Condomnation

Maybe it's because I'm Asian.

 We were down to the last roll of toilet paper in our house, so I ventured out to get some more. I live about five minutes from the nearest Coles, and so I headed there and bought a roll of 18 Kleenex rolls because they were on sale.

The moment I left Coles, my head started plotting my journey home. The main criteria for my path of choice? As little human contact as possible. So that I don't bump into anyone I know.

Why is that?

Imagine if you bumped into a friend at the supermarket. After the cursory greetings and small talk has dwindled, your bored mind starts to wander down to their shopping basket.

 "Hmmm. Milk. Cereal. Bread. Eggs. Oh, instant noodles. And laundry powder." - and because we are all secretly insecure bitches inside - "Look -*snigger* - he bought Home Brand."

(I love Home Brand. Some of my best buys are from Home Brand.)

Then suddenly you see the toilet rolls. The slightest scrunch, discreet yet noticeable, appears on your face. Eew, he poops.

Your friend now notices your eyes trailing into their shopping basket, judging their private life. They see you imagining them on the toilet bowl, going about their big business. They try to close the door on you, but they can't because the door is in your mind.

There is a subtle nervous swing of the body and basket away from you, and they put on their best fake smile and then hurriedly say their goodbyes, quickly heading to the checkout counters, abandoning the rest of the things that they were actually there to buy.

At least that's how it goes on in my head.

I don't know what it is. Everybody poops. That's natural. Yet somehow to me, being found buying toilet paper is like, I don't know, being discovered buying condoms. By your strict Convent nun school teacher.

Karen tells me that the Australian men here buy their condoms with a swagger. Yup, they will think, the smug smile on their faces obvious as they looked around the shop and then at the cashier, I am getting some. Look at me, everyone, I am getting laid. 

Where as if I were to buy condoms, I think I'd be more like, I'm sorry I'm having sex, unknown checkout chick. Please don't judge me.  Come on credit card, swipe, swipe, swipe! No, screw the plastic bag, oh wait a minute, double bag it!   

(Okay, so that's actually not true. I won't actually be using my credit card at all. What, you'd think I'd leave an electronic trace of me buying condoms?)

Random Memories: Eight Years Old

I'm not sure if you've experienced this as a child, when your parents send you into the shops to get the groceries?

I mean, day-to-day items are fine, right, but, you know, certain other things are not.

I remember going into the local convenience store in our Taman (suburb)and amongst the other things I was sent to get, were some urm, sanitary pads.

I remember the Indian checkout auntie glaring at me when she picked up the box of Sanitas - "Oi, boy, you no shame ar you, buying all these things?"


I looked at her blankly, not quite understanding what there was to be ashamed of. I had no idea what were in the boxes, or why I should be embarrassed about the contents.

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And then there was the time when I was buying condoms from a 7-Eleven in Malaysia as a medical student for a tutorial on Sexual Health. I was with a guy friend and my sister then, and I nervously eyed the selection on display before choosing a few, hurriedly putting them on the counter.

The tudunged (head-scarfed) Malay girl behind the counter stared at the condoms first and then blinked at me incredulously for awhile, before picking them up like they had AIDS, to swipe the barcodes.

"Eee... jijiklah..." (Eew... that's gross) she said, just loud enough for the people in the next street to hear.

Her service with a scowl said it all. Rapist.

Now you see why I am scarred?

Sunday Night Stragglers

We were all out to see C tonight at a Veludo's in St Kilda. I arrived too late to witness the set as I was coming in from work, but we hung around and downed some drinks while listening to the artist he was opening for.

We walked out into the pleasant Sunday night on Acland Street and were deciding where to go next.

Karen suggested Claypots, a seafood restaurant. There was the slightest of hesitations amongst the six guys there, as the conservative China man in all of us went "Really ah? Another expensive dinner ah?"

We trudged to the restaurant, and C and a few others peeled off to put their instruments away. M and Karen and I went ahead of them into Claypots.

Claypots was an interesting restaurant made up of two shophouses - one shop housed the restaurant proper while the other was a bar/waiting area with cushioned benches lining two sides of the room.

I was surprised as my door was opened for me, but even more surprised when I saw the man holding a clarinet. A drum was set up in the small space next to him, and a piano abutted the bar.

We were told that there would be a twenty minute wait because there were seven of us, and so we sat in the waiting area. Secretly, I was quite hungry and a little impatient.

I sat down next to Karen, and then the magic happened.

The Magicians

Allow me to describe the magicians. The clarinetist had matted grey hair, with a Charlie Chaplinesque moustache and was almost as slim as the instrument he held in his hand. The drummer looked like a wise old principal - his half-moon glasses dangling precariously over his doting grandfatherly face. The pianist and main singer was a lady with a smoky voice who reminded me of a female Rod Stewart. Only more talented.

They all looked in their sixties or seventies and we thought they had nothing to say to us. Boy, were we proven wrong.

They were such a tight three piece band - the clarinetist seemed to have the lungs of an Olympic swimmer as his fingers danced along his instrument, sounding out celestial notes; the drummer hit his snare, top hat and cowbell with the assurance and fluency that bordered on arrogance, and the combined dexterity of the pianist's finger and her distinctive husky voice stirred something in our souls that night.

The rest of the gang finally joined us and we all sat on the benches, tapping our feet and slapping our thighs to the blues/swing music that was permeating the bar. The magicians then each took their turn to wow us with their tricks - they all broke into individual solos in the middle of their songs. The drummer in particular was jaw-droppingly impressive. Each confident strike against the many clangs and crashes of his drum set resonated something almost primal in us - their captive audience that night.

We were so mesmerised that when our waiter came to told us our table was ready, we remained glued to our benches, waiting for the music to finish.

The Good, The Better And The Ugly

We reluctantly left the waiting area into the restaurant, and can we just say - the food was mind-blowing as well. We had a choice wine with our fusion-style seafood - the chilli crab was really delicious and the shell  surprisingly soft, the laksa-styled Malay seafood claypot was good to the last drop and the walnut-crusted duckfish was the ugliest, largest, most satisfying (I'm running out of superlatives here) fish I've eaten in a while.

Chilli crab and mussels.
And expectant hungry boy. 

Big Fish. Small Fist.

Here's how much he loved the fish.

The Aftermath.

Caring. Intensively.

He reminds the doctor of Stephen Hawking, his head leaning unsupported against the large chair. They were sitting him out of bed to avoid pressure sores.

He was a graphic designer before all this happened. Ten months of inexplicable, progressive weakness had brought him to a neurologist in country Victoria who decided he needed an MRI.

It was the radiologist who picked up on the MRI scanner that this gentleman was so weak he was not supporting his airway, and who knows how long he was obstructing for before they found him and put a tube down his throat and hooked him up to a breathing machine.

He had been in intensive care for many days now, his breathing dependent on the ventilator working faithfully next to him. A tracheostomy tube sticks out of his neck awkwardly, and the rest of his body is like a roadmap with lines sticking out from his neck, nose, wrists and bladder, translating signs of life into measurable numbers.

The doctor looks at him and all he can see is his patient. He sees the diagnoses that is yet to be made, he sees the tests that need to be ordered, he reads the numbers on his charts that tell him the patient does not have a fever, that his blood pressure was holding and that his blood counts were all normal.

