let the altars shine

2006-04-24T18:44:00.000-07:00

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE: A PINCH OF SALT

I am not a breakfast person. Never was. Probably ain't ever going to be. Except when I am on one of my travels and I am staying at some hotel with a continental breakfast spread. I love sausages. And hash browns actually, although not too many hotels really do them well. they somehow always turn out mushy. I partially blame the buffet trays for the potatoes being cooped up for so long. Limp hash browns are disgusting. Much so if they have thick coast of flour on them. I like my hash browns light and crispy. Thickness does not matter. But it has to be light and crispy.

But on my own, I never have breakfast. It is just too much of a hassle to prepare everything and then there is the cleaning up after. There are just too many dishes and cutleries and bits of food involved.

Of course, anyone would say that a bowl of cereal hardly takes any time at all, right? And a bowl and a spoon, come on, that ain't too much to wash, right?

Of course not, silly! People simply do not understand the intricacies that go into that one bowl of cereal. Too many details. Just too many details.

What brand? Corn flakes or Coco Pops or one of those cute imported designer brands? Plain, sugar coated or honey glazed? What milk? And I am not just thinking chocolate, strawberry or plain. Carton or powdered? Low fat or full cream? And what about fruit? Bananas or mangos? I like strawberries, but the expensive ones you get at a Malaysian supermarket are so puny...!

And then, of course, the most perplexing part of a cereal breakfast - How long do I soak the cereal in milk? Too quick and the milk does not properly soak the flakes. Too long and it all just becomes gross. When I was much younger and mom would put a box of cereal next to a bowl of milk for me. The whole ordeal overwhelmed me. The inability to gauge was just too much and the mush factor bothered me a lot. I would eat my cereal and drink the milk separately so I would not confuse the elements.

Breakfast is that complicated. Do not even get me started on toasts. All that jazz about jams, marmalades, honey and peanut butter is just too much for me.

So I do not have breakfast unless I can help it, where someone would spread all the options out for me. And do the dishes for me.

My mornings begin with a snooze button, adjourns to the shower and straight to work. My drive is usually a dazed one. Morning music bothers me.

My morning drives are usually quiet. Unless there is some good talk topic on the radio. Sometimes there are smart topics like if teachers and government officers should be made to wear uniforms. Sometimes there are dumb topics like the morning they discussed what kind of girl Mawi would like to go out with. Who the hell cares?

I arrived at work at 9am today. Clock in time is at 8am but I have been checking in at 9am since I learnt that that is what everyone else does anyway. The moment I step into my office, my cubicle simply ten meters from the entrance, the editor calls out to me.

You got a new load. I want it in by noon.

Today?

Today.

How many?

Around fifteen, I think.

Fifteen?! How am I...

The look on the editor's face tells me that it would be best to shut up and simply get on with my heap of so-called fan mail. I honestly cannot understand what all these half wits are smoking when they send me all these junk. Among the most common one simply asks, "What inspires you?" Woman, I wander the streets at night and climb cliffs for a living and hell, that rocks my boat. Does that answer your question?

Bitch.

I sit at my postcard laden cubicle.

All the other cubicles of the other writers are empty. Out to be inspired, as the editor puts it. With the rare exception of Labour Day, which incidentally is a working day for us, I swear I almost hardly ever meet my colleagues. Only one of us is in the office at any given time. Why they bother with an office space, I will never figure out.

It is going to be a long week.

Before I go on, general introduction to myself, I am a writer. Not a newspaper or a magazine or some geeky website content writer. I am a writer of stories. Short stories. The kind that goes into a compilation sorta book and sees the bookshelves every four months. So I write stories.

The job really is not as glamorous as people think it is. It is actually quite pathetic. Me, I would not even call it having a proper job. More like a time waster. A bunch of eccentric writers, just hoping and praying that the next story we write would be our big break away from this stupid story compilation. A book of my own! That is what I would, or rather, anyone one of us around here really wants. A book with my name on the cover that I do not need to share with other people. I shall write a thriller, that would have everyone not just on the edge of their seats, but when they read it, they will not even have the guts to sit down. Or I shall write a horror, which will boost the sales of sleeping pills in the country threefold. Or a romance. One that will have people walking to work like zombies with smiles on their faces. I shall write a book that will change the world.

Bang!

What?!

More postcards.

But I already have all this to answer before noon!!!

Well look who is getting more and more popular by the minute.

Ten more cards slide onto my desk, spilling onto the floor.

I swear, when I get famous, I am going to get an assistant to answer stupid postcards for me. Oh screw that, I am going to get a whole warehouse full of assistants and they are going to do nothing the whole day but answer postcards. Why? Because people are going to read me, and they are going to take notice of me, and they are going to love me. Heck, they love me already! So what do we have here this morning?

Postcard one: How long did you take to write ‘The Angel Passed Me By’?

Well, you got to fuck up your life first, ma'am. And then you will have all the time in the world to write a story like mine. So to answer your query, - not really as long as you bloody think. Have a nice day.

About a month. Have a nice day.

Postcard two: I am intrigued by the persona on the demon in your story. Is the defeat of the demon in the end a portrayal of good conquering evil where you, as the writer conquer your own fears?

Oh an intellectual eh? One of those literature professors trying to see how the writer disguises bits of herself in the plot now, are we? Well if you really must know, I am the demon and the angels are really so called people in political power who think they know what is best for me and tell me which side of the road to walk on. Well professor, I walked on the wrong side and they exorcised me. Are you happy now?

Yes. You are very clever.

Postcard three: What inspires you?

Fuck you! Have some sort of imagination la. As if your life or anyone else's for that matter can be enriched in any way by me telling you what turns me on. Do you seriously give a two minute damn about what sort of agony I have to go through in order to contribute to a publication that you read in the toilets? And now you ask me what inspired me. I suppose you think that sounded like a smart question to ask. Go get laid.

The smell of freshly cut grass and muffins on a sunny day.

I already have a headache. I scrimmage through the pile of cards for silly questions that only require yes or no questions. Are you married? No. Do you have a cat? No. Are you a Gemini? No. Can I have your autograph? No. Can I buy you lunch? No.

I am often sceptical about the kind of readers our book gets. How did these maniacs learn to read anyway? How cheap are we selling our books for anyway, damn it!

I gather my minimum of fifteen cards, staple the answers to them. I drop my notebook and pencil into my bag; walk over to the editor's desk.

Lagi? What about the rest? You got a nice shoebox of them just half an hour ago.

Yea, well so did everyone else.

I glance about the silent office. I would say that there are a grand total of five people in the jailhouse today. The editor. The clerk. The office boy. The tea lady. And the resident bitch, me.

I wave my arm at the half dozen empty cubicles with overflowing shoeboxes on them.

So where do you think you are going?

To get inspired, boss.

I gave him a cheeky wink and waved my fingers in one of those sickening diva like poses. He shakes his head. He knows just too well to hold me back in the office.

Toddles!

Just remember the deadline! I want your story in by the end of the week!

I yell back from the corridor.

Yea, yea, I got it!

The door slams.

CHAPTER TWO: A SPOONFUL OF SUGAR

Making my bed is another one of those thinks that seems completely illogical to me. Details, details and just too many details to think about. Where the simple structure of a bed and mattress is pretty easy to figure out, everything else that goes with it could write a full fledge instructional manual on its own.

I initially get confused over which way is up. Is the Superman logo supposed to be facing the sleeper with its pointed end at the bed's head or foot? Sure, on the packet, the picture shows the pointed at the foot, but then the foot of my bed is against a wall, so should the tip then be facing the other way? Or would the logo then look nicer sideways, so that I would be able to see the logo facing me as I approach the bed? Wait a minute, then what if I was coming from the other direction?

I never used that Superman bed sheet. I went out and got some geometrically balanced sheets that would look the same way from every direction.

My problems did not end there, unfortunately. There is all that hassle about tucking the sheets that I simply hated. To tuck from the ends or the side? A straight or a triangular crease? Tucking the ends of the cloth under the mattress is another thing I hate because I always get my fingers scratched against the wood of the bed.

The worst part of it all is, it all becomes a mess again in the morning.

