Sarong Party Girls

by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

  But then later in the afternoon the asshole texted again. “Hey, it’s Roy. Would love to see you. Let me know when I can take you out.”

  Ahh. Well, I guess this was not bad—­I was playing hard to get without even knowing it! This was the first time I could see my tootness actually producing a result. I made a mental note: next time more toot equals more better. Even though I saw the text when I was sitting at my desk, shaking my leg, waiting for Albert to come back from some long liquor lunch, I purposely waited until after I’d finished dinner with Sharon before texting back: “Tomorrow night. Maybe.” Right away, the fucker damn steam! He texted back immediately, “Let me take you out for drinks. Que Pasa, 8 pm?”

  So I guess we were going on a date.

  Before Roy texted me, I had actually been thinking that this guy—­maybe it’s better to write him off. It’s not as if he’s super handsome, and hallo, I still couldn’t forget his hairy nose. But even more ­important—­I don’t exactly know what he does! All I know is that he works on an oil refinery—­and we all know how uncouth those guys can be. And seriously, what kind of future is that? It’s not like he’s some guy who works in bank or is a lawyer or some shit at that level.

  I know how this must make me sound. And honestly, when we were all growing up and were still naive young girls with stars (and not yet Gucci logos) in our eyes, I would see women who are so obviously going after guys just for status and really look down on them. What kind of woman is so pathetic to chase after a husband just for the kind of handbag, car or condo they can buy them? What about love? Shouldn’t that be the most important thing? The only thing?

  But that was before Gavin. I mean, the thing is, you can go around being as trusting and sweet as you want and believe in the goodness of the world and ­people and all that. But if you are a not rich, not that smart (school-­smart anyway) girl whose best asset—­let’s face it—­is a nice sweet face and not bad body, then being naive is only going to land you in some cock situation in the end.

  I still remember career day in school—­in my school this was quite a joke lah. Career? Please. Talk what kind of cock? Many of the girls there are probably going to be married and pregnant before they reach twenty-­three and the guys—­aiyoh, don’t even get me started. Unless squatting by a longkang and smoking a cigarette is an actual skill that you can put on your CV, then please, these guys—­all no hope lah.

  When I think about it really hard though, of course it would be nice to have a career, one that I like even. I mean, marrying an ang moh guy is nice and all but it would be nice, at the end of the day, to have something to call my own. From seeing all the marriages around me, even if you marry a good catch, no matter how trustworthy or solid the guy is, you still never know all the things, all the girls, that can happen along the way to make his heart turn—­whether at the end, no matter how good a wife, a mother, you’ve tried to be, you will somehow end up being the one left all by yourself.

  The problem is that I don’t know what I would actually be good at. Imo has always been into fashion so working at Club 21 was always her dream; Fann loves dogs and her dad always told her that it’s most stable to be your own boss—­unless you’re really fucking toot, you will never want to fire yourself—­so she knew early on that she wanted to start a pet business. And Sher—­Sher is a bit more like me, but much less aimless when it comes to her career. Even though she (like me) felt that she doesn’t have any obvious talent that can be turned into a career, she just started working in a cafe after we left school and somehow eventually turned that into a job where she now is an assistant manager at a restaurant! Not one of those atas restaurants lah—­but one of those neighborhood British-­y family restaurants that families go on weekends type. It’s not, say, a very sexy or name-­brand (or even good) restaurant but still, it’s stable—­and it’s a job that makes her happy.

  Guniang here? Even though I thought for many years about it, I wasn’t sure what I would be good at—­I mean, really good at. Yes, I’m very sociable and I like talking to ­people. Guys especially always say that I make them feel very fun, funny, smart and comfortable—­that I’m sweet and very easy to hang out with, especially for drinks or dinner, that kind of thing. I tell you, when we had career day and had to list out our best talents and I wrote these down—­kani nah, the main thing I could think of that this would be suitable for is being one of those KTV lounge girls or some bar hostess! Aiyoh. How—­like that?