The patient was quite drowsy for the first few days, but he was more awake now. In a terrible way, he was alive, yes, but he was being kept alive. The tracheostomy tube keeps his lungs working, his nutrition is delivered by a nasogastric tube going into his stomach, his bladder drains into a bag without him having to stand up in a toilet. He is unable to communicate because of the tracheostomy tube - breathing takes priority over speaking for now.

He is understandably frustrated, a prisoner to the illness keeping him here, but instead of bars, there are hospital curtains and railed beds; instead of  prison wardens there are the watchful doctors and nurses. He has pulled out his nasogastric tube countless times in protest, much to their dismay.

********************************

The doctors and nurses have tried to be creative in helping him communicate. There is an electronic board with all the letters of the alphabet, and objects ('Doctor', 'Nurse', 'Toilet') and also a small whiteboard and marker when the electronic fails.

The gaggle of doctors stood over him patiently yesterday evening as he looked like he was desperately trying to communicate something to them.

'Count. My. Head. 1. 2. 3. 4.' was the repeated message after half an hour, almost eerie in its mystery.

The doctors tried to probe for a meaning, but the patient finally dismisses them with a roll of his eyes and a wave of his hand when he realised he wasn't getting through to them.  It soon became apparent to the doctors that he was confused, and so they started him on some anti-confusion medications.

*********************************

"He's pulled out his nasogastric tube while I was at dinner," says the nurse, exasperated.

It was a Sunday evening. Big band music crooned gently from the radio that they had placed next to him to drown out the monotonous beeps and bells of the machines surrounding him. The morning nurses had reported that he seemed less confused to them today.

The doctor walks up to him and says "Look, Michael, I know that it is a terrible thing to have that tube put into your nose and down the back of your throat, but while you're on this tracheostomy tube, there's no other way of getting some food into you. Do you understand?"

Michael's eyes pulled up almost defiantly at him. He motions for the electronic board.

"H. O. W. M. U. C. H. D. O. I. C. O. S. T." came the message from his weakened arms.

The doctor is puzzled by this almost existential question. "I'm sorry Michael, how much do you cost? As in how much does it cost to keep you alive? Well, you are in intensive care, Michael,  and it is quite exp..."

No, he shakes his head.

"H. O. W. M. U. C. H. D. O. U. C. O. S. T."

He taps on the 'Doctor' button.

"Oh, how much do I cost? Well. Michael," the doctor starts, uncertain how to answer him, "The government pays for me to look af..."

Michael starts pointing to himself and then to the doctor.

"H. O. W. M. U. C. H. D. O. U. C. O. S. T." Point. Point.

The doctor thinks he is still a little confused, and sighs - "I'm sorry Michael, I don't quite understand what you mean. I know it's fr...."

Suddenly it dawns upon the doctor what Michael was trying to say, and he breaks into a smile.

He turns to the nurse and says, "Sister, I am not sure if I am reading this correctly, but I think that Michael here is trying to bribe me."

Michael's face bursts into a large smile, nodding he had guessed right. The nurse bursts out into laughter and the doctor is taken aback by this unexpected joke.

"Well, Michael, I don't think you can afford him really," chirped the nurse, mock-chidingly.

Something shifted in the air that evening. The doctor notices out of the corner of his eyes the subtle movement of Michael's foot tapping along to the rhythm of the big band swing. The nurse even managed a little jiggle to the music as she walked past him, causing him to smile widely again.

Although his face scrunched a little from the discomfort, there was minimal resistance from Michael this time as the doctor fed the tube through his nose again.

The doctor waits for the nurse to leave, looks both ways and then leans down to Michael, and whispers conspiratorily into his ear - "For 50 dollars, I will break you out of this joint. How about that?"

Michael gasps a silent chuckle, and nods enthusiastically. For a few minutes, he feels human again.

The Plane Heard Around The World

I was at work yesterday, and a big part of our work actually involves documentation. A few times during the day, many workers - be they doctors, nurses, ward clerks or visiting policemen - would write down the date, and suddenly reel a little in realisation, almost all eerily saying the exact same thing -

'Oh, has it been ten years already?'

September 11 2001. A day forever etched into our collective memories, as citizens of the world.

Whether American, Australian or Malaysian or wherever it is we call home, everyone remembers where they were the day the two planes crashed into The Twin Towers.

My consultant remembers how he had just welcomed his newborn son into the world a week ago to the day. He knew that something was wrong when he switched on the television that morning and every single channel was showing the same thing.

Some of us were kids when it happened. A policeman remarked how he was in Year 8 (fourteen) when it happened, and woke up oblivious to how the world had changed as he slept, but knew something was wrong when he heard all his classmates talking about the 'terrorists'.

We were sitting at home that day, the family watching TV over dinner. Dad was in charge of the remote control and was lazily surfing the channels on our satellite TV when he stopped on CNN. We watched curiously as there was breaking news about how a plane had accidentally flown into one of the Twin Towers in New York.

We all sat up, curious window onlookers of what was happening halfway around the world from us. We had assumed all we were seeing was some misguided pilot who had flown a little too low, into the path of a tall building. An unfortunate accident.

We were still trying to process what we were seeing from the cameras trained upon The Twin Towers, when the second plane hit.

We couldn't believe our eyes, and curiosity gave way to fear as it dawned upon us that what we were seeing was no accident.

We continued watching, mouths wide open, as the buildings started to collapse slowly. The images of people jumping off the buildings or the gray cloudstorm of destruction engulfing the fleeing New Yorkers below will be forever etched in my memory.

Everyone at work remarked how surreal it was - as if they were watching a movie.

I remember my little sister, sixteen then, watching the TV, her fearful tears streaming as the carnage unfolded before us, helpless witnesses to a day that changed the world forever.

Hope and Security seemed to crumble along with the two towers. It seemed that today, some ten years ago, the bad guys had won.

Extra! Extra! Read All About It!

One of my favourite habits as a young teenager before afternoon school session started was to lounge around the house in the morning reading the newspapers over breakfast.

We used to have the New Straits Times (NST) delivered daily to our doorstep. It was the more serious of the available newspapers in Malaysia, kind of like The Age or The Australian, and about the same layout and size.

There is something nostalgic about the feel of the newspaper spread in your hands - the rustling noise as you turn the pages or fold it over your lap, the way your thumbs darken by the ink rubbing off on your hands and, of course, that oh-so-satisfying crackling noise it makes as you snap-straighten the paper.

Reading the newspapers was a habit we picked up from Dad. It was a morning ritual for him - Dad in his wheelchair, newspaper in hand, breakfast at arms' length. He would always be reading the main news while we picked up the lifestyle and sports sections.

One day, out of nowhere, Dad made this stunning observation of our newspaper reading habits.

'You boys ah! Only read comics and stories about people being raped or sex stories only! Read something else lah!'

I glanced up slowly from my newspaper with a disinterested Yeah, whatever, Da-a-ad look but deep down I was like Shit! He's got us figured out! Quick! Read something important like, uh, the financial news!

I must say it was a scarily accurate description about what we were actually reading in the newspapers, but hey, what would you expect from an apathetic teenager whose only concern were his raging hormones and his second childhood?

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The comics were the only reasons for newspapers to exist, as far as we were concerned. Sometimes I wish we could just throw away the rest of the newspaper, or that it was just one big comic newspaper.

