That kid in school

Remember that kid you hated so much in class?

The one that complains and brings the parents after every single small thing? The one that raises hand the quickest for cikgu after being teased at? The one that reports you to pengawas and guru besar for the slightest of menace? The one that made you wanna lastik them so badly?

Yes. That kid! And that kid has now grown up.

So, what's this version of the "teachers' favourite" do in my agency? – Pulls the management card.

If only killing is not illegal.

The day I ran

I ran a lot when I'm a child.

I'm excited about things. The dimension, and perspective is very different then. Need to get to places faster.

I never crawl. I'm the butt-slider baby. You know, babies that slide their butts to get to places? Yeah, the rare kind. Anyone has fetishes for knees? I have a nice pair. Ass lovers, sorry. They are not perky. Look elsewhere.

When I started to walk, it's a shocker.

I was playing with my toys at the living. There's something in me that tell me to get up. So, I pushed my toys aside. Stood up. And balanced myself. I made my first step. Second. Third. Pacing faster after each into the kitchen. Clumsily, but excited.

Can't wait to tell Mother.



"(While pulling her shirt) Mummy! Mummy! I can walk!"



I was not taller than the kitchen top. Mother almost screamed her lungs out. For the millionth times, Mother had tried to make me stand. All I do was just dropped down. And slides away. Mother said I'm afraid, at times, lazy.

I never stop ever since. That evening, I started to explore the house. Going around every corners. Every rooms. Every toilets. Simply a warm up session before the "actual" explorations. As if I already had plans what to do the next day.

Guess you know how Father reacts when he's back.

I was barely thirteen months old.

Be a lawyer

I could speak before I could walk.

Like an adult trapped in a baby's body. And it's not baby talk – I can converse well with just about anyone. My parents said it started around ten months old.

Mother blames the Cantonese-dubbed Doraemon that Surname Surname bought me. I was told I've been watching it ever since I have vision. Even before I could bring myself to sit. But I can never remember when I have spoken my first word. Never remember when I started to call my parents.

I often talk back at my parents then. Mother especially. She said I am well suited to be a lawyer, since I "talk so well". Petah lidah – the Malay's term. Winning at arguments and all. I was labeled as "no manners" at some point in my life.

I speak lesser, and lesser now. Speaking too much and too early then, it's getting bored and losing its steam earlier. As some said, one grew up to be the opposite of what you are then.

And I never did law.

But if I did, I'm sure I'm better than that lawyer who probe the coroner lady in the Ah Hock's case.

An uncle with a surname

We have an aunt that separated from her husband long ago. I was only a couple-year-old, few years before Bro was born. I don't remember seeing that uncle of mine. Later, she met a new man in her life. They never got married. Just living together.

This man, is our new uncle.

My parents and friends call him by his surname. We, Chinese are so used to add an "Ah" at the front of names. And that's how people call him.

The first time I saw him, my parents were at my aunt's flat to dropped something off. We were in Father's beige, carburetor-ed Datsun. My uncle just got back from work. He came by, and said hi. I was told, this is yi jiong, and Mother asked me to greet him.

Mother's elder sisters are called yi mah. The husband, yi jiong.

"Oh! Yi jiong!"



I never remember the term "yi jiong". It is unfamiliar to me. I've been hearing people called him differently. And that is what I supposed to call him too, I thought.

The next time we were there, I greeted everyone as I was taught. I then saw him. With high spiritual attitude, and manners I thought would make my parents proud, I greeted him.



"Ah Surname!"



Mother knocked on my head. Father told me off.

He defended me. That doesn't bother him. Ever since, my parents always reminded me to call him properly. I still ended up calling his surname. Up to a point, he told them to let it be.

As we were getting closer, I call him Surname Surname.

No matter how open-minded a person is, it is still not right to call your elders by the name. I tried calling him yi jiong a number of times. I can't – it sounded really, really weird. I guess he felt the same too. We were so used to the "improper" way.

When Bro learn to speak, he was taught the same.

We still call him that, even up to now.

I'll be (s)watching you

I got my first Swatch 25 years ago. It was a gift from Father.

1987 was also the year I stepped into school. It has been a good companion throughout my primary days. Not to mention, the bragging rights and attention I(t) got - numberless watches are rare then, at least in my memory. Even I can't tell the time correctly. And look at the design. It's in during the mid-80s. No?

Not until recently I found out it's a ladies!

Talking 'bout the mid-midlife crisis, eh? Remember me being a "talent"? Retrostalgia strikes again. I've been searching for it...