  Thinking about it all made me realize that I’m very organized though, which is what led me to being an executive assistant, I guess. And now that I’m doing this job I realize that I’m actually very good at not just organizing ­people’s lives and days but also organizing events. Albert already trusts me now with putting together department promotion or birthday parties and holiday lunches and shit like that. So—­who knows? Maybe one day.

  But this kind of thing—­think about it too much right now is wasting time only lah. What’s the point of chasing unlikely dreams like that? The main thing we must focus on now is finding an ang moh husband! Hallo, guniang here is twenty-­six already, you know—­no time to play anymore. Which is why even though Roy was still a bit of a question mark, I figured, I might as well go on one date and see how. Also, free drinks is free drinks lah. Guniang here never says no to that.

  Even though I was only few minutes late getting to Que Pasa (walking up cobblestoned Emerald Hill, along the uneven historic tiled sidewalks to get to this bar is always damn harrowing), Roy was already there. The fucker was so eager he even reserved a table in the back room. So prepared? Desperate is it?

  Maybe this was true lah, because when he saw me walk in, he quickly jumped up, hugged me and tried to kiss me on lips and all. (Luckily that one I already anticipated—­I fasterly turned my face so he only kena my cheek instead.)

  “How are you doing?” he asked, grinning really broadly.

  “Fine,” I replied, purposely just smiling a very little bit while sitting down.

  “I . . . I realize I don’t even know what you like to drink,” he said. “Although I seem to recall you were open to a lot of things . . . would you like a red? Or white?”

  “Bubbly,” I said.

  Fucker looked like he didn’t want to argue so he quickly ordered a bottle of cava.

  “Have you eaten? Do you want anything?”

  I was starting to get a little suspicious—­why was he being so nice to me? I just shook my head and he waved the waitress away.

  This kind of date, I actually have never been on many times before. Usually when I meet the kind of ang moh I go on dates with, usually we have already talk-­talked a bit over beers and playing darts at some pub so we at least know each other a bit already. Since I usually at least try not to ruin prospects right away by opening the kitchen too early, usually on a first date like this, I still haven’t hooked up with the guy lah—­so, everything is still mystery mystery a bit. (Make them steam!)

  The ang mohs I quickly hook up all the way with, I often never keep in touch with them. Usually what’s happened is some mistake at the end of the night, when I’ve had too much to drink and the guy somehow ends up looking quite cute or hot in the dark or some shit. The next day, it’s just better to forget them and hope they forget me so it’s not so awkward overall. (Aiyah—­to them, Asian girls all look the same. So as long as I don’t give them my phone number—­and usually they are so mabuk they sure don’t remember my name—­then confirm everything is OK lah. Even if I see them at club again, they usually don’t remember me.)

  But here, like that how? Roy had already sampled everything. Some more he has this guniang’s phone number. And he confirm remembers me—­and everything that happened. I don’t even know what to talk to him about, since this oil refinery guy is not an ang moh I would actually arrow in a club with dating in mind.

  “What do you do?” I asked him.

  “I�
�m here with Chevron,” he said. “I’m one of the ­people brought in to oversee managing the distribution of oil. It’s . . . oh, never mind, I shan’t bore you with the details. And believe me, they are boring!”

  He laughed a little bit so I smiled again. Just following along lah. Besides, I was starting to like him a bit more. A manager must be quite a big deal right? At least he wasn’t one of those foremen on the rigs. Maybe he even had an office and all. In fact, he looked like he just came from work and he was wearing a white collared shirt—­no tie—­and nice tailored pants. If he has to dress like this for work then maybe he’s not so unimportant? Maybe later I should ask him for a business card so I can confirm what exactly it is that he does.

  “What about you?” he asked. “I realized . . .” he added, pausing. Was the fucker actually blushing? Kani nah. Maybe he was actually a nice guy after all. I tried to squint a bit, to see whether he was pretending or not.