I had a peculiar habit when it came to reading my comics. After familiarising myself with the comics in the NST through the years, I would always read what I thought were the less-funny comics first and saving the funny ones for the last. So my eyes would travel in a rehearsed way, first over Peanuts, Ferd'nand,  Blondie, Bringing Up Father and a few others, before finishing up with Baby Blues and The World of Lily Wong.

Sunday was always our favourite newspaper day because it meant an entire pull-out of comics - all in colour! Luxury!

We switched over to The Star a few years ago, a more compact, easy read (think Herald Sun, but classier) and I think they have a better collection of comics, epitomised by the one I will always save for last:

Random Memories: Twenty Two Years Old

I remember distinctly the trip to the hospital for the MRI – I was sitting outside the MRI room, and all my personal belongings which would interfere with the functioning of the MRI machine were taken away from me (apart from my magnetic personality).

The waiting area for the MRI had all the cheer of your typical hospital – immaculately white walls, the token potted plant (which had the effect of brightening up the place like a weed in a graveyard), and the severely expired magazines which sat on the single table next to the mass of waiting chairs.

One warm soul however, had brought an item of hope into that reading table – there was a scrapbook filled with the eternally optimistic comic Rose is Rose cut out from the weekend editions of the local newspaper.

It looked to be a labour of love, as it must have taken someone months to years of patience to compile it and to leave this little gesture in the hospital to cheer the hearts of worried patients.

I read it with a thankful heart, discovering love and hope in this time of uncertainty.

Sugar. Honey. Honey.

We were gathered around the table last week for our usual Thursday night gathering, when the subject of comic books came up. Our faces lit up with recognition as we named some of our favourite comics - the all-American sweetheart Archie and his motley crew of friends, the Beano comics headlined by Dennis the Menace and his sidekick dog Gnasher, Dandy comics with Bananaman! and so forth.

Comic books were a constant companion to us - we read them under the blanket with torchlights, or on our toilet bowls or sprawled out over our couches on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Uncle R was saying how he wished he had kept his comics from last time, because they would be worth a mint now. I thought about my well-loved Archie collection and about how brown, creased and dog-eared they all were from repetitive reading and wonder about how much they were worth. Perhaps to an old newspaper vendor.

If you go up to my bedroom in Malaysia, you will actually find a row of translated-into-Malay Japanese comics like Slam Dunk and Doraemon and some tattered Archies.

Call it a refusal to grow up, but whenever I am home on holidays, it's always fun to just reach out for a comic, and then lie down to read it.

For the brief few moments before sleep claims me, I can escape this world into one where the American redhead tries to figure out his love triangle between the rich brunette or the homely blonde; where the Japanese redheaded rebel finds his place on the basketball court and a little Japanese boy's everyday problems are solved by a futuristic cat with wonderful marvels from his fourth-dimension pocket.

Random Memories: Nine Years Old

The cupboard stands before him in his Auntie's house, towering twice the height of his nine-year-old self. Sitting among the many decorative paraphernalia from their family's various trips overseas were rows of books neatly lined up - detective stories, choose-your-own adventure series and an entire row filled with Archies.

Double Digests, Single Digests, Betty And Veronica, Lil' Archie, Jughead - an entire bookshelf row of Archies.

He thinks about the four or five copies he had at home and how he had read them so often he knew them by heart. At RM 5.95 for a Single Digest, these were luxuries his family could ill-afford.

He is only allowed to read the comics when he is there, and never dared to ask if he could borrow one home. The visits are often not long enough for him to get through a single digest.

Take one home, the Little Lawyer whispers.

But that's stealing! the Sunday School voice says.

They won't notice it's gone, and then, you can put it back the next time you're here. Little Lawyer was pretty convincing.

The two voices bickered for awhile. His eyes trailed over the toy cars from the Netherlands, the intricate fans from China and the kimono-ed dolls from Japan, carrying echoes of foreign lands, which in his nine year old mind, he will never be able to visit.

He makes up his heart and he reaches for two Archies, and, quickly peering over his shoulder, he stuffs two of the books into his gawdy yellow button-up shirt.

He turns around and his heart stops in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his auntie in the distance, standing at the bottom of the staircase leading into the landing, a silent witness to his brazen theft.

Head bowed, he quickly walks past his auntie, thinking magically somehow that if he pretends not to see her, then she wouldn't be able to see him.

He walks to the couch downstairs and plops down next to his Mum. His bowed head stares at the telltale boxy corners angling from his too-small shirt, poking directly into his nine-year old conscience.

His auntie walks slowly down the second flight of stairs, deliberating how best to deal with this situation.

She starts of by continuing a conversation with her sister - his mother, as if nothing had happened. He is relieved. Maybe she didn't notice.

Just as they were standing to leave a few minutes later, his auntie looks at him and says, 'Maybe you'd like to return me the comics before you go.'

His Mum turns to him -'What comics?'- initially quizzically and then with horror as it dawns upon her what he had done. He unbuttons his top buttons and pulls out the comics one by one, his ears and cheeks burning with shame. He half expects the ear-twist or slap but it never comes.

Instead he follows her sheepishly to the car, and she is strangely quiet. It is only when the doors are closed that she turns around and raps him smartly on the knees.

'Why did you do that, hah? Haven't I taught you better than that! You bring shame to the family, you know!'

She is furious, and continues to lecture him on how stealing is wrong and how he should be ashamed of himself. The drive home is a tempestuous one. 'If you wanted one, just ask and then we will buy for you lah!'

He knows she is just saying it to placate him.  He knew comic books, amongst other luxuries, were never going to be a priority in this household. Just for once he wished that he could have something when he wanted it. Through his tears, he yells out in exasperation, 'Liar! As if!'

They are quiet for the rest of the drive home, each still seething from guilt and shame.

He is surprised when she turns into the shop houses on the way home. She stops outside the local stationary shop in his Taman (suburb) which sold the comics.

'Nah,' she hands him a red ten-ringgit note. 'Go get your Archie,' she says quietly.

He sits there stunned for a moment, unsure how to react.

He slowly reaches for the note and manages a thanks mum, before bursting out of the car and racing up the steps to buy his comic book.

Close Encounters in Melbourne

Had a great catch up with a friend tonight who was here from NSW for a conference. Unfortunately, he had a busy schedule and we could only catch up around midnight, so I brought him to Oldtown Kopitiam in QV.

I had not heard from him for about eight years now, so it was good to see where life had taken us and how we had both grown up in ourselves and our relationships as well.

At around 1 am we decided to go for a spontaneous tour of the city of Melbourne. It was wonderful walking in the city in Saturday twilight, and I had forgotten how magical the city could be at night.

We gazed up at the imposing fluorescent-lit cathedrals, dodged the drunken late night revellers and walked past the post-party queues at KFC. There was a busking band playing Latin music on Swanston Street and a group of people had started spontaneously dancing along.

I showed him Fed Square and Flinders St station, and we saw the upside down neon ice-cream cone that was the National Arts Centre in the distance.

I walked him back to the hotel, and then we said our goodbyes, promising to catch up again soon(er than the eight years it had taken us to catch up this time).

As I turned the corner away from the hotel, I lifted up the hood of my jacket over my head. I exhaled - hands in both pockets - and then steeled myself to take on the treacherous road home through Melbourne's CBD.