I went to collect my Tissot at the Swatch Group this morning before heading to work. The auto-wind went cuckoo recently. Have to masuk kilang a couple of weeks lah. Since I'm there, I asked if they still make old models of Swatches, or had them stored anywhere. Just hoping high lah.

Attractive Attentive Malay lady, by the way. Hmm...

Anyway, they don't.

Swatch only make limited numbers of the same model. Even if you're looking to replace the strap on an older models, it's impossible. Unless you wouldn't mind changing to other strap designs.

Yes. I did write an email to Swatch. Thank you for asking. They tak layan me lah. I have yet to hear from them. I used my work mail, you know? Very professional on my side.

What happened to mine? They are disposable accessories, as quoted in Wiki. It breaks down. The strap snapped. The battery leaked. It turned yellow. Yes! The body is still in this house somewhere the last I saw it!

I guess some things are meant to be carved in memory. But no harm trying, right? I'll bug them again like how I bugged Brand's.

And there's no prize for guessing my age.

July, year 3

Mother held me in one arm.

Holding a small air tight jar in another.

I looked on to her. Then the jar.

I heard clicks.

The sudden blast of lights blinded my eyes.


I was barely two. That's the closest my memory could bring.
We appeared on what seems to be a product shot in a photo printout, or an A5 flyer. We were the talents for the Brand's Essence of Chicken.

You want to see it, don't you?



I grew up looking at it. Every day, every year. Mother pasted it on Father's cupboard in the storeroom (it's my room now). I never knew the "importance" of it. I'm a talent even before I know what's advertising. That's a valuable piece, at least for me.

Paper breaks apart when its exposed to the environment for years. We did a major spring cleaning and threw the leftover bits away. What's left is the now-antiqued mahogany cupboard, and unpeelable weathered stickers from the late-hippies era, deeply engraved into the wood grains.

Few years ago, it came back into my mind. It was during Mother's Day and her birthday. It could be a very special gift to her. I emailed Brand's regarding the flyer. Hoping for just a single word from them.

But to no avail.



Mother's birthday is coming near. I've drafted the email to be sent to Brand's again. And hopefully, I could hear from them this time. I also sent out my message to some people in the industry. Hoping that few would know the ad veterans back then.

Thirty years is a very long time. The agency that handles the account might have closed shop. The printer might have disposed the materials already. Maybe not even the printing plates or negatives.

I will keep trying.

To many, it's a no biggie appearing in a piece of paper. But to me, it means a whole lot more. It's a reminiscence of Mother and me. Something that can't be bought by money and time.

Something, that can't be replaced.



This will the third year in the searching.



-----



Mail sent. No words. Guess I should make a stroll at the factory.

Edited 15.8.11, 3:56am

The bush had gone

I have an uncle that treats us like his own sons.

More toys. More KFCs and McDonalds. More ice-creams and snacks. More soft drinks than Father would get. Even if we are over the board, he rarely scold or yell at us. Let alone, rotan us. More of him some other time, perhaps.

There is an empty land near his flats - made into a lodging space for construction workers, their lorries, and tractors. Every evenings, he will bring me to play there. To test drive the machines. Oh. This was when I'm a few-year-old.

Not one I have missed. With me turning the big steering. Moving the long gear stick. Struggling to reach the pedals, tiptoed. Making sounds as if it's moving. Honking, pretending I'm yelling at others. As if I'm one of them. Even the levers on the tractors are not spared. Giving headaches to the workers next morning.

But there is one 5-tonner that I'm afraid of.

As any other evenings, I'm the construction worker. Braving the uneven red mud. Going towards my site. As I was "driving" it, I felt like someone is staring at me from the back. I turned to looked...

I jumped out, hugging my uncle, crying.

It was Sai Baba. With his famous Afro. Framed and hung at the headboard. I never go near that lorry again. I think it was the sight of the bush.

The closest I get to him was his photo. But it's enough to scare the hell out of a few-year-old.

Rest in piece.

License to kill

Myself.

I was having my puffs at the secret base.

Cat Eyes came in. She was on the phone. Apparently, with someone from the event management. Trying to mind my own business, not to eavesdrop. Daydreaming. Yawning.

She hung up after some time. Finally.



"You have ciggy?"

"Yeah... (offering her)"

"What brand is this? Manchester!?"

"Yeah... for emergency. I don't have ciggy at home. I took my mum's."

"Your mum smokes!?"