Or evening, depending on when I go to bed.

What is the point in making something look all pretty if its just going get messed up again in a couple of hours?

And you know what? Where pillows and blankets are concerned, there are more functional when left where they are in the morning. or evening. I mean, what is the point in stacking up pillows and folding blankets when I am just going to unstack and unfold them in order to use it. I figure that valuable seconds can be saved by simply removing the process of arranging and unarranging bed stuff from the resting, making out and sleeping activities.

I enter my bedroom and go straight to my crumpled bed. The smell of the night before is till on it. Just the way I like it. The sun is shining through the half opened blinds, but that is exactly why the foot of my bed is pushed straight into the wall just beneath it. From my bed, I could see the top buildings of outskirt Kuala Lumpur. A flyover is being built in the middle of nowhere and there is a perpetual congestion all around the little roads between the dirty buildings. I wake up to honking morning traffic and go to sleep with neon disco lights and amber street lights shining right into my apartment.

I love the view from my bedroom window. I love the activity. I love the noise. I love the glare. I love the chaos. The view from my window is a constant reminder that life is happening and has not stopped.

The chaos out there does not need justification to be screwed up. It can be as selfish and arrogant as it wants and no one can tell it to shut up and go away. All that mess out there is as true and honest as reality gets and it forced you to shove it and live with it.

No matter how many times I dwindle into the void of darkness, the angry world out there goes in day in and day out just the same. Nothing changes except perhaps a new road block or a new pothole. There are always just as many frustrated motorists and just as much smog. And that is never going to change no matter how many times my own life takes a halt.

The phone rings.

Yellow!

Bitch, why are you not at work?

Why would you call my apartment if you thought I was at work?

Er... Oh fuck...

Hey, want to do lunch?

I thought you would be working.

I am working now. I am being inspired.

Liar.

Meet you at the noodle store at noon. I am craving wantan mee.

You had that yesterday.

Well today is a brand new day in its own right.

Now where have I heard that before?

Noon, okay, and I want the Polly CD back.

Cheers.

Click.

I have an hour to waste, I mean, start getting inspired before meeting Jeanie. At the pace my life is heading, I think my social life currently only revolves around lunch meetings. I think of all my college friends and ex-colleagues from other offices that I am simply dying to get updated on, but just cannot schedule them in. Or they cannot schedule me in. This is a pretty sad reality check coming from like-minded yuppies. We’re just pushing mid-twenties and we are already thinking and balding like bad-tempered executives with every conceivable symptom of mid-age crisis.

Mine is rearranging furniture.

I’ve got this totally retro studio place at a steal. I know that lots of people think that studio apartments are out of fashion and are only for the scraping cheap skate, but I bloody well shopped around for the perfect studio and let me just tell you thins: It ain’t easy getting a decent studio with a good size nowadays at all. I swear, I was just this close to getting a normal apartment and knocking down all the walls until I laid eyes on this place. It is just perfect. One average sized room which I converted into a walk in closet, a large everything else area which is my bedroom and living room and study and kitchen, not too many columns and a great big centrepiece window. I tell you, Kelly’s video totally took my window concept.

I had the ceiling painted black and pulled out all the light bulbs off it. Ceiling lights just destroys the perpetual nothingness illusion I try very hard to create in my crib. Plus, light stands are awfully romantic.

And easy to rearrange.

The arrangement of my apartment furniture takes place at least twice a month. With the exception of my bed which is just perfect the way it is. Why twice? Well that is on average how often I wake up with this insatiable urge to straighten up the place, which is usually motivated by the frequency of having guests dropping by.

I picked up my cell phone and pressed number one on the speed dial.

Hello!

Are you under a table?

No, why?

Why are you whispering?

I am in the office la, what do you want?

So this is your office voice?

I cannot talk loudly because I have office mates all around me. So what do you want?

Nothing. I just miss your voice.

Okay, now you have heard it. Bye.

Bye!

I always wished he had something nice to say when I call him at the spur of the moment like this. That does not usually happen. In fact, he almost hardly says those things over the phone. Anymore. Or texts. He used to, and I keep every one of them. He reassures me that his feelings have not changed, but sometimes it just gets hard to recreate that overflow of emotions in me without words fuelling me on. Maybe that is just me. I am still trapped in that moment we first fell in love. That is a good five years ago. And although people tell me that it is a good thing that our relationship has evolved into appreciative familiarity, I just cannot help craving for that moment once in awhile.

Hm, maybe today is a good day to rearrange some furniture.

CHAPTER THREE: LITE SNEEZE

I tell you woman, I cannot understand why you are hanging on for so long. Leave the firm and take your stories somewhere else lah.

Jeanie told me the same thing yesterday and the day before. Oh what the heck, she tells gives me the same lines every time I whine about not getting my big break, which is just about every time we meet.

Tak tau lah. I am scared you know. What if I cannot find a story? What if all I am good for is short stories? Even fifty thousand words scare me. How am I supposed to do a whole novel thing? And get published?

What if, what if, what if. I tell you, if what if is all it takes to hold you back, you are so better off in bed and I mean sleeping, not other things because that is risky too.

She gives me that knowing wink.

Wei, at least I am in a stable relationship with a man I can totally depend on, unlike you, slut!

Ha ha! Jealous!

I rolled my eyes. I knew that Jeanie will respond that way.

Eleh jeling pulak! Fine, change of topic. What is you new story about?

Are you telling me that you are actually interested in my new piece?

Er... That is what friends are for?

Liar.

I should be more accommodating and less self-centred. My therapist said so, for some reason. So I am trying to find out what the fuss about the considerate persona is all about.

I thought last week you were trying out the perempuan melayu terakhir persona?

All that room in the baju kurung is just not working out. I will save it as a hari raya costume.

How useful.

So, your new story?

Actually, I do not really have it yet.

Babe, your fucking dateline is this Friday. That is five fucking days away.

So?

So you are going to take out your magic wand now and tell me that you are going to have a story for that bastard editor of your by Friday.

Ah...

What this season's theme anyway?

Feel Good stories.

And to be written by you, a closet depressive?

I am not a closet depressive. I am a perfectly happy young career woman.

Let me correct myself. Closet depressive in denial. I tell you, see Dr Rajan. He is not really as bad as you think. Plus, he has this goatee...

I am fine, okay? I am just nervous sometimes, that is all.

Nervous, emotional, pathetic, frustrated...

I call that being human.

Look girl, all I am saying is, maybe you should talk to someone before you do something to hurt yourself like... whatever la....

A dumpling slips from my chopsticks and falls with a light splash into my bowl of noodle-less soup.

Later in the afternoon, I find myself face to face with a colossal pile of laundry. So this is what happens when you do not do laundry for a month straight. I personally blame all the damn trips. Seminar here, talk there. Trips are great because I get to go to all these places and stay in hotels for free. Of course, it is all for work and I most of the time, the people I talk to about story writing are quite willing to learn and all. But sometimes, a tad too willing that all the stupid questions come out.

No matter how many times I tell people that the first spark always comes from within oneself, the six million dollar what is you inspiration question always and I mean always comes out. And it is truly amazing how many well dressed people actually are the ones to ask me this question. I tell you, the lot of my audience are dimwits. I am either amused by this or devastated. Over the years, however, I have compiled what I thought to be comprehensive and straightforward instructional kit for my audience, spelling out that inspiration is not exactly something you can buy off the shelf at Giant or Carrefour. My audience either cannot read nor have the imagination of a doorknob. But hey, it keeps me having a job, so heck. Dumb audience and all.

But I tell you, laundry is hell.

I pick out the clothes I am most likely to need over the next few days since I will be in town. My garb mostly consists of jumpers and t-shirts. Oh, and I would need lots of socks too. Before threatening to drag my ass to the therapist, Jeanie had wanted to drag me to see a stylist. Any stylist. All stylists. Simply for the lack of variety in women's clothing. I suppose she had given up and decided that psychological help needed to loosen that side of me first. I suppose it was a glaring indication when Steve boasted to his friends that his girlfriend did not wear skirts and would swap heels for sneakers with no questions asked or answered for that matter.

Steve. I miss you.