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You must be thinking, what on earth are you talking about, Heng Khuen? Melbourne's a safe city!

So I thought until I heard this story a couple of weeks ago where a travelling friend-of-a-friend's was mugged by two guys in front of the State Library while he had gone to get some kebabs from Stalactites.

All he wanted was some supper, and he ended up $500 poorer (he had only brought cash for his short trip) and a Welcome-to-Melbourne, Please-Come-Again bruise to his left eye while trying to fight off his assailants.

And so it was with this story fresh in my mind that I quickly paced through the streets of Melbourne by night. I kept to the brightly lit areas, tried to stay where there were crowds, and sussed out whoever was walking my way. I followed my gut instinct - couples are usually safe, groups of friends with at least one girl in it are safe and girls are safe. Beware the lone male or a group of two.

I had made it past Russell Street, walked down Bourke, and made my way past the Latin buskers on the opposite side of Swanston Street. It was a wonderfully festive atmosphere - the music was infectious and the dancing group had now increased three-fold.

I afforded myself a little smile at how people were having a great time enjoying Melbourne on this beautiful Saturday night. The air was carefree and footloose.

It was at this exact moment when I approached the Swanston St Church of Christ on a quiet corner of Little Lonsdale Street.

I caught the eye of this big Caucasian guy loitering there with who I assumed was his girlfriend. It took me all of two seconds to realize that his 'girlfriend' was actually a skinny male with a hood over his head. My guard, which had been let down just a second ago, leapt up immediately.

My Spidey senses screamed out as the fat guy made a nod in my direction, and the both of them suddenly sprung from their relaxed positions and walked purposefully towards me. I picked up my pace, leapt onto the kerb and walked as fast as I could towards the nearest people about twenty metres in front of me.

I was about an arm's length away from them, and heard the skinny one say 'Damn, a jumper,' whatever that meant, but I sure as hell didn't hang around to ask.

I waited nervously on the corner of La Trobe St, my heart racing, looking out of the corner of my eyes to see if they had followed me. Luckily for me, their pursuit had ended as quickly as it had begun.

It wasn't until I got home when I could finally breathe a sigh of relief again; hearing the door lock behind me, keeping the city at bay for one more night.

Whether true or perceived, I must say this encounter has shaken me. I'd like to believe that it was not mere coincidence but Providence that I had heard the story the other day, and had been more vigilant tonight.

A split second too late, and this story may have very well ended differently.

Kung Fu Panda 2: A Movie of Awesomeness!

Went with Karen to watch my second favoritest movie of the year after X-Men: First Class - the irrepressible Jack Black reprising his role in Kung Fu Panda 2. This was a fun-filled movie for the whole family, with laugh out loud comedy and also touching scenes that brought you to the brink of tears.

(Okay, so I cried. Uncontrollably.)

(Like a real man.)

It was one of the better 3D experiences I've had this year as well - breathtaking scenery, in-your-face action and a clever use of artistry to display flashback scenes.

I have never heard Karen belly-laugh so frequently at a movie, which is a good indication of how good it was!

Go watch it in the cinema!

Random Memories: Fourteen Years Old - Not The Karate Kid (aka Wax On, Face Off)

It was a very exciting Saturday in my school. It was the inter-school Interact Club meeting, and we know that all boys join the Interact Club for only one reason - a chance to meet girls!

Being an all-boys school meant that girls were a rare treat (okay, so we had the sixth form girls, but they were four years ahead of me at that time, and I didn't have the necessary cougar-taming skills required back then).

We were all dressed in our whitest shoes, our olive-greenest trousers and carried our winningest smiles that day.

It was an amazing day - we were split up into groups for discussions, and I was finally in a classroom with - gasp - girls! I was so excited I almost forgot to breathe.

The day was going well, with me talking to my friends trying to look important while peering out of the corner of my eye to see if a girl was checking out my extra olive green pants today.

I was walking up the stairs with a friend out of the canteen during a break, when I noticed two sky blue-pinafore uniformed girls approaching. This was my chance to impress! I talked a little louder and gesticulated a little more with my hands, not noticing the step as I tripped over it and landed right on. my. ass.

My friend stood over me, just as surprised as I was. The girls had stopped to look. It took me all of two seconds to recover from my stunned surprise/embarrassment and so I decided to do the most cool thing I knew then - do a judo leap from my supine position up to a standing position, and then walk away as the girls stared in awe and clapped in wonder.

Clap, I tell you!

So with all my years of judo training, I...oh wait a minute. I have never had any judo training. In fact, I've never had any kind of training. Not even brain training.

Which would explain why my attempts to get up looked something like a miserable tortoise trying to get back on all fours again after falling onto its shell.

My friend stood over me as my legs were flailing in the air trying to make some contact with the ground. His concerned look was somewhere between "What the hell are you trying to do, Heng Khuen?" and "Oh my gosh! He's having a seizure! Someone grab a spoon to ram into his mouth before he bites his tongue!"

It was only by the fourth spoon did I finally decide that my kung-fu leap back to coolness was a stupid idea, and I finally stopped kicking around like I was possessed. I calmly stood up, dusted my self off, gave the step my best disapproving "You've won the battle, but I will win the war!" look, and then walked off past the two giggling girls, my head held high, my friend laughing as he caught up with me.

I certainly taught that step a lesson, and I am sure it will think twice before tripping the next fat fourteen-year-old boy that crossed its path.

Ah, my mortal enemy. We meet again.

Voices In Harmony

What is it about singing that moves us? What is it about putting words together with music that resonates deeply within our soul? We sing when we are happy, we sing to mourn, we sing in our showers, we sing through our tears after a break-up.

My brother and I have (unwisely) been taking singing lessons for the past week. It has been really interesting standing before our singing teacher, who could pick up immediately what was wrong with our singing.

The main problem, she says, is the fact that we were singing. Our singing should be outlawed, she said. We should be arrested by the Singing Police and locked up in a soundproof prison. She then ran away screaming with her hands over her ears, never turning to look back at our dejected faces.

Hahaha!

I remember one of the things I was doing while pretending to be oozing mystery as a teenager on my school bus was that I would be softly singing to myself at the back of the bus.

"Oi, Heng Khuen!" came the jeering voice of the St John's boy behind me. "Trying to sing ah? Afterwards the snow come then you know!"

Often in Malaysia, when we are trying to insult someone's singing, we say that their singing, like the frogs', would bring the rain. This insult brought it to a whole new level. Bastard!

Back to the singing lessons. She taught us how to warm up our voices by running through the scales while blubbering our lips. We sounded like singing motorboats....

*leaves his blog writing to write his To-Do List: Make A Children's Programme About Singing Motorboats. ABC Kids will love it!*

.... and then we went through other vocal exercises. What was interesting was seeing how our voices started out thin and strained, and by the end of one lesson, she made it a lot more rich and resonant, surprisingly. Can't wait to see what the other lessons will bring!

Random Memories: Fourteen Years Old

One of the things of having a brother two years older than you going to the same school with you are the inevitable comparisons.

My brother was often labelled a little eccentric while I was the sensible younger one. Don't get me wrong, I love my brother as he is and I wouldn't want him any other way. When you are an awkward teenager growing up, however, the temptation was always to distance yourself from your brother at school.

This distance carried on at home as well, and it was often difficult being two different individuals under the same roof, which often led to arguments and fights.