"So is my dad. He quit for years now."

"So... you have license 'dy?"



How old am I? Of course I do.

Though my folks smoke, but they are against us to pick up smoking.

I got my license from Mother through bribery.

There was once when her crave kicks in. But she don't have any with her. She came and asked for one. Wait. Before I go any further, I must stress that I was caught by her a number of times before. She "knew" I smoke.



"You have cigarette?"

"... er... yeah... (handing her one)"

"Expensive cigarette, eh?"

"So... are you gonna tell Dad? (Before she could say anything)... Better not. Next time when you're out of stock, at least you can take mine!"



She gave me that look. Quick thinking kan? Opportunities like these must kasi grab punya! I'm a late teen then.

Getting one from Father isn't easy. Took me some years through hard earned, ear-drums-exploding effort experience. His ratio of catching me as compare to Mother was a 1-to-5. Where every 1 time Mother caught me, he did 5 times. Mother's was through discovery or exploration of my room. He's good! Or pure lucky.

Not only he caught me, but catches me red handed all the time. With a ciggy in my mouth. Or visibly with the burning, bright red tip. At least holding one. From mamak, to public toilet at the place where I'm doing part time, to dropping it off my pants in front of him at Cindy's. Everywhere.

The mamak's was a classic.

I skipped school. Still with uniform. I was there with Since Primary Two, and Pilot 4+2. It was my first stick of the day. Just as I was about to put the bud at my lips, he came in! What the hell!? I really didn't expect that! He's back from work early! Of all days! Seriously...

I turned pale. Lost weight and size right there and then (as claimed by my bros).

He sat down. Ordered a chapati and teh tarik. Gave me a scolding while having his late lunch. My bros left after a while. They kena from him too. I'll spare the details of what happened next.

The "chapati / teh tarik" was made an inside joke up to now.

After many, many years, I was given the license. For free!

I took a 2-week event job up north in Penang. It was my "first" driving-alone-long-distant. So he tag along. And take the opportunity to visit Cindy too while I was there. We left near the wee hours. On the way there...



"If you're tired... sotp the car... tkae smoe rset... have a smoke... hvae a laek... wsah yuor fcae..."

"Wow..."



I was in selective hearings.

There you go. Two different ones.



Looking at the experience I had, don't you agree it's similar to dealing with the G? If you know what I mean.

Bila orang nak, kena kopi.

Bila orang tak mintak, die die dia kasi.

Dream cycle

I can't ride a bicycle.

Okay. One minute break for laughing.






























Hello, people. How are you? Fantastic. Let's move on.

I was around 8 or 9 when I first touched a bicycle. I always "blame" my parents for getting it when I'm "too old" to learn. It's just an excuse of mine lah. I'm just scared. The bike was for Bro. The younger siblings always get the best - a lovely fact. He was only 3, 4 years old. Easier to pick it up.

He did. I remained... me.

The bros laugh at it all the time. They had enough of it at one time, and decided to teach me a lesson or two on bicycle riding not long after we ended high school. At the blooming age of eighteen! They even suggested to fit the support wheels during the lesson. I, of course, violently refused.

Do you need another break?










No? Great.

And off I go to a padang nearby with Since Primary Two and Pilot 4+2. The padang was rather secluded. Good choice! We were there for over 3 hours. And the furthest I went without falling only to my right was 20 meters. The bushes (let's twist it a little) love me too. Few times they came straight to me!

Mission failed, jokes continued.

Cycling, sadly, only happens in my dreams. It has become a yearly event. It'll just intrude my slumber, without having a slight thought of it. But I tell you, it was so real! The cycling. The balancing. The gripping. The steady breeze brushing against my face. Into the gaps in between my limbs. It was a kind of freedom I can't describe in words. I wake up pissed knowing it was just a dream.

"How you gonna carry your girls lah?"

I've been asked similar question many times before. Well... I'm all go for an opposite roleplay. The girls carry me! Isn't it cute? And sweet?

I have to admit, I do envy people who knows to ride.

Simply put, I have no fate with 2-wheels.



A lot of things are harder to pick up as you aged.

The unfolded leaf

Father was a bank officer before he retired. He works late almost every other day. Only to come home way after dinner. I'd always accompanied him while he's having the leftovers, whenever there is a chance. And of course, if I'm still awake. Since I seldom see him.