I long silent moment passes. You might be wondering what happens in this time lapses, but dude, I do not have a clue either. It just feels as it my life stands still as time whizzes by. I could see the world move by and sounds go by. But they are like wind to me. I register none of the senses and I absorb none of the emotions. It is as if I am watching the world go by on a movie screen, and no matter what is happening in front, behind, beside or around me, I sit there glaze eyed and still. I take in every detail, but they are like scenes from a sped up play. There, and then not there anymore.

And I phase out a lot these days.

Where was I? Oh, laundry!

Well you know what? If people are going to judge me on what I wear, then they would not exactly make the best of friends now would they? Maybe the most honest. But not exactly the best.

The world, of course, does not agree with such justifications. The world does not exactly agree with ANY sort of justifications, when you come to think of it. The world is unreasonable like that, I am constantly reminded.

In respond to that, I say fuck the world. I do not need to justify myself either.

I try to shove as much as possible in the washing machine, pressed the auto button and pray that the thing does not blow up.

Right next to the washing machine, my stove begins to simmer. Soup of the day. I love soups. That is all I ever cook, and you can bet your bottom dollar that having had years of variable soup experiences, I am pretty damn good at it. I once had this dream of opening a soup café. A run by with Jeanie saw peel after peel of infectious laughter and a whole passionate story of why teeth, specifically grinders were blessed into the carnivorous human species.

Soups, according to Jeanie, were for infants and old people. Well then I have my target market already then, right? Of course not. Because babies get sick of it after a year and old people eventually die.

Hence is Jeanie's in your face sense of logic. It might delay my plans to open a soup shop, but it is not going to stop me from simmering a good pot of ginger and minced chicken soup.

Jeanie says that I am an impulsive soup cooker. I make soup when I am nervous. I am a hopeless furniture rearranger and soup cooker, and you can bet your bottom Ringgit that I am pretty damn good at both of them, at doing both of them at the same time.

But I am not cooking dinner. Heavens, it is too early for that, plus Uncle Chong has that get together tonight with Cynthia and Kamal.

I. Drink. Soup. All. The. Time.

It is not that I do not take rice and whatever else. It is just that I always drink soup. I like soup. It is easily digested. And water is always good.

Well it is. Right?

CHAPTER FOUR: KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOUR

Why do they keep asking me all these questions?

Because they care about you.

So what difference can it make?

They want to see you happy.

I am happy. I am damn, fucking happy. Can they not see that?

They want to see you happy.

Oh, so now the pre-requisite of me being happy is having a man in my life? So if I am smart and successful but single, then I am not happy?

They want to see you happy.

Can they not see that I do have someone. He might not exactly be a knight in shining armour, but he makes me happy. He is caring and romantic, funny and intelligent. He has a good, honest, well paying job. He has ambitions and pursues is dreams. And he loves me.

They want to see you happy.

I am happy.

They want to see you happy.

These people define MY happiness by my marital status. I am happy. If they will just try to understand me, I am comfortable with my life now. I can do without the expectations and the pressure especially from them, especially now. I do not need to be married with children to feel complete.

They want to see you happy.

How do they know what makes me happy?

They want to see you happy.

I am happy. I am happy with who he is. I see him for who he is, not what he is.

They want to see you happy.

I am happy. I am happy with who I am. If that is not enough for you, see me for who I am. Not what I am.

CHAPTER FIVE: DEMONS

I can think of several reasons why the editor gave this season’s theme as so called Feel Good. He wants to get back to me for all the dark themed plots that I have been turning in. And I bet he is pissed because I get pretty good ratings for them too.

Feel Good, everyone! Expand your horizons! Think happy endings. All that happily ever after shit. Sunshine. Pink clouds. Furry rabbits frolicking in the fields. Chicken Soup worthy!

How dare you drag chicken soup into this, you prick!

I swear, that was a lucky man who was not in the office when I received the email. The rest of the office, all three of them, suffered the vulgar vent of my frustration, nonetheless. I hope they conveyed that to the editor. He and his bright ideas.

Expand my horizons, my ass! The only thing that would be expanding is his medical bill if only he were then when I got the email. I did not enter the office for two months after that, and as you have noticed, this week is my bloody dateline. And I do not have a story yet.

I brought my sob story to an underground gathering of the city’s finest minds. By underground, I do mean undercover and unofficial. A place where everyone knows who is who but no one really gives a damn. An inspirational place, if I ever needed to put my finger on one. I call this a gathering of the city’s finest minds because this is really where people meet to discuss ideas and share deep thoughtful and philosophical outlooks on life. Where one could not only be updated on the latest in issues ranging from local politics to global wars, one would also be filled in on what the mainstream media does not tell, as well as a number of solutions and improvements to the issues.

The gathering places goes by many names. Devi’s. Ravi’s. Sri Suria. Maulana. And its entrees include a collection of different roti canai and signature teh tarik at sixty sen per hit.

The council members tonight, Lou – a computer science degree holder who, upon graduation became a ginseng saleswoman and currently works as a yoga instructor, in search of a Zen way of life in the big bad city . Nose – a smart dude who is still in college because he fails exams on purpose. Why? Because he is with this loser chick who spends all his money on looking pretty and buying stuffed animals for her bedroom which is apparently a dorm shared by nine other girls. So he is definitely not getting it on over there. Teo – a struggling rock star, kinda like the white boy who wants to be a rapper. Just that he is nothing like Eminem and although we all think he is damn talented and all that, he is too chicken shit to crash in on any gigs, so he makes a living by designing lame websites for housewives he deludes into selling handicrafts online.

You do not have to make the theme any lighter just because he tells you to write a feel good you know.

Oh that is witty, a dark persona who thinks that the glory of hopelessness is upon him, ends with a happily ever after?

You could make it one of those supernatural ones, the light at the end of the tunnel and all.

The only light at the end of the tunnel story I would write would be about the dude dying and that could be the bloody light.

Excellent, a story about the journey of death…

That is rich. I am sure that I would be shoe in for Feel Good fiction of the century.

Feel good about dying la. Wei, lots of books tell stories of peaceful deaths with lights shining and all what.

All that religious references and all? Too much research.

Make up some general thing la. Heaven and angels and all, all almost the same across religions what.

Aiyah, if I write about that, then the story would be more about the people who are still alive right? Not about the bucket kicker.

Okay, okay, how about this: two depressives meet in a bar…

Sounds like a lame joke.

Listen la. Two depressives meet in a bar, they both have some drinks, do some lines, take a stroll to the car park for a little hanky panky…

Which is the Feel Good part la?

She gets bonked. Delivers a baby. And the story ends with the kid teaching them both the lesson of their life.

My friend, if I wrote something that began like that, I would have the kid be a bisexual schizoid and the family ends up being jumpers.

We all roar with laughter. Our teh tariks arrive along with one nasi lemak with fried chicken, one roti telur, one roti tissue, one roti planta, two saucers of dhal and one saucer of fish curry.

I shall spare you the council’s more in contemplative discourse on issues such as petrol price hikes, methadone laced needles, iron women, birds and solutions to suicides bombers in the Middle East. Six rounds of teh tariks, two tosai and two Maggi goreng later, I had the following suggestions for my story.

A psychotic murder mystery in a haunted mansion, which turns out in the end with the writer being the sole survivor which is the Feel Good part. But still got dark elements because she is disturbed by the ghosts of the memories for the rest of her life. Cue ready sequels.

A school story about a band camp with an evil swamp monster that goes around sucking the youth out of the kids. Kids age really fast and reflect on the contribution of their mommies and daddies before dying a horrible death of multiple organ failure in an abandoned log cabin.

A wandering soul. A story about a ghost who is misunderstood as a scary spirit. Even dogs hate her. Takes drastic action by possessing the body of a middle aged overworked lawyer and does some kind of good in the world. Yeah, I thought that this would just be to far out too.

An animal story. Harmony in cross breeding and the birth of a whole new generation of mutant animals who, because they are all a bit of each other, finally bring peace to the world.

None of which appeals to me as suitable material for my story, but it is better than nothing, I suppose. As always, I am ever fascinated by the imagination reaped from the present council members.

I reached my apartment at almost 2.30am. After a quick sip of soup and a quick shower, I stumbled into bed.