One night, however, I was standing at the study room door, while he was sitting down on the swivel chair. He started singing a church song, and I added in the harmony. Our fraternal voices blended together in golden accord, and I must say, there was a little bromance right there.

We tried a few more songs in simple harmony, and there was something inexlicably bonding about singing with your brother. As we grew older though, I find our voices became a little more discordant.

Hopefully these singing lessons will help us rediscover a little lost love.


I'm the thin one. of the group, of course.  With the feminine shirt.



In Justice

I walk into the room and she is on the phone with her partner. She just wanted to hear his voice, to know that he was okay, and the kids were okay. Because right now, she wasn't okay.

I catch traces of her voice '...turn off ventilator...' '... out in the sun...' '...it was expected, but still...'

I take my seat next to her and try to be unobtrusive.

'Everything okay?' I finally ask when she puts down the phone.

'No, everything's not okay,' she says. 'My friend's sister died today.'

I offer my surprised condolences. How old was she?

'39. She had porphyria, but like a really severe attack, you know? They did everything they could at the A for her - they kept her in ICU, she had continuous immunoglobulin infusions, they even rang experts in Europe for advise but no one could offer any answers.'

'They turned off her ventilator today at 1 pm. I knew it was coming, but still...'

Her voice drifts off.

'My friend asked me if I could be somewhere nice at 1 pm, just for her sake. So at 1 pm, I just walked out of here for awhile, you know? And just as I stepped out, the sun came out.'

Did she have any children?

'She had two kids, 4 and 6.'

The mention of kids unlocked the floodgates.

She pulls off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose and allows herself a small cry.

'It's just not fair, y'know? She was a doctor, she was such a bright, lively character... Some dickheads live to be a fucking hundred, and...' she breaks down. 'It just isn't fair,' she protests.

I put my hand on her, and learning from an auntie who did the same for me during my father's death, said absolutely nothing.

She sniffs her tears dry and years of Emergency Medicine training takes over as she suddenly snaps out of it. 'You know, I'll be alright. That's just life, isn't it?'

She straightens out the pile of paperwork before her and forces her pen to start writing the patient's notes again. There was very little room for proper grieving at work in an Emergency Department.

******************************************

There is great injustice in this world, naturally. All of us intuitively react against it - as kids we will go 'That's not fair!' or 'That's cheating!' without ever needing to be taught.

I think about this fallen world, filled with injustice, and about how if there wasn't the promise of a new heaven and a new earth, all this would be meaningless.

And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God.‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death' or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” Revelation 21:3-4

Get A Haircut

BSS | Straight Razor from Bruton Stroube Studios on Vimeo.

Karen showed me this video from the same guys that brought you Breakfast Interrupted.

It also got me thinking about that wonderful scene from Gran Torino.

Indeed, it is a shame that we are losing our old ways. There are some shops in Malaysia where you get a number by vending machine, and then a silent hairdresser efficiently snips away your hair in under ten minutes. No idle chatter, no friendship. Just business.

Whenever I am home in Malaysia, I will always visit good ol' Johnny for my haircut. It may be cheap and tellingly so, but at least the trip is interesting.

Random Memories: Haircut through the Years Part 2

I remember when Dad lost his ability to walk, the church were swift and eager to help us through our first few difficult years. A member who owned a music store donated a box full of music cassettes to us, while the church donated a RM400 exercise bicycle to my father for his initial physiotherapy needs.

One of the many helpful aunties in the church decided that she would ease our financial burdens by giving the family a haircut. Her intentions were noble, God bless her soul, but the outcomes were often... interesting.

She would bring her hairdressing gear to our house - a pair of sharp stainless-steel scissors and a somewhat interesting manual razor. This razor was made out of plastic and shaped like a clam. You could separate the two halves of the clam and then insert a razor at either end, depending on whether you wanted a rougher shave or a finer shave.

Instead of a cloth thrown around our necks to keep away stray hairs from our collar, we improvised instead by cutting a hole in the middle of a newspaper foldout, and fitting it around our heads.

Inevitably all our haircuts would end up looking like this:

 

Minus the funky earrings, of course

One more reason why I have no illusions of having expensive haircuts.

****************************

There were always murmurs among married women that you should never let women hairdressers touch your husband's head. Too many stories about how Mrs X's husband ran away with the hairdresser after she 'put a spell' over his head. I suspect that the head was not all they were touching, to be honest.

Fuelled by both raging adolescent hormones and curiosity, I made my way up the stairs to one of the dodgy looking hairdressers in my Taman (suburb) one day, my heart pounding with each step that I took up the stairs.

I got an enticing lady, all right. All fifty-five years of her. Curly grey haired and gruff, her sleeveless underarm dingle-dangles (that's a term I learnt from Karen) wobbling as she snipped away at my hair.

It was an ultimately anti-climatic moment in my teenage life, but hey, it wasn't a half bad haircut.

*******************************

I think most of my later years before I ended up with Johnny were spent mostly at Indian barbers.

If you wanted old school, this was old school, man. Swivelling barber chairs, chequered floors, candy stripe out the front. The works.

The Indian barbers themselves were pretty adept with the electric razor and scissors. Most of the time, however, everyone who walked in for a haircut (inevitably men) would always walk out with the same hairstyle - a buzz cut to the sides and back, and short at the top.

Haircuts at the Indian barber would set you back by RM10. Added to that value for your money was the wonderful 'head cracking' service at the end of it. The barber suddenly turns amateur chiropractor - steadying your head at the top and at your chin with both his hands, he twists it one way and then the other to give a satisying 'crack' as if you were cracking your knuckles.

Except that, you know, it was the spine of your neck.

That's us Malaysians, living on the edge of danger - walk in for a haircut, and a 5% chance of paraplegia.

Edward Barberhands

"Please," she says. "Try it! You won't know unless you try it!"

"Heh," I smile a Maybe but my heart actually says Nah.

My fiancee is trying to convince me to get my hair cut at a proper hairdressers.

There is a ten dollar barber shop near the city which I have always frequented since I was a student. Which I still visit, much to Karen's dismay. Prices have crept up as high as $13.95 at one stage, but fierce competition has kept the haircuts at a very reasonable ten dollars for the past two years.

Walking in to the barber shop is always a roulette. In my case, I may either walk out looking like a frumpy twelve year old schoolboy about to be beaten up, or some semblance of a dashing thirty one year old adult. Usually it's the former.


There is no luxury of choosing your favourite barber in a ten dollar shop.

It is a roll of the dice - do I get the Cypriate barber today who knows only one hairstyle for all his male clients (who also somehow eerily has the same hairstyle - which makes you wonder, who the heck cut his hair?) or do I get that Vietnamese lady who somehow understands my oddly-shaped head? Maybe it will be the Iranian woman who oozes of teenage angst, chewing her gum apathetically while chopping away with disinterest at my hair?

I remember my final year of medical school, and how I needed to look decent for two reasons - I was hosting a wedding for a couple who were good friends of mine and I had my final graduation. Important times. The girl who the shop deemed equal to this monumental task looked like she was sixteen; the way she used her scissors had undercurrents of criminal intent.

Needless to say, her untrained fingers took too much off one side, which she then had to correct on the other side and by the end of it, I looked like I was signing up to join the army. "Well," she says, rubbing as much gel as she humanly could to disguise her error, "at least you look interesting," she said, her face betraying the slightest of cringes.

