I trust you.” A pause as he puffed on his cigar and whirled me around before dipping me. “I am fifty-two. I’ve never been married, but I have a six-year-old daughter who is deaf and whose mom was someone I had a one-night stand with. For the past six years, I’ve been supporting them both. The mother has a strict confidentiality agreement with me. The child lives with me every other week, and I pay her mother a decent allowance to ensure they are both comfortable and the mother can further her studies at a local university. Was that too much of an information dump for your due diligence? Are you scared off?”

  I thought about it. His honesty had been so striking, his tone so matter-of-fact, that I was underwhelmed. A masterful performance. “I don’t scare easily.” Then I recalled something that had been bothering me. “There is one little thing …,” I said hesitantly.

  “Oh?” His voice had a velvety texture to it.

  “Who’s DeeDee Halim to you? Why are you living together?”

  He laughed. “Rashidah? DeeDee is a good friend, nothing more. Our parents are close. Trust me.”

  Trust me. We continued to sway in the empty parking lot. With anyone else it would have been ludicrous. “Most women would not be so forgiving of my past—I must say that one or two women I’ve tried to start a relationship with couldn’t look past my daughter’s existence. But I’ve never regretted having her in my life, not for one minute. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “Why don’t you marry the mother? You obviously care for your daughter.”

  “I’ve considered it, but it feels a little too convenient. Marriage is a beautiful institution, and I don’t want to cheapen it by entering into it just because I got someone pregnant. It would have been different if the mother and I had an existing relationship, and my daughter resulted from that. I’ve tried to do right by both of them, all the same.”

  I played devil’s advocate. “You could have just ignored her claim.”

  He raised his eyebrow. “No. My parents taught me that whatever I do in life, I must be ready to shoulder the responsibility of the consequences.”

  A dutiful man. “Where are your parents now?”

  “My mom passed away more than twenty years ago, and my father lives in Hong Kong now. I see him as often as I can.”

  “He doesn’t live with you?” I heard the judgment in my voice.

  “No, but that’s because he’s remarried and I would think his second wife, my stepsister,
and half brothers would prefer I don’t see him so often. Anyway, he’s got Alzheimer’s, so I don’t think he even recognizes me anymore.” He stopped moving, gave me a rueful smile. “I’m no spring chicken, Andrea. The day approaches when I won’t have my parents with me, and it is sad.”

  He’s filial, my mother’s voice screeched excitedly in my head. “Shut up,” I muttered.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Er, nothing.” I blushed.

  We had just been standing there with his arms around me. He let go of me gently. We smiled at each other.

  “I don’t think those two are coming out anytime soon,” I marveled, a little surprised that I had forgotten about Valerie and Ralph.

  “We should have dinner next week, instead of lunch,” he said.

  After the emotional wringer I put him through, there was no way I could say no. Dinner it was.

  1:05 a.m. New strip from TLTS. Water sends out a coded message via the local paper’s Lonely Hearts column, asking for Rhean to meet him at a local bar, time and date given. He waits for her to turn up, with no idea if she’s seen the ad.

  It’s a long wait, with only beer to keep him warm. Water gives up. But just before he leaves, she appears. Water is struck by her face. It is not a classically beautiful one by any measure, too hard. Only the eyes are soft, like gray stars. Her hair curling masses around that face in flames of red. Trembling, he asks her who she is.

  “Don’t you recognize me?” she asks.

  “No … I’m afraid not.”

  “Ron, it’s Louise.” She smiles, sadly. “But you can call me Rhean now, I suppose.”

  Turns out Water’s wife did not die in the freak accident at their lab but was spirited away by the bosses at the lab and experimented on. When she escaped, she went looking for him and caught him in the act of gutting a well-known hate preacher. Instead of being horrified, she was overjoyed to see him again and wanted to reach out to him so that they could meet, but only in a public space. Just in case.

  Water stares at her, thunderstruck, as memories from his past resurface. He walks toward her to embrace her, when they realize, for some reason, this is a physical impossibility—they are repelling each other.

  “Like repels like,” he says, comprehension dawning on him.

  They stare at each other with horror.

  OMG! Just let them have that moment, Suresh, you monster!

  24

  Sunday 24 April

  Have not seen Linda for so long. Hate to admit it but miss her. Can’t even remember why we were in a fight.

  Oh yeah, she’s a rude harpy.

  But she’s my harpy. And didn’t we all, like Monsieur Ralph, have our bad days? Don’t we all hurt each other from time to time?

  Decided to text her to see how she was doing.

  You alive? X

  She replied immediately.

  Yeah *tree emoji*

  Heartened, I typed:

  So guess what, went out with Val and these two guys I met with her, Eric and Ralph at a book club.

  So I’ve heard. Val couldn’t keep her mouth shut. So how was your date with Musty and Fusty?

  I giggled. Which is which?

  Can’t tell them apart? Linda texted.

  Eric thinks I’m a millennial! *grin emoji*

  You look so young, so I’m not surprised, Linda admitted generously. The ice, it seemed, was beginning to thaw.

  “But you are a millennial,” Jason told me, later, in my apartment. He had come over to hang out with me after I sent out an SOS on the group chat for a “drinks-free evening.” “You’re what? Thirty? Thirty-one?”