Tears stream down my face. I really miss you.

CHAPTER SIX: A TALKING HAMSTER NAMED ‘JASPER’

I would like to think that it is some sort of good omen to wake up every morning to the rising sun. I know that Oriental cliché about the rising sun. New day. New hope. New start and all that crap. I personally do not subscribe to this brand new day jazz. I mean, of course it is a brand new day. We can not actually have yesterday repeating itself all over again now can we? Because then we would already know what is going to happen and then we might actually do things differently. And if that is going to happen and the day will not end the way it is meant to, then there is no point in repeating the day then, right? Humans are such irritatingly fickle creatures and always tries to get ahead of their peers and all. So no. Time and nature just will not let that second chance occurrence happen. We just do not bloody deserve it.

To me, the rising sun means my night has ended. And I can out into the world and pretend that I am not that lonely and so broken inside. For a few daylight hours, I can run away from these voices and although they follow me and catch up with me so often, reminding me of my loss, I would have to draw strength from crowds of people. Because the crowds of people are numb. Expressionless. Unemotional. I have to be like that too. I will not break down in crowds.

And I have become very good at pretending.

It rained this morning. I liked to be out in the rain because it is cold outside and even though I am in a crowd, people do not look at each other’s face when it rains.

My work day begins with an extra massive traffic jam because of the downpour. More people drive during the rain instead of taking the bus or LRT so I sit in the great crawl. Some parts of the city have flooded and I look forward to these parts with great anticipation.

I know that everyone blames flash floods to poor city planning and bad irrigation systems. I do to. But all has been said and not done and here we are and we have flash floods. If we had the authorities try to fix the problem, we would just have more road closures and road constructions because someone would need to dig holes in the road which would take forever. Assuming a miraculous day comes where they actually complete the task years and years later, the road will be patched and potholes shall appear.

But back to the floods. Water, water everywhere. Sometimes there would be the freak floods that just give the tyres a hard time. But once in awhile, there would be the glorious fully fledged flash floods. The kind where water seeps into old cars through the worn out door rubbers. Sometimes, the floods would be so stupendous, there would be sampans navigating through the affected areas.

Once in awhile, there would be a brave driver or two that would try to drive through the flood anyway. I have huge respect for these people. Because of all the mud and dirt, the water would be a milky brown and it was next to impossible to tell where the deep ends of the water are. Hell, one would not even be able to tell where the road ends and where the curbs begin. Then, because it is usually a stormy phenomenon, there would be winds and broken branches of trees or a fallen lamp post or traffic light post or signboards or something.

But yea, people drive through anyway. I tell you, if I ever had a company of my own, I would totally hire these people to work for me. They would be my drivers and dispatch boys because no matter the elements of nature against them, they would go through it to accomplish the task. Unlike the wussies choosing to wait out the storm and floods.

You should guess by now that I am one of those crazy flood drivers and I am delighted to report that a local car lists among one of those who turned motorboat braving the great Kuala Lumpur flash floods.

Phil!!!

I swear, the scream of my name was the first thing I heard when I entered the office in the morning. It was not the editor, he was not in because if he wee, there would be no shouting of any sort in the office. I know that voice, although I honestly cannot put my finger on a name for it or how the face of the voice would look like.

So I took my time arranging my umbrella in the almost non-existent reception area. A tall man with spiked up hair waves and walks up to me. I recognised him as a colleague. A fellow writer, but I swear I cannot remember his name so I just winged in a few cliché small talk questions. The kind you would ask anyone with a pretty standard answer for every question.

Hey, how are you?

I’m terrific. Caught the rain eh?

The rain rather caught me, I think.

Hahaha!

Hey, what are you doing here?

I work here la.

I know la, but they did not send you for some sort of training session somewhere or something?

It was cut short because of school holidays, so I am checking in here. Dateline this week what.

So what is your narrative about?

I am almost done with mine. A family story. They go on a holiday and get into a row. There was this landslide and they call got trapped in their cabin and forced to sort out their differences. Family co-operation gets them out safely in the end.

He stands there grinning, evidently very proud of himself. I could have thrown up on his shoes there and then. It was one of the cheesiest plots I have ever heard. I forced a smile back at him.

What about you?

Uh a… well it is an animal story. Yea, that is what it is about. Chaos in the animal kingdom and a little girl from the human world is summoned to make everything peaceful again through the power of… er… love.

Fuck, that is the corniest story I can think of. I can always say that I changed the plot later.

Cool! Tell me more about it?

Tell you more? What is there to tell you? All I want is for you to shut up and leave me alone.

Well, there is Jasper...

Eh eh eh... remember what the editor said about localising our characters? Malaysian characters for bangsa Malaysia. Harmony mah. And then must majmuk some more.

Okay. Ali Jasper. He is a hamster and he...

Oh, I love hamsters! Is this one of those stories where the animals wear clothes? I could just imagine Jasper now, in one of those cute flannel pyjamas! Oh oh! and one of those Arabian hats with the bulu-bulu at the end. Ali Baba style! Adorable!

Then it hits me. Dean. Khairudin. That is his name. The office gay boy. His pen name is Deanna and his stories are all about the cutesy- cutesy fluffy-fluffy thingies. According to Jeanie who has met him at a press conference a couple of weeks ago, he totally bitches like a man. Then again, Jeanie has always been one to have uncanny ways of manipulating gender stereotypical words.

Yea, the animals do wear clothes, and you know what? Jasper does go around in pyjamas. That is because he is a sleepwalker and talker and he creates trouble because he tells tales to people.

And then?

There is eagerness in his eyes. What have I done?

So the animals of the kingdom tie Jasper to a pole. So he is there, tied up, asleep and babbling to himself. This attracts the evil spirits.

And then, and then?

You got to read about the rest in the book just like everyone else!

Dean let out one of those Mak Datin sighs. Aw…

I gave him a wink and walked over to my cubicle. A talking hamster named Jasper? What the hell was I thinking?

It is still raining. I have been staring at my blank Word document for the past forty five minutes. Nothing comes. Nothing that has to do with a Feel Good story, at least. How do I write something which is so not my style? How can I do such injustice to my own signature pieces? How are my readers going to take it?

In the past, I have written about murders and cutters and jumpers and happy, happy drinkers. And you know what? I am pretty damn good at writing stories that made people cry. The good sort of cry. In my opinion, at least. The cry that people never thought that they are capable of. I can bring the demons within oneself out and chuck it on the table for them and I can make one pretty damn depressive about it.

So how the fuck an I writing a Feel Good? Me? The girl who dresses perpetually in black and cries every night at God’s feet to sleep?

How do I write a Feel Good when every one of my story does the complete opposite? I am a Feel Bad person.

I flip my calendar. I have four days to the deadline, which means I still have three days to find an idea, assuming I write like a total mad woman the day before the due. Well, it is not like I have never done that before. Nothing new.

I need to look for my Muse. For real this time. I picked up my bag. Dean waved his fingers at me and smiled.

I need sleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN: OLIVE OIL

I woke up at about six in the evening. When she heard that I might be going out for another prowl session, she wanted to come along. Although I know that she would be genuinely good company, I declined. This is something I needed to do on my own, alone. Dangerous or not.

Just try to stay out of people’s way and out of their business okay. Remember, as little eye contact as possible. Be as discreet as possible. Try not to draw too much attention to yourself.

Bla bla bla.

I am serious okay. Those people are crazy. Do you have your pepper spray?

That girl likes to look out for me, I know. And she is also taking this grand opportunity to show off her so-called know-how with the dark side.

All I am looking for is a setting. I am not going to talk to anyone.

Promise?

Unless they come and talk to me, I will have to reply something right?

Absolutely not! You look down and fucking walk away.

I thought they might take that as rude or kurang ajar or something?

That is if you suddenly run away. Walk away and keep near lamp posts.

Fine.

I had already decided that my setting is going to be some dark corner or Kuala Lumpur. I am well aware that I do not have, at least at this point in time, have even a single character of stories for them to tell, but that is still cool. When I have found my setting, I will let the place tell me the story.