It was only after two blocks and a whole lot of curious stares when I noticed the clump of hair she had neglected to brush off my left cheek, making me look like I was growing something cancerous (or groovy).

Today's result? Somewhere in the middle.

Maybe I should take Karen's advice and go to a proper hairdressers to get myself a 35 dollar Korean-teenage-heartthrob-look-alike haircut.

Nah.

Random Memories: Haircuts Through The Years Part 1

"This Heng Khuen ah, hairstyle everyday different one," my friend once commented.

My earliest recollection of a barber is at the age of five, when my brother and I would be brought to the same father-and-son Chinese barbershop near where we lived. This place was old school, man, complete with the fluorescent lit candy-stripe sign outside the shop.

While awaiting my turn, I would always watch in awe at the uncles before me, who willingly surrendered their lathered necks to the reusable razorblades of the barber (sharpened on a leather strap hanging by the mirrors); or how they grimaced in pain as their stray nostril hairs were ripped out at the roots with gleaming tweezers.

Almost a true depiction of barbers

I would always pray that I would not get the father - a bald (never trust a bald barber?), toothless man with his mischievous slitty eyes hidden behind thick black frames. I hated him because his haircuts always came with the unwelcome added service of a tweak of your nose before and after your haircut.

I swear, if I had mastered the Jason Bourne-ian art of killing someone with whatever was ready at hand, this man would have been bleeding from a thousand razorblade cuts before his wandering hand even reached my nose.

Instead, my five year old self sat there helplessly, having my nose tweaked purple.

Today, I Want To Be A Baker

He knew he should have stayed in bed that morning.

He gets up and he stumbles into the shower and then dresses up for work. An orange vitamin pill is all his breakfast, and he drives to work, still half dazed. It is a Saturday morning on a long Easter weekend and the roads are clear. As he approaches the hospital, he notices that his tank is almost empty and he pulls into the nearby Shell station.

He pays for his petrol with his credit card but in his half awake state he pulls out the card too quickly. TRANSACTION CANCELLED. He tries the card again. CARD DECLINED. He smiles apologetically to the counter girl and pays by eftpos. 'Looks like you could do with more sleep,' she laughs.

And So It Begins

No sooner had he hit the department, waiting for handover when an overhead announcement is made. 'Level 2 trauma, Resus 2, Emergency Department.' He pokes his nose into the cubicle and sees that his boss is already there with another morning registrar and some lingering night staff.

The patient is a young gentleman who had been T-boned by a car on the highway when he was pulling out. He was in a neck collar and the consultant was moving an ultrasound over his tummy to see if there was any internal bleeding.

The boss quickly confirms no bleeding, and tells the doctor to take over from there while he runs handover. The doctor quickly checks the patient over, and confirms that he is stable before getting bloods from him. The nurse hands him a syringeful of blood which he proceeds to fill the tubes with. He is still waking up, and pulls the plunger a little too eagerly, which disconnects from the syringe. The blood goes everywhere onto the trolley.

He lets out a curse and somehow manages to salvage some enough for all the tubes. The nurse with him is a friend, and kindly cleans up the mess without telling him off. The blood is all over the trolley, and had made its way into the trolley, staining the packages holding the cannulas with blood. She disposes of the contaminated packages and cleans up the trolley.

After The Blood Bath

The ambulance warning system beeps through. A young guy was coming in, who was found by bystanders to be running down the streets half naked, screaming his head off before collapsing into a heap. The department prepares itself for the arrival of the patient, and he is soon wheeled through. He is in a drug daze, and barely rousable. His pinpoint pupils suggest that opioids may have been involved.

They give him some reversal for the opioids but he does not wake. His level of respiratory depression means that they need to put a tube down his throat to protect his airway while waiting for whatever drugs he had taken to naturally work its way out of his body.

You comfortable to do the tube? his boss asks.

His mind says no.

Yup, he says.

They get everything ready for the intubation. The patient was going to be a difficult one. Short neck, retracted jawline, overriding teeth. The patient is put into an induced coma. The intensive care team arrives, and there is suddenly an audience of about ten people.

Have a look now, his boss says.

The doctor brings the laryngoscope into the mouth of the patient. He attempts to find the patient's vocal cords, but is having a little trouble finding it. Pull back, says the intensive care consultant. Take your time, says his boss. 

He sees the tip of the vocal cords but couldn't get it to lift. Nope, not seeing it, he says, his hands shaking with the weight of the laryngoscope blade.

The boss steps in and takes over. A few experienced maneuvers with the laryngoscope and suddenly the tube is down the throat, and the chest rises and falls as he bags the patient.

You just needed your blade to be more secure, the boss tells him gently in front of his audience. The doctor knows he is still learning and will keep getting better at this, but couldn't help feeling deflated for not getting this tube.

******************************************

The day passes on with a few more dramas, a sixty year old man who had collapsed out the front triage after having a huge vomit of blood and a few more overdoses and road accidents customary to the long weekend. Among them all were the minor irritations of the arguments with the radiology registrar about getting scans, trying to convince sick patients wanting to self-discharge that they needed to stay, and trying to juggle all the patients under his care and remember what he needed to do for who next.

He is due to leave at six that evening. A new patient was coming in after an overdose. He was drowsy and combative, and he was huge.

Two policemen and  another two ambulance crew were in attendance, as the patient was struggling in his half drugged state, potentially a threat to his own safety and that of others.  He had written a clear suicide note that evening and had taken eighty of his antipsychotic medications wanting to end his life.

They put him into a resuscitation cubicle and strap his arms and feet down so that he doesn't hurt himself. His evening boss walks in and decides, We need to tube him.

The doctor tries to find a vein to put a cannula into but has little luck. Everything he touched that day was turning to whatever the opposite of gold was.

His colleague finds a vein on the other arm, and they place the patient into an induced coma. Another colleague, a registrar slightly junior to him manages to intubate the patient successfully, and the doctor watches with a mixed sense of pride and a tinge of envy.

The Opposite Of Gold

The patient is prepared for intensive care. A catheter is put in to measure his urine output and his evening boss puts him in charge of putting in the nasogastric tube - a tube that goes into the patient's stomach in order to drain out any secretions and prevent it from going into his lungs.

The doctor struggles with the nasogastric tube. It goes down a distance but not as smoothly as he would like. You sure you in the stomach? his evening consultant says with a querying smile.

Well, it's gone in a distance... the doctor says, but he knew that the resistance he had felt with the nasogastric tube going down was not a reassuring sign.

They try and check if they are in the stomach. They take a huge syringe and try to aspirate out some stomach content. Nothing. They try and blow in some air while a nurse listened for sounds in the stomach. Nothing.

Well, an experienced nurse offered, we can check if it's bubbling. It was old school but it sounded like a plan. They brought a kidney dish of water and place the other end of the nasogastric tube into it to see if it would bubble, suggesting that it is in the lung.

It does not bubble.

Still not convinced, the evening consultant calls for an X-ray which would show them for sure the position of the nasogastric tube.

The X-ray returns. The nasogastric tube... is sitting in the right lung. Somehow it had made its way past the ventilation tube straight into the right lung. See? said the consultant, smiling. Told you it wasn't in the stomach!