  “Well, I realized that we didn’t quite have a chance to talk that night,” he said, really blushing now. His skin was so fair I could actually see it turn red. “And I’m really really sorry for that. I really never do get that pissed. I’ve only just moved to Singapore, the boys at work were taking me out on the town to see the nightlife, the company was buying drinks, it had gotten very late and I saw you and . . . well, anyway. I just thought you looked really sexy in those jeans—­and beautiful of course! I’d never danced so closely with such a beautiful Asian girl. I really want you to know that I never do that sort of thing right when I meet a girl. And you . . . you really do seem like a nice girl. I’m sorry.”

  Aiyoh—­he was sounding damn sincere. If he’s acting, he confirm can win a prize, man. If he’s not acting, then he’s really damn fucking blind. Nice girl? Walao. Who is he talking about? But if he thinks so, then this could work in my favor.

  I decided maybe it might help if I started acting the part. So I looked down and tried to act as if I was embarrassed a bit. When I looked back up, the fucker looked happy and all. OK lah. This one—­is maybe can. In fact, when I looked closer at him, he looked like maybe he had even waxed his nose. So at least he seemed to have some awareness of lousy things that need to be changed.

  “OK,” I said. “I work at the New Times. It’s all right. Not bad hours, decent pay. I like my boss.”

  “Wow, a real media person!” he said, looking quite impressed. “I’ll drink to that!”

  So we toasted and then talk-­talked some more. And when the bottle was empty, he ordered some more and some cheese and meats for us to share.

  “You know,” he said, “until I moved here, I led quite a sheltered life in the UK. Until I joined Chevron, I didn’t travel much. BP never sent me anywhere. But here, Asia is just eye-­opening.” I just smiled. This, he had actually told me earlier tonight when I first sat down. Repeating already? Maybe he was getting sloshed.

  “And Asian women . . .” he said. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  Of course I nodded.

  “I’d never been with an Asian girl until that night,” he said. “I mean, of course I’ve been with women—­not that many, but not too few, mind you! But you Asians—­whoo . . . just, wow! Your skin, your eyes, your hair—­my god!”

  Aiyoh, this kind of obvious thing also must say. But I don’t quite understand why he telling me all this. He’s trying to make me feel special is it? Say my skill very good is it? Kani nah. Maybe I should fasterly go home.

  “It’s getting late,” I said.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “I’m sorry—­may I send you home?”

  This one—­is very nice offer. Usually it’s the Singaporean guys who care so much about sending you home—­like they think that if you somehow don’t make it home safe, your mum is going to come to their doorstep and hantam them or something. But I didn’t really want Roy to see where I live. (Even though his condo is not, say, super nice, it is at least condo—­not a lousy government flat.)

  “No worries,” I said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.

  When the waitress brought the bill over, Roy pulled out his wallet—­the leather had that telltale crisscross woven pattern and all. Bottega Veneta. Fucking expensive. Good, good. He confirm has some potential.

  So, when Roy found a taxi for me, I decided I should probably give him a signal before I go. I pulled him close to my body—­walao, I could feel that the fucker was getting a bit steam—­and looked up at his face, smiling. This time when he kissed me, he wasn’t too slobbery and messy. Actually, it was quite nice and sweet and I kissed him back a little fiercely. Good—­give him something shiok to think about tonight.

  Right when his breathing was starting to get damn heavy I quickly cut it off.

  “Goodnight,” I said, waving and jumping into the taxi. Fucker just stood there waving and waving until my taxi was at least one traffic light away.

  I guess this guy . . . is maybe can consider. At least I should go out with him one more time and see how. Oil refining business is not the dream goal for Jazzy lah, but if he’s a manager and all, maybe he’s quite power. Besides, he at least has the money to buy Bottega! Got hope.

  Taxi uncle was quiet the whole time after I told him where to bring me. These taxi uncles sometimes are like that. They hate expats so much that if they see Singaporean girls with ang mohs they sometimes act damn snobby, even give us mean looks and all. Like, hello—­even if I wasn’t a sarong party girl, do you actually think I’m going to throw my life away on a taxi uncle? Uncle, please—­you never had chance to begin with lah. So stop acting like these ang mohs are actually stealing your women.