Why do I choose darkest Kuala Lumpur to tell my story? Because I refuse to write some silly happy-happy story about a family of talking jackasses. No, I have not forgotten my oath to a Feel Good theme, but the editor did not say what the characters need to feel good about, right? Yea, so I know I cannot stray away too far from the let us appreciate the glory of life sort of theme, but I can push the edges of that and I certainly intend to for as far as possible.

And you know what? I am going to do it well. I am going to make that editor cry!

It was still early by the time I dragged my ass out of bed. By early, I meant around half pass seven. The sun is almost completely set and the traffic from my window’s view had their headlights on. The traffic has rather eased, so instead of dots of lights trapped in a stand still congestion, I see streaks of light, whizzing along the windy roads. There is such order to it. Of course, there are those occasional daredevils weaving between the jam and let me tell you that they are not just motorcycles. Cars. Vans. Trucks. Busses. Busses are the worst kind. If you get stuck in front of a bus, it is like being in one of those Jaws flicks where the mouth of the shark in itself practically overshadows you.

If you follow behind a bus, however, you might live off the bus’s size and ruthlessness advantage and find traffic not so mean on you. This is assuming, of course, that you camouflage your car as the bus’s tail as it weaves. And you have an air ioniser. Or an oxygen tank built into your air conditioner.

My first night on my so called prowl. But we cannot exactly call it a prowl now can we? I am not stalking anyone and I am not exactly walking towards a specific direction. But then again, I am following everyone. Those that look different. Those that look suspicious. Those that look like they might have a story to tell. Those that look like they may be hiding secrets. And I am walking towards a direction. The direction of so called darkness. Dirty allies. Back lanes of dodgy night clubs with muffled techno music seeping out.

It is almost 11pm but in Petaling Street, it only means that the fun has just begun. The lights are its its brightest and every boom box and amplifier in the vicinity, shop, stall and road, is up full blast, every one of them playing different songs from different genres. Walking down or up or side or beside, well, walking anywhere in the proximity of Kuala Lumpur's most celebrated street is like a round the world trip. Kudos to the dude that came up with the 'Malaysia Truly Asia' promo. There ain't no intermission between one amp to another.

You can be hearing (because no one really stops and listen) Canto jazz at a stall selling fake Rip Curl t-shirts and Hindustani dance at the very next stall selling Rolex watches that everybody know will stop working in two months' time but stops to look at the pieces anyway. And the watch seller, who is well aware that the watch will stop working in two months but tries to convince passer by that it is the real deal anyway. Immediate opposite, a screamy Malay rock and roll number blarrs at a stall that sells brass belt buckles and right next to that stall, the latest Green Day song deafens the crowd hovering over fake VCDs.

The changing music tones extends throughout the whole street. Socks stalls. Roasted chestnut stalls. Punjabi suit stalls. Vegetables. Fruits. Stuffed animals. Each and every one of them not only provides the haggling experience of a lifetime, but also a background tone to go with it. Music from every region of the world. Japanese. Arabian. Thai. English. English. English. Reggae. Pop. Blues. Hip Hop. Ulik Mayang fusion. Heck, even the blind beggers sitting in the middle of the narrow walkways with a paper cup in front of him plays old Malay songs on an acordian! This is Petaling Street. A true personification of that music unifying and making the world go round jazz. Screw Malaysia Truly Asia. It should be Malaysia Takes On the World!

But the life of Kuala Lumpur's noisy street is not what I am looking for. Too much life here. Too many people looking for oppourtunities here, be them seller, buyer, pick pocketer, sexual harasser and various other people looking to score in a very wide sense of speaking.

I wandered the streets all around the vicinity for a long time. I got scared. Many times. For many reasons. Because it was getting darker and darker. Because it was getting more and more quiet. Because eventually, there were less and less people. Less and less cars.

Less and less time to find my secrets.

I sat on the steps of the closed Central Market, looking out across an empty car park to the amber light shining onto a bus stop. I have been wolf whistled a dozen times, walked away from two groups of mat rempits in desperate need of shaving and gave a Ringgit to a crying woman cluthing a baby who would not have stopped following me otherwise. Misery and despair, I can see, but what are your secrets? What keeps you going? Where is the Feel Good to all of this? Is there even a Feel Good to all the misery I see tonight? This is the world as far I see it. A world of neglect. A world forgotten. A day lived for a day at a time because death lurks too close to the next day.

And as far as I am concerned, these are my audiences. Those who have given up on anger because if they had anger, they would have drive. These people are beyond angry. The are hopeless. They are sad.

What Feel Good story can I offer the dirty bearded man sleeping on newspapers beside the broken Dayabumi fountain? What Feel Good story can I offer the blind woman with two small daughters who sits on the pedestrian bridge across the Bandaraya LRT station? What Feel Good story can I tell to the girls standing under the lamp posts at the corner of Bukit Bintang? What Feel Good story can I tell the boys whose lives revolves around the speed of the night lit streets of Kuala Lumpur or Petaling Jaya or Bangsar or Damansara?

An odd couple disembarks at the bus stop. I found this strange and on instinct, tailed this couple.

They walk towards Kotaraya. I follow at a safe distance.

The couple were in an argument, I deduced. Someone said something to someone. I was too far away to hear what it is about. The man screams at the girl. The girl breaks down in tears. There is not much of a crowd to attract at this time of the night. The man yells some more. The girl screams back. One of them rises a hand to strike. The other stands fiercely still.

That moment froze.

It does not matter what happened next.

I have found my Muse.

CHAPTER EIGHT: IN THE DESERT

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter--bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

Stephen Crane

My story would be about a frozen moment in time, where one needs to choose between two routes which are both negative, where taking either would be detrimental in some fatal way. Where turning back was not an option. Where the need to make decision is forced. Where to even keep still is an error. My story would be about being caught in that second, minute, hour, day, week, month, year or even that lifetime of unevitable doom that seems to last forever. Everything loses meaning.

It did not matter what happened as a result of last night couple's fight. One of them have raised a hand. This is the point of no return. It no longer matters if the one whom had raised the hand followed through with the intention or not. Whether the hit goes through or not, a heart, if not both, is weakened. The moment which may span a second to eternity, is frozen.

This shall be the moment I make a Feel Good from.

CHAPTER NINE: ONE BIG RED ONION, CHOPPED

I am running.

I am running away from something. I am not sure what it is. But is bright where I am heading. It is warm there and I can see people... happy... there. But I must run there. And I must run there faster. I must run faster and faster before the monster catches me.

I am dreaming.

I must be dreaming. Everything fades into a blur and I am standing in a glow of white light.

And then I fall.

I try to wake up, but I cannot. How do you force yourself to walk up from a bad dream?

I am falling. Spiralling. It is getting darker and darker.

I am back in my bed. I open my eyes. But I cannot move. I try to get up. I try to sit up. I try to move my toes. I try to move a finger. I cannot move.

I could feel the matress below me and the blanket over. I could feel the pillow beneath my head. I could hear a motorcycle speeding in the distant. I could see the dim glow of amber street lamps shining in through my window.

But I cannot move.

I try to scream. I could feel the air flow out of my throat and through my lips, but not a sound came through.

When I close my eyes, I return to the falling darkness all around me. I do not want to go there. I come back to the numbness of my bed and tried to move. But it seems, the harder I try, the stiffer my body becomes. I thought that I was dying.

That was when thoughts of you rushed in.

How you saved my life. How you swept me off my feet and bring me to universes far beyond my imagination. How you picked me up when I was at my lowest and brought me to heights I have never thought possible. How you were perfect. And made me feel peace. Safe. Warm. Loved. Complete.

I swear, I am going to spend the rest of my life wondering which is worse: Dreams of dying, or beautiful memories of you and me.

CHAPTER TEN: LIGHT SOY SAUCE

The alarm clock goes off. I smash it against the floor and go back to sleep. There is no way in hell that I am going to wake up at 7am when I just got back from what I would suitably consider work, at close to 5am.

I woke up again at almost 11am. By the time I got to the office, it was half past noon.

You! Can you see what time it is?!

Give me a break, I have been up all night.

What have you been doing?

Research.

Until what time?

Uh... 5am...