They pull out the misplaced nasogastric tube and the consultant has a go at putting it in. He struggles as well, and gives up after a few attempts.

Let's get an art line in, he says. They try to get a needle into the patient's radial arteries to see what his blood pressure is doing. The doctor can feel a good pulse on the left wrist and has a go at it, but misses despite several attempts.

His consultant tries on the other wrist and misses as well. All this time the emergency department is still running and getting busier behind the curtains.

This is not a good day for lines, his consultant says, looking a little deflated himself. I'm going to have to come back and try a little later. I've got a department to manage. 

He walks away and leaves the doctor to himself, whose bleary eyes looked up at the fuzzy numbers reading 7:45 pm, one hour and forty five minutes after he was supposed to have finished, and sighs while he stubbornly tried to find an artery on the patient's right wrist to put a needle into.

Another senior registrar walks in after he has had a few more attempts. H has told me to come in here and see if I can help you with this art line, she says. She puts on a pair of sterile gloves, feels for a pulse, inserts the needle and suddenly there is a satisfying gush of blood into the needle. She effortlessly threads the needle, secures the line and attaches the monitoring.

Guess he likes girls more, she smiles.

The doctor stands there and smiles in return, shaking his head a little. He cannot believe how easy she made that look, but was more relieved that the line was finally in.

She waltzes out of the room and leaves the doctor and the two nurses who are bustling around the resuscitation cubicle getting all paperwork sorted out, preparing the equipment to move the patient into intensive care.

The Road Not Taken

The doctor leans against the table in the cubicle, and stares blankly into space for awhile. His stomach rumbles as he finally remembers he hadn't eaten all day.

He smiles to himself and to a day that has defeated him, and he says aloud, to no one in particular, Today, I want to be a baker.

The nurses, who have worked with him so long that they were more like friends, let out a laugh in agreement as they knew exactly how he felt about the day he was having.

He leaves the department with a sigh. He will take the long drive home and he will tell his loving partner about the unbelievably long and crap day he's had, and then he will sleep, because tomorrow he must return.

*******************************************

He thinks about his previous Emergency Department director, who was like a mother to him in his workplace, and who was  instrumental in him choosing Emergency Medicine as a specialty.

He remembers her hand on his shoulder after another particularly difficult day like today, and her voice still rings clearly in his ears - Just remember, you're gonna good days and bad days, young Dr. Heng, so don't take it too personally, all right? Press on, because you are a good doctor and don't let it get to you. 

Tomorrow he will be better.

 

I've Got A Proposal To Make.

I have had the ring for eight months now.

She organised my surprise 30th birthday party and I was kicking myself that I didn't have the ring to counter-surprise her. It was there where I asked a friend if she would accompany me to buy the ring.

I have had the ring for eight months now.

I was thinking about how to propose to her. I toyed with the idea of skywriting, but luckily a friend talked me out of it. What about putting it up on a billboard just like the Malaysian guy did? But I felt that was just a little toopublic.

On and on the thoughts streamed about how I was going to ask Karen to marry me, and finally the words 'Say Yes' popped into my head.

How about a video proposal, and getting our friends and family on board? My heart raced with the thought of the one idea that could finally work, and so the wheels started churning.

This is the beginning of what I call the 'scheming for good.' This was the two months spent in secret e-mails to family and friends asking them if they would take part in this project. Two months of private browsing in the Firefox windows, pretending to be hard at work with Karen sitting unwittingly opposite me, suppressing the smiles inside with every new picture that came along.

And then the last few days of telling untruths about being at study groups with friends or with my brother when I was actually shooting my photos for the video, and going over to a friend's house to put the video together, which she kindly and patiently did.

This is what two and a half months of planning culminated in:

That's all it is. Me making a stupid face!


Thank you to all who have helped out in this video with your photos, encouragement and love. The road ahead is exciting and scary all at once, and we need your continued love and prayers as we walk down the aisle towards the rest of our lives together.

P.S. She posted a response as well! She never ceases to amaze me, this woman!




Random Memories: Thirteen Years Old

It was a huge centerpage in our local newspaper, The Star. It was the story of this loving couple who were in the dance ministry at their church and talked about how he proposed to her in a really special manner.

They were walking in the KLCC park one evening, when he led her to a bridge. Six friends, all dressed as mimes were standing along the bridge, and soft music started playing in the background. All of them were holding plates, with napkins sitting over them.

A card read on the first plate reads 'I love you because...' she uncovers the napkin '... of your smile that could light a small city.' The mime starts to smile widely and invisible light bulbs were going off everywhere.

She turns to her boyfriend and smiles, his plan becoming apparent.

'I love you because...' the second plate read as she pulled away the napkin. '... you laugh at my jokes even when they are not funny.' The mime doubles over in silent laughter at a bad joke that you couldn't hear.

'...your fried rice makes the hawkers jealous.'
'... you love my family, and my dog.'
'... of your beauty and grace when you dance.'

The mimes cooked, petted invisible dogs and twirled continuously as she came to the final dish.

This napkin was covering an object.

The last card read - 'But most of all, I love you because...'

The mime is motionless. She pulls away at the napkin and gasps.

It is a mirror.

'...of who you are.' She is surprised by her tears as she feels him tap her on the shoulder. She turns around to find him on bended knee with the open box containing the ring that would join her to him for the rest of their lives.

Through her tears, she says yes.

Something in my thirteen year old heart wanted so badly to one day have a special wedding proposal of my own.

I Want To Run Through The Halls of My Primary School

Coming out from an evening shift yesterday, I walked in the cold dark night towards my car. I was trying to think warm thoughts (hot cocoa, a blazing campfire, a thick padded jacket, a refrigerator, a polar bear, ice cream, air-conditioning, the North pole, ... thinkwarmthoughtsthinkwarmthoughts) and bravely walk to my car, when my shrunken manhood decided to run. like. hell. for the car.

And so I ran - the wind against my face, my heart pumping in my ears, my stethoscope swinging threateningly close to my jaw and my keys jangling in my work trousers. I couldn't help but smile as I finally reached my car, feeling as exhilarated as a five year old who had won first prize in the egg-and-spoon race in his kindergarten.

It was times like these which reminded me to love my knees while I still have them. I think about how one day at sixty, when my back will betray me and my knees will be nothing but a distant beautiful memory, I will surely miss them dearly.

Random Memories: Eight Years Old

I was never very athletic. I couldn't sprint, I couldn't jump, my shot putt was more like a short putt. I couldn't kick a ball straight to save my life, and always return the shuttlecock straight into the net. My favourite swimming style was kicking your feet randomly while holding the edges of the pool, or drowning. Basketball was more like under-the-basketball.

And so every little victory counts. I had won a silver medal once when I was eight during my school's Sports Day. I remember wearing the medal proudly around my neck as my little feet staggered up the bus, the medal gleaming as it swung across my tummy.

Hey Everyone! Look at me! Mr. Second Place in the Egg-In-The-Spoon Race.

I walked past two boys, one from St John's, and the other one from a Chinese school.

Oi! Give us a look! the bespectacled Chinese boy reached for my medal as I stood before him, beaming proudly.

Wow! Second place in the egg-and-spoon race! Not bad ah! he seemed genuinely happy for me.

The 13-year-old St. John boy came up and then looked at the inscription on the back. Cheh! his mouth sneered in disdain. It's not even a proper race. It's for primary school kids one lah!