One night, while he's having his late meal at home, I grabbed a stool, dragged it near the dining table, and climbed onto it. I then comfortably rest my chin on the edge of the table. It was silent. All I do was, looked at him. I was studying his expression. Tracing the contour and texture of his face. Of him munching away. Of him reading the paper at the same time. As my eyes wander away from him, I found my hands. Curiosity kicks in. I popped a question.



"Why are there lines on our palms?"



While sucking the meat from the bones of his favourite steamed pomfret, spontaneously, he fold and unfold the edge of a leaf from the newspaper.



"That's why."



The thing about me being a child is, I never satisfy of the answers I get. I'd always asked another "Why?". And it's the "Why?" that they always end at. This time, I didn't ask again. For a moment, I thought my eyes was glittering as a sign of agreement.

His answer was tad simple. But this has taught me one thing:

No matter how difficult the question is, there's always an answer. There's always a solution to it. A reason for it. The answer might be right in front of you, without you notice. If you know where to find it.

Whenever I feel lost, I always looked back at this.





Dedicated to a very, very special friend. Though it may be irrelevant, but I hope this can be an inspiration of some sort to whatever difficulties you are facing now.

Pang yau, this is the least I could do.

Exotic eggs

Was devouring some century eggs with sliced ginger that Mother prepared earlier. It reminded me of an... how should I put it? Incident... no, encounter I had when I'm still the only child. About eggs.

How exotic an egg have you tried?

Think about it.






























How about gecko's?

Yes, the household gecko's. Lizard, cicak, or whatever you call it.

I was too small to know the difference. They were hidden at a corner of an unexplored section of the house. Nicely gridded on the glass surface of a rattan coffee table. Four, maybe five of them. By the time Mother came to the rescue, the table was emptied.

How it tasted? A little salty, maybe. I seriously couldn't remember.

How it felt? Well, it was crunchy on the outside. Something similar to M&M's, softer, with empty fillings. When the shell broke on the tongue, it was... quite a scene in there. The egg white squirting. And the yolk flowing down the throat was...






























Argh! Fuck! Forget it! I'm having butterflies now.

Room to rent

My parents used to rent out a room.

It was the back room, the second largest after the master.

They rented it to a male college student. His girl came to "lived" in later on. I lepak a lot with them. Was the only child then. Need companions and friends to play with. Remember once I was playing in their room, they constantly pestered me to go out. Saying they need to study. It took me a while to give in. I'm a stubborn child. But come to think of it now, it must be a subject on Kamasutra.

The pair rented the room for a year or so. Never heard from them ever since. I always wonder what happened to them. Couldn't really remember their faces, but the only thing I can recall is the guy wear glasses, fair complexion, and the girl has a wavy, shoulder length hair.

By now, they should be in their 50s.



Water heater is a luxury then. And the house only has one, which is in the bath of the master. The girlfriend has a "habit" of showering without closing the door. This is true. I bet she's expecting the boy to grope her, or have a quickie when he comes back. From the outside, the bathroom is secluded. Guests won't know if we didn't tell.

It was rather safe.




Can you read floor plan? The red cross is where the bath is.



One day when she's taking her shower, I went in to have a peek. I know what you are thinking. I'm still a child. Just curious. Okay? It wasn't long. She was facing the wall opposite the sink. Enjoying the hot stream. She's wet and a little soapy. I scanned her from head to toe. She then turned. And saw me. This is very new to me.

Another quick head to toe before I ran out.



"Mummy, mummy! Why jeje down there got grass?"

"What grass?" Mother was confused. Father's listening, even more confused.

"Black grass!"



She came out blushing. And got a lecture from my parents for not locking the door for the x number of times. I was sitting on the sofa watching TV. Being a child.

They seldom lock their room door too. One night, I popped my head in at the door. It wasn't that late. There were still Chinese dramas showing on TV. But the lights were already off. Their silhouettes were visible through the faint light bouncing off their bodies.

A little worried, I ran out.



"Mummy, mummy! Koko and jeje fighting! Jeje going up and down on him!"



Another lecture. Bad thing for them. Good thing for me. At least I'm exposed young. I was slightly over three then.



This is my room now.

A-Parent-ly #32

As this is an ongoing experience, I will break them up into different postings over time. Hence, the random numbering on the title.

First off, no. I am not a parent in any way. But I can say, being one is not easy. Never knew how difficult and frustrating it is for my parents to bring us monkeys up until recently. Karma came early, I guess. Too early. Will tell more some other time.



Mother used to babysits. Newborns to toddlers. One at a time. Being her own "elder children", we helped out when she's busy with the housework. But it wasn't these cute little babies my first attempt to "babysitting". It was Bro.