What the hell kind of research do you do at 5am?!

My story... I think...

Your story? You were on one of your midnight walks again is it? I thought I made it very clear that I do not want another story where people commit suicide or slit their wrists in this season's collection! What have you been...

I did not really heard the rest of what he said. I just stood phazed in front of his office as he blows his steam. It is not the first time I am here. Heck, if I do not stand like a complete dungu at least once per season, then there is something very wrong with the meds he is talking. I knew he was done when he waved a warning finger at me. Oh momma, I am so scared.

And you better have a good one by the end of the week.

Okay.

And I walk back to my cubicle. Except for the editor who is an old grouch, the rest of the office is empty. Lunchtime. Now, on a normal day, and by normal I mean on a day when the extend of my misdemenours do not result in a yelling but merely a sarcastic roll of the editor's eyes, I would blast my computer speakers with internet streamed rock and roll music. It is not that I am not in the mood now. It is just that I really do not have the appetite for another shell session. I am tired. Plus, I really need to get into the mood for my story.

My story would take place in the middle of the night. It shall be a story of submission. It shall be a story of liberation. It shall be a story of anger beyond frustration. And then this is where I differ from the overated cliche. It shall not be a story on patience or hope. And the essence of the story shall be about what most people are most afraid of: loneliness.

You see, everyone is afraid of loneliness. Anyone who says they are okay being on their own never spoke of a fatter lie. That person has probably never been lonely before. Or rather, they have been lonely, because I think that everyone really is inside, but they never realised it. Maybe it is better that way. Never to have learnt loneliness. To be forever oblivious to the idea of being alone. To be ignorant about the whole phenomenon.

Loneliness is more than not being around family or friends or colleagues or people you know. Loneliness is far beyond being all by yourself in a foreign land.

Loneliness is being with anyone and everyone you know in a totally familliar place, and feeling that no one knows who you are. And no one knows wants to know who you are. Because no one cares who you are. And you are shouting out to everyone around you. And you remember every memory that each of every one of them have shared with you. And they are important events to you. But not to them. That is loneliness.

And then you think that because you are surrounded by people you know and to you, are very close with, at any time now, someone will come to you, and you will snap out of this insane void that you are in. That if you just hang on and have faith in people, some one will be able to see right through all this you are going through and penetrate into your downward spiral.

And you wait and wait and wait.

And no one comes.

And you give them a couple more seconds. Minutes? Hours? Days? Months?

Years?

More years?

Years and years and years.

And then you came.

And I knew I was not lonely anymore.

I drew my first ounce of strength from your lips the first time we kissed. And you might not believe me when I say that I never saw it coming. It was all a sudden move. By you. And I never touched the ground from that moment on.

CHAPTER ELEVEN: I GOT SOUL BUT I AM NOT A SOLDIER

I have received an email. It is so rarely that I do because, well, I hardly ever answer them. For me, emails are just so impersonal. I know a lot of people put a lot of effort in trying to personalise emails with icons and coloqial language and all. But it is all just so devoid of personal expressions, this all email jazz. Too open to miscommunication and mis interpretation. Too open to abuse. And there are a hell lot of abusers out there.

The email was from Julia, a writer colleague, one of those kind of people you would meet in life that will just keep emailing you no matter how long you try to intentionally neglect and ignore them. I have met the girl at an office party once. A small, petite girl who has a mouth that would swallow the universe whole and digest without chewing. In her dillusioned mind, she is this super perky princess of the world and everyone around her are damned to listen to her.

Today, Julia has writtened to say that she has completed and submitted her story. Let me correct that. She has written to totally brag about her story, iced with the fact that she had submitted her piece in already, and that it had already been accepted for publication.

Julia's story is a fantasy. Typical. It is about an inter-dimensional battle of aliens against the faerie relm with elves and all. Some shit about one world pissing off the other one and here comes the this wizard to save the day. In the end, earth is saved from invasion, the sun rises and the human folk live happily ever after.

What the fuck? I mean, where the fuck? Where the fuck is the Feel Good element in her piece? The fact that the humans are too lame to defend our own planet from an extraterestrial invasion? Or that some faerie creatures have managed to blow up spacecrafts and that aliens believe in faeries?

This is the reason why I stay away from fantasy. Too many new worlds and new dimensions and creatures with magical powers and all. Too many things to remember about the previous scenes. Above all, too many things that, well very frankly, is next to useless in the real world. Besides a shallow moral, the story is solely of entertainment value. I can also tell you that all the themes are the same. It is on bravery. Bravery, courage, honesty - The same category. Then there are the stereotypical beautiful princess meets rebel prince with big sword.

Or it could be an ugly common girl. But she needs to transform into some beautiful character towards the end of the story.

This is exactly why I much prefer experiential work. The sort of work that is explorative, but of the human's own inner workings. The sort of story that makes people understand each other better. Especially disturbed people. I think that there are just too many happy stories out there and this is not logically reflective of what the world is really like. I mean, there are so many more unhappy people in the world than happy people. And everyone is hiding behing so called happy personas. They pretend they are happy. The think they are happy but they are really not.

And as such, everyone has a secret.

This is what my stories are about.

I think that writing is extremely important. It is a form of documentation. I go to my bookshelf and I pick up an Indian or Chinese or French or Spanish or Russian or British book and I read about the civil unrests that happened decades ago. I pick up something Arabic or African and read about they customs and cultures. All expressed from experience. And for a moment the length of the book, you see the world from the eyes of the writer in times and cultures beyond your own. The stories are not always happy. But they are real. They are the truth.

This is also why I supported Dean's call for a localised approach to stories. I want Malaysia to be read and understood, not just on a tourism brochure. But in a book that tells things as it is. The reality of the situation. Malaysia is desperately lacking in these things. The film industry has caught up, though. Malaysian literature lags pathetically behind. Too many talented writers wasting their time on sci-fi and fantasy fiction.

How did Julia localised her story? An alien egg was laid in Damansara and the folk in the surrounding areas, as far as Hartamas and Mont Kiara joined in the faerie batallion to kill the infant alien, who immediatly after hatching is already as blood thirsty and ugly as its parents. Very good. I hope that generations from now, they burn your book.

Oh Philly!!!

Someone shoot me.

Phil darling, I got the mail and you ada banyaaaaak postcard hari ni.

Pardon the gay office boy.

He lugs a pink pastic bag of cards and drops in on my desk. He then takes out a compact powder and dabs between his plucked eyebrows while staring sharply into a small round mirrow. Snapping the compact close, he proceeds to sort out the cards. On my desk.

To be fair, I am not really sure if the dude is gay. In this parts of Kuala Lumpur, he would be one of those softies who may simply just be super sensitive about everything physically, emotionally and critically. He does not cross dress, thank god, and does dress in designer men's wear. Nonetheless some office visitors have enquired discreetly and placed bets if he wears women's underwear. The pool now stands at ninety four Ringgit.

Most of the time, I cut him slack. Hormone imbalance is not his fault.

Kak Phil, you should put some sort of tray or something like an inbox on your table la.

Why?

So that I can put all your pretty postcards when it comes la. You are starting to get so many already.

Where are all these coming from? I never used to get so many.

Everyone is getting extra. Boss did this campaign. He sold our old stock of books at half price at some book fair at PWTC and gave away cards with it.

He sold books. At half price. At PWTC. And gave away cards?

I look at the cards on my table. More stupid questions to answer.

CHAPTER SEVEN: BEAUTIFUL

It is all your fault. You and all your attempts to go straight and all. Why do you have to impose it onto me? You did not used to be like this. No. I remember you to be quite different. You have changed. I do not know you anymore. You do not know me either. And it hurts me that you do not even care to try.

He is beautiful. If you just get to know him, you will be able to see just how much you and him are far more alike than you think. Than either of you think. Because you doing all these things to him, doing all these things to me, is not helping his impression of you either.

And it is so important to me that you get along.

But you do not see it, do you? You think that if one does not suit the criterias, then I should just go pick another.

And you know what, you trying to drive that point home to be is not helping either.

Both of you are making me mad.

I need you. And I need you. I need both of you in my life. I need you both to get along and to be happy with each other. Do you both see how you are tearing me? How you are ripping me apart? Can you see the masks I have to wear so that I can have both of you in my life?