  “Uncle, drop me here can?” I said, when we got to the bus stop near my block. Easier lah. Also, I didn’t mind having some time to walk and think about the evening before I had to deal with my mum and her “Ah Huay ah!” nonsense again.

  But then, bloody hell. The moment I got out of taxi, I heard “Oi—­Jazzy!”

  Kani nah. It was Seng, that smelly Ah Beng, sitting on the plastic orange seat of the bus stop.

  “My god, tolong—­what you want now?” I said, trying to walk faster so maybe he wouldn’t follow.

  But of course the fucker even more fasterly got up and started following me. “Eh—­don’t walk so fast lah,” he said. “Why so snobby tonight? I so nice all, walk you home so you don’t kena rape and all.”

  When I didn’t say anything, Seng just lit a cigarette. “You tonight go where?” he asked.

  “Your business, is it?” I asked.

  “True, true—­I know lah, uncle here got the wrong color skin,” he said, laughing. “Guniang, just for you I can consider that Michael Jackson surgery. How? If my skin turns white, then you want me or not?”

  Fucker was even making kissing noises and all. Kani nah. This Ah Beng was really too much.

  “My god—­you!” I said, whacking him on the arm. Fucker was so stunned he almost dropped his cigarette. “Talk cock lah!” I added. Seng just laughed.

  I guess he decided to stop talking, because we managed to walk quietly for a bit—­so quietly that I could actually hear the night crickets. I remember sometimes when we were young, Seng and I used to sit at the bus stop and smoke until early early in the morning. Both of us had nowhere to go, we had no money to do anything fun. And both of us didn’t want to go home. We talked a lot lah, but sometimes, back then, no need to talk could also be quite shiok. Just to sit there, smoke smoke smoke, dream about the future, listen to crickets . . . Where did those simple days go?

  But more important, how come Seng is this old already and he’s still sitting at the bus stop until late at night, doing this kind of kampong shit?

  We didn’t say anything else until we reached my block. “OK, goodnight,” I said, waving at him.

  Seng just nodded, stopping so he could squat by the longkang near the lift and finish his ciggie. Like I said before—�
�I really don’t know when he became so Ah Beng. Whatever lah. It’s his life.

  He was still squatting and smoking and staring at me when the lift came and I got inside. As the doors slowly closed, the fucker was still looking.

  chapter 11

  “We need to talk.”

  Louis whole life has never said words like that to me. So, when I got his text the next morning at work, I knew it must be about Imo and Fann. I fasterly canceled after-­work drinks with the girls that night. I know they were going to complain—­Fann kept saying that she had something to tell us but didn’t want to text it to us. Some more—­it was Thursday night! Almost Friday already—­time to start revving up for chionging! But to get a text like that from Louis, I knew I really had no choice.

  Jazzy here was feeling chio that day—­still a bit high from the date with Roy last night, probably. The guy even texted me half an hour after I got in the taxi, making sure I got home safe, saying he hoped to see me again soon. Wah—­I guess my calculated standoffishness worked! So today—­this guniang was feeling damn good.

  I put on a new sleeveless workdress, quite short and tight (but not like Orchard Towers tight), plus, I threw on a skinny belt to make my waist look smaller. (Imo’s fashion discount sometimes is quite power.) Although, dressing up for work today made me angry with Sharon all over again. Just thinking about how our dinner ended the other night still made my blood boil. So ungrateful! Guniang here was just trying to help her, and she just shot me right down. That woman—­I tell you—­is really too much. But I was still feeling so good about Roy that I decided—­aiyah, heck care Sharon! And heck care Kin Meng and his stupid KTV lounge and all his sleazy colleagues and those disgusting girls! Today Jazzy here must dress lively lively sexy sexy—­energy a bit. This is how it’s supposed to be done! I even blasted Rick Astley while I was putting on my clothes, until my mother hammered on the door, screaming and all. “Ah Huay ah! You want ­people in Johor Bahru to hear your ang moh song is it?”