  What a darling! Someone should marry Jason right away. “Thirty-three. Ish.”

  He did the math and started googling the birth year guidelines for millennials. “So you were born in the mid-eighties. That means you’re officially one of us, according to Pew Research and the US Census, which puts the cutoff point at 1981.”

  Felt the existential crisis of being a millennial hit me in the gut. Dear Diary, I am not good with social media. Facebook is already a minefield, and I use Instagram and Twitter purely as stalking/ fact-finding tools. And look at how my attempt at online dating went.

  “It’s OK,” Jason said, soothingly. “You don’t have to be number one at everything.”

  11:55 a.m. Wrong, Jason, wrong. Thy challenge is accepted. Have just ordered bestselling e-books written by fellow peers more zeitgeisty than me: Instagram for New Influencers, Reddit-Ready!: Forums for Success, How to Break the Internet with Your Latest Selfie, and Tweeting for the Modern Jezebel and will finish these e-books tonight. I must not let my generation down.

  Monday 25 April

  1:45 a.m. Will just have to let the entire generation down. These e-books are barely readable. Nobody can spell anymore. We are all doomed.

  7:05 a.m. Ooh, text!

  Andrea, I can’t wait to see you when I’m back from Dubai. Would you please do me the honor of having dinner with me this Saturday at Les Deux?

  Not a hashtag, acronym, emoji, slang word, abbreviation, contraction, typo, or bad punctuation or grammar in sight. What a man.

  9:15 a.m. Just got an earful from a client because I, or rather one of my minions, forgot to capitalize one letter of a company’s name on a board resolution, which was still in draft form, by the way.

  Well, just wait till the lawyers of the Gen Z cohort are unleased upon the world. Forgetting to capitalize will be the least of anyone’s concerns.

  25

  Tuesday 26 April

  One of those weeks at work that makes me wish the zombie apocalypse would come already.

  Thursday 28 April

  Put out one fire only to have another one pop up on another file. According to a carefully worded report from the Luxembourg law firm working on the same deal, there was a slight hiccup with one of the proposed acquisitions by our client, a Singaporean private equity firm called Sungguh Capital. But in the hierarchy of clients, the one whose closing I’m working on has bigger money balls, and the deadline for the closing is tomorrow, so I red-flagged it in my inbox.

  Out of (morbid) curiosity I opened the Flagged folder, just to see what items I had pending.

  OMG.

  Friday 29 April

  7:15 p.m. Done. Going to a seedy karaoke dive bar in Katong with Suresh, who was involved in a separate, equally hellish closing that was done the evening before. Dive bar was Suresh’s suggestion. The two of us look like extras from an undead movie because of our respective closings, but it’s OK because the dive bar will be populated by older men and it’s very dark, making me look fresh and vigorous in comparison. He gets me.

  1:10 a.m. Got hit on left and right and bought zero drinks the entire night, although I’ve been very careful not to binge-drink as I have a date in less than twenty-four hours and don’t want to balloon. Am living the dream. A dream where the bar is set very, very low.

  Saturday 30 April

  10:04 a.m. Up early. Strange. I didn’t even think I was that excited about going on a date with Eric Deng. Who knew.

  10:35 a.m. HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR.

  11:07 a.m. Going shopping, as have nothing to wear.

  11:15 a.m. Texted Valerie to come with, but when I checked her Last Seen time stamp, it seems she’s not looked at WhatsApp for the past thirty hours. Wonderful.

  1:20 p.m. Bought a dress. Fine, three dresses. And LV bag. Must accessorize to impress. Plus the bag can be used in my professional life, thus is multifunctional and will pay for itself over time.

  6:45 p.m. Showered, exfoliated, depilated. Staring at the slinky, backless or cleavage-revealing clothes I bought. All are terrible choices, too date-clothesy when really the image I want to project is: yes, I am attractive, but would you and I be better off if I were to become your lawyer?

  7:05 p.m. Doorbell! Shit! Must find some item of clothing that is black and body-hugging but has a lawyerly hem!

  11:55 p.m. Back from Les Deux. Interesting evening. The
whole thing about conducting myself properly with Eric Deng, him being a possible client and all, gave the date an electric charge of the forbidden, i.e., sexual. Also maybe because lots of Montrachet wine, haha. The second bottle was all that was needed for me to shift gears. Suddenly the age gap is not that big a deal. We both like oysters, for example, and democracy (Eric’s family fled China in the ’60s). Surely that is a good enough basis on which to start a relationship.

  We talked about many things: his family history (well-connected, powerful and rich, but lost everything when they fled, although they quickly rebuilt their fortunes in Indonesia) and mine (migrant laborers on both sides, clawed their way into middle class); our common interests (politics, human rights, and poetry); favorite food and drink (Sichuanese and Malaysian food for both of us (!)), pet peeves (him: people who go barefoot on commercial planes—well, on the rare occasions when Eric has to fly commercial business; mine: kept wisely silent, as there were too many to list without seeming unstable).

  At one point during the dinner, he put down his fork and said, “You know, I’ve got a confession to make.”

  “What is it?” I said, immediately wary. Can’t say I hadn’t been waiting for this. It had been too easy, the last info dump.