You are both my happiness. You are both also the reason why I cry every night.

You are my peace of mind.

And you are my heart.

Please do not ask me to choose. I cannot live without you.

CHAPTER EIGHT: SUGAR HIGH

Phil.

Yes boss.

What is this?

He pointed at a big aluminium garbage can standing on a chair next to my office desk. The can is labeled "INBOX."

An inbox?

An inbox.

An inbox.

Yea. An inbox.

Ha.

I know very well what I was in for when I brought the garbage can into
the office. I knew that there would first be suspicion. This was
confirmed by all the people looking at me heaving a trash can out of
my car at the parking lot, dropping it entirely by mistake at the
lobby of the office building when the cover popped off and I tried to
make a grab for it, and failed, and then dragging the can into a life
full of people in business suits until my I reached my office floor. I
have no idea what the big del is. The trash can was empty and there
was no smell coming out of it. Oh heck, it is a brand new trash can I
bought from Aik Keong's Gardening shop. It still has his green
watering pail sticker on it.

And then the turning heads. As if I have not achieved that already. And then the queries. This is when things started to get interesting. My standard answer was, because I need a place to put all these cards that I keep getting. A simple, straightforward answer which, I should point out, does not suggest any sort of negative connotation at all. It is a place to put things in and if people choose to perceive, or rather, discriminate a garbage can as a place to put, well, garbage, then it is their own prejudice towards garbage cans. As far as I am concerned, the can is where I want to store my things. I never said that I was going to, well, throw the whole thing away. Oh come on, simple logic would tell you that I really would not burden myself with dragging a filled garbage can out of the building now would I? People should really use their brains.

My editor, for all his tight ropes and sarcasm, knew this. It never fails to surprise me over and over again that someone who is so stone cold in everything else, could have such a cynical sense of logic. He would scream at me and give sick writing themes like Feel Good. But he was pretty mild with the garbage can gag. He knows that I cannot possible throw away every single postcard I get and even if I did, more would just keep coming. Above all, it is my job to answer at least some of the cards either way.

I am cornered.

He rubbed this in by being the one to pour in the first load of this morning’s cards into the garbage can. The cards slid from the bag and hit the bottom of the garbage can with a slight clink. Smiling, he then told me that he wanted one, just one answered today.

No, he is not cutting me slack. He is not that sort of person. I know better. He wants me to bend into the garbage can to pick up a card to answer. And he also knows that I do not have a choice.

That was when I produced a leaf poker which bulged sharply from my backpack.

The editor walked back to his desk. Evidently amused.

Dateline is tomorrow, Phil.

He shoots. This time, he scores.

I still have a blank computer screen. All this pressure is not helping me at all. I know that I should start writing. Something. Anything.

I need a character.

CHAPTER NINE: HEAVEN

I need a normal character. Someone very ordinary. At least on the outside. Someone people could and would mistaken for anyone. The average Malaysian walking in the streets. Doing very normal things. In a very normal things. A completely unsuspicious character. One who does not attract any attention.

Someone anyone would be able to relate to.

It is 9am. I need to find a character. I go for breakfast. Well, a sort of breakfast.

Muni’s place is packed with people.

Parking myself at a corner of a long table, just beside the fridge holding cans and cartons of soft drinks and fruit juices, I pull out a newspaper and spread it what I hope was unsuspiciously or at least to the effect, on the table. The table wasnjoined together with a number of other tables to create a long common eating table.

There are four rows of such tables here. they were not fancy tables. They were the folding sort, with a marble motive on its top in grey, green or pink. The chairs were a mix of plastic stools, plastic chairs with backs and metal stools, most of them faded into shades of red and blue.

There were all sorts of people at Muni's shop that morning. Men with loosely worn ties, factory workers with rolled up sleeves, old folk staring at newspapers through thick spectacles.

Minum?

Turning, a thin Indian man with a loose shirt stood next to my table. He was not holding any paper or pen. I knew that he was taking my order.

Milo ais.

Makan?

Roti banjir kasi satu.

Dey! Milo ais u'ne... roti banjir u'ne...!

He walks over to a man in an orange shirt who just sat down at the other end of the table. Orange shirt man was holding a briefcase which he carefully places under the table close to his legs. He gets his order shouted at too.

Teh tarik u'ne... roti tissue u'ne...!

The man the walked over to the counter. Four men in t-shirts and jeans were waiting to pay for their food. A man wearing a helmet hurridly cuts the queue but the others let him. He was buying cigarettes. One of the men waiting at to pay grabs a newspaper, folds it and tucks it under his armpit. Another takes a piece os tissue from an opened packet on the counter, unfolds it and wipes his forehead. The Indian manning the counter gives them the bill and all of the four men takes out their wallets from their back pockets, each insisting to pay for each other. Finally, the tallest of the four men, wearing a maroon shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows firmly puts two ten Ringgit notes on the counter and pushes the money belonging to the other three men away. They all smile and take their money back. The man at the counter rings the register and returns the change. The four men walk away.

The man preparing my roti was a fat guy wearing a dirty Lipton apron. The roti is almost ready and he gives it a flip and then another flip. Right next to my baking roti was the orange shirt man’s roti tissue which looked like a huge flat disc next to my slightly thicker roti. The fat man grabbed some sugar with his hands and sprinkled it rather generously over the roti tissue. Carefully, he skillfully scrapes around the roti tissue and gracefully flips the thin roti, rolling it on one end until it forms a delicate cone shape. He pulls out a silver plate and props the cone onto the plate.

He turns to my roti. Flipping it off the grill with a single stroke, he drops it on a chopping board where, with his bare hands, he claps my roti four times until it becomes a crumpled and rather sorry mass of roti. As if that is not enough, he pulls out a big knife and chops the roti two times across this way and two times across that way. He picks up all the almost loose pieces of my roti with his knife and drops it on a green plastic plate.

He then pulls out two silver saucers and turns to a huge pot of dhal and a smaller plastic container of sambal. He scoops a ladleful of dhal and puts it in one saucer and puts a bit of sambal in the other saucer. He then calls the counter man who delivers the silver plate of roti tissue and both the saucers of gravy to the orange shirt man. The fat man then picks up my plastic plate of agonized roti, pours a ladleful of dhal straight onto the roti and puts a small spoon of sambal on the side. This, he delivers to me himself.

He asks me if I wanted a fork and spoon. I shake me hear and ask for some tissue instead. The fat man walks over to the orange shirt guy, bends over and they exchanged a word or two. He then walks over to the counter, retrieves a loose tissue for me and a set of fork and spoon wrapped neatly in a pink tissue paper and puts it beside the orange shirt man’s silver plate.

I looked at my roti banjir and tried to find a corner to tear off. Failing such, I simply pulled at one of the almost loose pieces, dabbed it a little against another pieces so that the dhal would not drip, put it in my mouth and started chewing. The dhal was diluted and still had hard bits of lentils and seeds in it. The sambal, which was a dark red colour, had just a tad too much sugar in it.

PART TWO

CHAPTER TEN: THE MAN IN THE ORANGE SHIRT

I have told you about these very papers three times. See my fingers? How many am I holding up? One, two, three. Three! Three times.

I hate it when he talks to me like I am a little boy. I look at the floor. I do not know where else to look actually. And I think looking at the floor, and admiring how worn out my shoes have become is what I am expected to do. So I look down. At my shoes. While the boss yells at me. In front of the rest of the office.

What am I paying you for? To sit at your computer and chat all day long? I told you to come up with a simple design. A simple, clean design with straight, let me spell that out, boy s-t-r-a-i-g-h-t lines.

No you did not. Yesterday you asked me to think outside the box. Oh, my shoelaces are untied. But I should not bend down to tie them. Not now. Hm. I wonder if I will really hard, the laces would tie themselves together?

And you give me this… this… this piece of crap.

Oh just wrap up already. Everyone knows that you are just going to change your mind about the whole design concept every other day, if not every other hour anyway.

You march right up to your desk this very minute, young man. I want a totally new design on my desk before I come in tomorrow morning. Straight lines! Understand?!