There's this one particular time that is deeply carved in my memory.

It was just like any other help-your-mother-look-after-your-brother day. I was on the sofa, flipping an Old Master Q in hand. Laughing my chest off the whole time. Bro, only few months old, in his walking chair. Being a baby.

He started crying. It's getting worst by the second. I gave him the soft stopping cries "oooiii" (not the yelling one), while moving him. My eyes still on the brown pages of Old Master Q. I then smelled something... foul.

But, very familiar.

I quickly ran to Father's room. Climbed on his queen size bed standing. Faced my back on the huge mirror. Pulled my mini pants down. Bent over. Looked between my legs. Spread the cheeks a little. And checked me out if I've pooped myself. Thought I might be having a slight diarrhea.

Eh? Mana ada!? I went back out and got a shock.

Bro pooped all over his walking chair. So much, it got onto the floor!
"It was all yellow..." (Coldplay)



"MUMMY! BRO POOPED!"



I could never imagine what a five-year-old me can think of at that time. The response was so spontaneously done. Not a second wasted. From the moment of the stench digging deep in the nostrils, to the eyes squinting at the ass. While doing it with blood rushing to the head.

Why those steps? I wouldn't know. But. Simply. Flawless.



All I can say is the feeling of a 5mm thick rotan landed on your skin was really unpleasant.

"That's for you for unable to do a simple thing!"

My first time

Some stuffs dated back to college time. Wow, they are still here? Yeah, decided to give my hard disk a thorough cleaning. And I stumbled upon some old photos of her. So I thought, why not I write something about that, and that?

The smell of her. How I've touched her.

Brought her out of the room.

Guiding her. To the way I wanted.

Guiding her. To an empty space.

Shifted in. Slowly onto her.

Shifted higher. Pushed slightly harder.

Shifted higher. Pushed harder.

Shifted higher. Pushed as hard.

Shifted higher. Floored her.

I could feel the sensation. The adrenaline. Was beyond imagination.

I floored her. Floored her all the way.

Guiding and pushing her. To the max.

She maxed. Something was not right.

She can't take it. She can't take it anymore.

I shifted lower. And lower. And lower. And lower.

Pulling the side. With my hand.

I stopped her. She overheated.

Exhausted. I am exhausted.

I can never forget. My first time.

Driving a turbo-charged car.

This is exactly what I replied a girl asking about our first time in a public forum. Well, she didn't specifically ask which first time. So, not my fault. Anything goes. You should see what others had replied.



Cars, an expensive hobby to play with. Seriously. Even scale models are not cheap.

Evos, Scoobies, GTRs, are all out of the question. Don't even mention Eleanors and 8-cyclinders. Even 86s are so overrated and pricey because of the anime made popular by Shigeno-san, and of course, the movie.

Having to like cars, and wasn't born printing notes, the next best thing to do is to have a heart transplant. A better, more powerful heart.

The conversion costs. But when you floor it on the open road, the hell with the money lah! The feeling of your body glued to the seat when the boost starts kicking in is indescribable. The Gs are so orgasmic. And I haven't mention anything about the needle going beyond the highest marking.

In that ten, eleven months or so of driving her, she does bring me pride.



One day, she decided not to have a good term with a lamp post, brought it down, and lie herself on the divider after dragging it.


This is the post crash snapshot taken the next day.

Looks fine, right?



That night, I was having some *ahem* with Her. Once a Turbo rang and said Bro (was driving it) met an accident. Talks is in the car with him. I was stunned by the call. It was not bloody, but it is still not a good thing to hear at that hour. My legs was shaking from both the call, and the *ahem*. Tried to catch some breath from the "heavy breathing" earlier, changed, and rushed to the spot.

Bro's fine. Talks' fine. Lucky for them. Just minor whiplash, and chest pain from the seat belt locking during the impact. But she's not! From the moment I saw her, I know she's a gone case. Barely a year of driving her, I had to let go. Like what people had said, sayang loh, her heart is still in good condition. Sigh. I sayang Bro even more.

Claimed total lost for it. No point fixing her. The chassis won't be able take the torque anymore.

This is the back.































Would you want to fix it? Honestly?



As oppose to what the general public had said, speed does not kill, stupidity does.

Oh, it crashed right after midnight, on the first day of the Hungry Ghost Festival. Apparently, "someone" opened the rear door, and got down when the crashing had stopped.

Goosebumps?