I continued smiling but inside I was crestfallen.

Eh, okay what, their field is quite big one, you know, the Chinese boy said in my defence.

The secondary school boy turned his head away, his condescending sneer taking the shine off my highest ever achievement in sports.

The Lessons of Lorong Haji Taib: Part 3

"We're going to the police."

"What?!" said Siew Tat. "We've just been to try and tiu kai (visit prostitutes), and you want us to tell the polis that ah? Won't we be arrested or something?"

"No, they won't lah!" I started the car, gripping the steering wheel.

I sounded way more confident than I felt.

At the Balai (Station)

"Lu orang buat apa?!" ("What did you guys do?!")

The police officer stared at us with incredulity in his eyes, and started shaking his head slowly.

It was a busy Friday night. Someone was sitting in the corner with blood on his head, and someone there wanting to report an accident, and there had been a couple of stabbings that night to boot.

They had just conducted a raid as well, and the station was teeming with about fifteen illegal prostitutes, some from China, some Cambodian and some ang moh looking chicks, don't know from where. They were all squatting with their hands over their heads. I could see Jeremy and Khong Nam checking them out while Vincent and Siew Tat were with me explaining our plight to the police officer.

We felt a little stupid with our problem but the more the story went on, the louder our voices became as more and more we felt wronged.

Another police officer came out.

Apa bising bising ini? (What's all this commotion here?) he demanded.

Oh, sarjan budak semua ni (Oh Sergeant, these kids)... and he explained our plight.

The sergeant turned to us, his face indecipherable.

Hish! Bodoh betullah kamu ni! Kalau mau main pergilah hotel, hah! Cari gadis gadis macam ini lah best! Kenapa pergi Lorong Haji Taib?  (Hish! You're a bunch of idiots, you know that? If you're looking for a little fun, go to a hotel, and look for hookers like these lah! Why the hell did you go to Lorong Haji Taib for?) his eyes widened, as he pointed to the prostitutes behind us.


We were initially shocked at his outburst and then looked a little sheepish, and his glare soon softened after his little diatribe.

Okey, apa kamu hilang? (Now, what did you lose?)

Half an Hour Later 

We are sitting at the sargeant's office. He had disappeared somewhere 'to make a few phone calls.'

All five of us turn as he walks into the room.

"Handfon yang kamu hilang tu, apa model dia? Warna apa?" (What was the colour and the make of your missing handphones?)

One black Samsung, flip phone. One Silver Nokia.

Like a magician he pulls both the phones out of his pockets. Our jaws dropped as we quickly reached for our phones, thankful beyond words.

Duit kamu hilang berapa? And how much money?

Dua ratus tuan. Two hundred ringgit, sir.

Nah, kita hanya recover seratus. Like a dubious trickster he only hands us a hundred ringgit, but we were just happy to be seeing any of it back, to be honest.

We left his room, our heads bobbing in profuse thanks, as he left us with these parting words.

Ingat, okey, lain kali, pergi hotel cari pelacur. Remember to only use the hotels for prostitutes next time, you hear me?

We smiled weakly as Vincent lead the team to get the hell out of there. We walked past the cowering prostitutes again.

"Jeremy, you hamsup (dirty) bastard! Stop looking at them already lah! You've already got us into trouble once tonight!"

"Okay, who wants to go to mamak?"

"Where ah?"

"How about Lorong Haji Taib?!"

"Shut up lah, you idiot!" we laughed.

The Lessons Of Lorong Haji Taib: Part 2

Pap! Pap! Pap! 

The aunties obviously had no idea what a massage was. What we got instead was a modified slapping of our backs. 

There was a few times she came dangerously close to my ass, but I manged to bump her hands away just in time.

After ten minutes, I just wanted to get the hell out of there - 'Eh, cukuplah, cukuplah. Kita mau pergi dah.' (Enough, enough, we want to go already.)


Tak bulih. Tak bulih. Bayar tiga puluh minit musti mau habis semua. (Cannot, cannot. You paid for thirty minutes).

It's hard negotiating when you're lying in bed, almost naked, with your backs to two Indian aunties.

We heard a sound in the room behind us, but couldn't turn to see. A few minutes later, we could hear a motorcycle being started in the distance... Pap! Pap! Pap! The Indian aunties kept up with their backslapping.

This massage was far from relaxing. It felt more like being caned. For being hamsup.

Now Where Did I Put It?

Thirty agonising minutes which felt like forever later, I pulled my face from the stained mattress, and Jeremy and I hurried to the cupboard. As I put on my pants, there was a silence where the jingle of car keys should have been. Jeremy also noticed that his handphone was no longer in his jeans' pockets.

'Eh, where the hell's my car key?' I asked Jeremy.

'I don't know. Where's my handphone?' He rummaged a little more in the empty cupboard which had nothing more than a few pieces of torn newspapers inside.

'Eh, maybe we left it with the three downstairs before we came up, issit?'

'I don't know lah... We go and ask them lah.'

We left without thanking our service provider aunties, and went down to our waiting friends.

'So how was the ma-?'

'Eh, did I give my car keys to you guys ah?'

'No!'

'No!'

'No what - you didn't give us anything - you went straight up, remember?!'

'Eh, shit lah. I'm damn angry already. These fuckers have gone too far.'

I turned around, with a newfound anger. They have screwed us enough tonight. They're not getting the car.

'OI! Come out here uncle!'

The Indian uncle suddenly melted out of the darkness into the scant light.

'What?' he growled.

I was too pissed off to be scared. 'Give me back my car key! You guys have taken our money tonight - enough already lah! Give me back my fucking car key! I call the police then you know!'

'What? You think you shout I scared ah? You want - you go and call the polis lah! But before you start accusing accusing all... make sure you check the cupboard properly first!'

'I didn't leave it in the cupboard! I checked already before coming down!'

'Are you sure? You go and double check again first!'

I stormed up the stairs, into the room. The two aunties had magically disappeared, and I slammed open the cupboard door, fuming to see -

- my car key.

I took the key and went down.

'Where's my friend's handphone?' I yelled.

'Eh, how the hell am I supposed to know? How I know your friend even bring his handphone inside?!'

Jeremy was looking at me, his eyes pleading for me to forget about it and to just get the hell out of here. 'Eh, don't worry. It's a handphone only lah...'

The gate was unlocked, and the five of us made our way out past the three Indian men. The night was cool with a light breeze; still and uninterested as if nothing terrifying had happened to us at all for the past hour. It took us another ten minutes to walk back to my Dad's

Car

I walked around the car and inspected it from the outside, making sure that everything was okay. Scratch marks - none. Wheels - all there. Hubcaps - also all there.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I pressed the central locking button and the knobs came up, and the lights flashed.

We all got into the car and opened up the glove compartment.

Phewf! All our wallets were still there.

We each took our own wallets, and then noticed that the other handphone was missing. Shit! We opened our wallets - all our cash had been taken. Fuck!

We sat in the car, angry and yet too scared to confront the three men dividing up our money and handphones somewhere in the shophouse at the end of the alleyway somewhere in Lorong Haji Taib.

"ARRRGH!" I banged my steering wheel, impotent. When I looked up, I saw my friends in the streetlights streaming through the car windows. There was an air of defeat, regret and anger mixed in all their faces.

"So, how now?"