I mumble a yes boss. Yes, you fickle minded, sorry excuse for a boss. You see? This is exactly what happens when you give stupid people a load of money. Or rather, the stupid people inherit a lot of money. Or the family business. And think that they are a hell of a great for that.

I strut back to my cubicle.

Do I like my job? Well, I like being a designer. I like the creative environment. Wait, let me rephrase that. I like what the tv and movies portray to be a pretty cool creative environment. I picture my colleagues to be funky chicks and cool guys with ponytails. My office would have a snack bar and a pool table. A place with a worn out leather couch and a huge plasma tv that we would all sit around and watch a game in between laying out copies and things.

Well here is reality crashing in. My office is filled with girls who wear simply too much make up for their own good and outright perverts, the kind I would do well to keep my daughters very far away from. The snack bar extends no further than an electric flask. The pool table is real though. But we got no cues nor balls and long before I joined this organisation, someone had spilt coffee on the green velvet. Everyone knows you cannot clean coffee of velvet. Some time later, the table became dusty and someone took it upon himself… well, it could be a herself… to cover the rather huge coffee patch with newspaper. Today, the pool table is where we have our weekly office meeting. Because the boss does not want us contaminating the aura around his beautifully polished teak desk.

We have plastic chairs instead of leather couch and the plasma tv is a gordy painting of sunflowers. The kind you buy for four Ringgit on the street.

In short, I am constantly surrounded by idiots and I work in a shoe cabinet.

So why am I still here?

Because this is where I want to be. I know what you are thinking – who in their right mind want to work in a dump like this? Well you see, I did work in one of those fancy office once. Really stylish ones. With marble floorings. And concealed lightings. I had the best computers in the market to work from. Everyone in the office dressed smartly. Spick and span. Ladies wore smart court shoes and men wore ties with symmetrical patterns on them. A tea lady pushed a fresh smelling cart around the office four times a day and makes the best cuppa java in Kuala Lumpur.

I earned big bucks there. One year, even enough to take my wife and daughters down to Disneyland in Florida for a whole week of fun. Sarah really loves Goofy. I have a picture of her and that oversized mutt on my desk.

The office had plenty of designers and I was never applied a lot of pressure. In fact, I was never pressured in any way at all. Whenever a project came, we all set to work on it and the editor selects the best. It was healthy competition, really. Or supposed to be.

If I was lucky, one of my artwork would get picked at least once a month. What broke my heart was that so many of my pieces got chucked out without any sort of explanation at all. I know that the editor does in no way owe me any sort of explanation to begin with. Not good enough means not good enough. Someone else has a more appealing piece means someone else is better than you and I just got to live with it. I suppose this sentiment soaked into everyone else in the office.

I began to get complacent. Lazy. I put little effort into work and more into planning more holidays overseas.

And the Farah came up to me one evening. She held a drawing of a boat being tossed over curly waves done in crayons to show me. At the age of eight, she is screaming out for attention. I picked up her drawing and stuck it on the fridge. She rushes to go and tell her mother.

That drawing changed my life. For at the right hand corner of the art block, Farah has written her name, rather untidily but magnificently – a mark of her work.

That was when I realised that I have lost track of what I had wanted to set out for when I jumped into the design world – the fame. The acknowledgement. The glory of opening a magazine or a channel on the tv and saying, hey, I designed that! That is mine! I did that!

I realised that I was in a well established advertising house. Where everything is provided for. And stability is ensured. I resigned for this company the very next day.

And joined the sorriest excuse for an advertising agency I could find. The pay is not much. I cannot even afford to take the family over to Sentosa for a holiday. Our last trip was to Langkawi – but it was the best trip ever. Because that it was there, that I found, on an unheard of brand of bottled water – a piece of artwork that I designed. My work. My design. Mine. Mine. Mine.

And yea, the boss might yell at me. Well he can yell at me all he wants. And he might be a stupid dork. And the office might we filled with idiots. But this is where I am appreciated. A strange way of showing appreciation, you say? Well no matter how much he screams at me, I know that he needs me in this office. I am too good. And he knows this.

I could never have said I was too good in my other office. This sort of confidence would never have some to me. And I see the simpler things in life. And it makes me happy. And while the designers in my previous office have breakfast at Dome or Starbucks or some other fancy café, they cannot possibly be enjoying their breakfast rolls as much as I am enjoying my roti tissue in this noisy shop here.

A woman and her two girlfriends walk into the shop. She was evidently uncomfortable being in here. Then why did you even come in, woman? Her two friends look perfectly at home, yakking loudly to each other, sending peel after peel of pretentious laughter which the woman try very hard to participate in. She was neatly dressed in a short grey office shirt with a matching jacket. Her friends, one wearing a straight cut baju kurung with big blue flowers on it, and the other in a brown beaded Punjabi suit, pulled chairs at the table nearest to the shop’s entrance.

CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE WOMAN IN THE SHORT GREY OFFICE SKIRT

I cannot believe that this is what i have been finally reduced to. Me? The 3.88 CGPA student back in university. Top of my batch. The cool Asian chick that every white guy wanted to take to the Last Dance of the semester.

I was all that. People fell over themselves for me. People worshipped the dirt i walked on. I was, the queen.

And then I came back to this hell hole of a country. A country which is dirty and filthy and people have no manners and people are stingy and selfish and think only of themselves. Most of all, people he do not see beauty and brains when it is standing in front of thei noses. They do not see me.

My degree meant nothing. Neither did my spectacular grades. The interviewer looked at my hair and my skirt and hired me without even flipping through that neat booklet presentation of myself that I spent all week putting together. He did not look at my certificates and all my awards either.

I am an accountant. When I came back to the country, I had assumed that I would be able to get a hell of a job here with a fat paycheck. I would be drinking Martinis at the bar after work in the evenings and be chatted up by some good looking men every other day. I would be driving a swanky expensive car and cruise down the roads of Kuala Lumpur with people giving me the thumbs up for having such cool wheels. I would have friends and spend the weekends shopping and watching movies and sipping lattes at trendy sidewalk cafes.

I am working in some third grade agency which I swear would close down if it was not for me ensuring that everyone else gets their bloody paychecks. I do everything in this bloody office from answering phone calls to all the filing to the auditing. My boss, besides staring at my ass, has no other function in this organisation. I am constantly surrounded by idiots who spend their office hours playing games and chatting with their cyber lovers over the internet. I go to work at 6am and usually do not get back to my rented flat until 10pm. Screw the trips to the bar, I would be lucky if I get to watch any tv at all before I go to sleep. No, no car. I take a public bus to work and the only fingers I see everyday is of the third kind. My friends, if you can call them friends, are only interested in my money. Or my ass. I spend my weekends in the office or doing laundry at home. The last movie I watched was Star Wars and that was over an illegally bought VCD that a collegue passed to me. Screw lattes. I drink Nescafe.

And you know what? I would have it no other way.

Of course, I have spent many and I do mean many, many months deeply in depression over this situation of mine. My family thought that I could certainly do better. Hell, I know that I could do better. My friends from college left me and never returned my calls or SMSs. In short, I was all alone.

And I cried. I found a flat at some dingy part of Serdang which smelt like rat piss the moment I entered it. But that was all I could afford. No one would give me money. Everyone thought that settling with a job in a shophouse office and a pervert boss was the stupidest thing I have ever done.

But you know what? What did they do about it? Did they help me out at all beyond criticising me for my decisions, even if they are, evidently dumb ones? No. Thay did not. They did not give me advice. They did not suggest any other places. And when I was down and out, no one helped me find a place to stay and no one helped me carry my things into my new place. No one helped me find my way around town. No one called. No one came to visit.

I cried all of two days. Two days as I scrubed the tiles of the flat. Two days as I learnt a bus route that would take me to work.

And then I got up. And went to work. As far as I am concerned, I have no friends. I have no family. I have no one who gives a damn about me and I can either die from that or go out there and show all those people who loved me only because I was all that sorely mistaken about me. And when I have done that, I shall push them aside. And then they will know how it feels like. To be left in the dark.

CHAPTER TWELVE: THE COLOURING BOOK SELLER

word count: 15 497

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