Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Not the Usual Date: The Trip There (Part 2)

8 pm. Living Room. Waiting.
Dressed in:

Black boxers. CK. Check.

Black linen slacks. Armani. Check.

Black linen shirt. Thomas Pink. Check.

Black leather shoes. Ferragamo. Check.

Black jacket. Zegna. Check.

Black socks. Argyle. Check.

Dressed Up. Somewhere to go.

“Whoa! Dressed to kill! Where’re you going?”


“With whom?”


“Kewl. Like when’s he supposed to be here?”

Pon! Pon!

Wan. You tacky. Son. Of a bitch.

Not just. Limo. Stretched. White.

So OTT! And Very. The Embarassing.

Door opens.

“Wan!” Nina hugs him.

“How’s my favourite lady?” 8pm. He’s wearing shades.

All black as well. Great.

“I didn’t know we had a date tonight, Wan?” Teasing.

“Oh Nina, tried to reach you but I got your brother instead. What can I say? I was desperate.”

“Maybe it went to message.”

“Maybe.” Smiles.

“So, where are you guys going tonight?”

Look at Wan. Not answering. That.

“We’re going on a double date. Zack’s here has kindly and *ahem* graciously agreed to teman
me.” Glances at watch. “And, as much as I would love to stay and chat, we’re uh… running a bit late. You ready?”

“Didn’t you see me fully dressed when you walked in?”

“Okay then. Lessa roll!”

We roll. Space. Mini Bar.

Stereo. Appropriately badass.

TV Screen. MTV. Billboard. Bouncing.

Phone. White Leather. Smells. Rich. Dirty. Smoothe.

Don’t feel. Roughness. Don’t hear. Outside. Everything. Dark. Dull.

Nobody. Sees. In.

“Don’t you think this is a little over the top?”

“What?” Pours. Gin & Tonics. In hands.


“Yeah, what?”

“Fucking limo?”

“What did you want? ‘Hey ladies, step into your Perdana’ or ‘my fucking 2-seater Porsche?’ That’s sooo not happening.”

“I don’t know… This just feels totally over the top.”

“Zack, people are attracted to the candle that burns twice as bright. Not the dull motherfucker that burns sure but slowly away into insignificance, knowhatimean? Anyway, chicks love limos. Maybe it’s got something to do with size. And there’s like you know… room.”

“Fine. It’s your night and your candle. Not mine.”

“Hey, don’t say that, man. You’re the one that ends up with Miss Malaysia. Could be your candle too.” He laughs. A dirty laugh. Pregnant with filthy thoughts.

“That’s because of you. And can I just say I’m tired of going out with models. Fuck man, I’m so tired of how goddamned shallow and stupid they all are. ‘I’m so fat. I’m so thin. My tits aren’t big enough. My thighs are too big. I’ve got no ass. I made it on New Man. I didn’t make it on FHM. MR.’ Whatever the fuck, man. I think I am so way past that. No more models after this. If you wanna fuck’em, please take someone else. Take Chris, Thiru, or something. I’m tired of them.” Gulp! “And make me another.”

“Fine. Fine. Then why didn’t you just say you didn’t want to come out tonight?”

“I did! You browbeat me into coming!”

“Fine. Fine. And can I just say that you can be amazingly stuck up sometimes. And pleaselah. They are not that fucking stupid. Give them some creditlah. Don’t think you’re so goddamned smart, yourself, alright? Mr. I-won-the-case-myself-smarty-pants-full of himself. I’ve witnessed how stupid you can be sometimes.”

Sound of. Wheels Humming. Filling. The empty space.

‘And a fucking arse too.’ Wan breathes. Clear enough. If. Wanting to hear.

Gin & Tonic. Back in hand.

“And besides we’re all out just to have some fun, alright? Not everybody’s like you looking for our goddamned future ‘soul mate’ every time we meet a chick. It’s not forever with every chick you meet. We’re just bouncing. I thought you were down with that.”

“I thought I was too. I'm sorry, man. It’s just that I’m getting tired. We’ve been partying like almost every week for the last 5 years, man. And between the partying, the booze, the drugs, all those messed up relationships, my work, I think I’m getting tapped out. All I want to do these days is just go home. Get stoned. Don't think. Go to bed."

“One more.”

“Oh spare me the fucking ‘I’m tired’ speech, okay? You start going on this spiel like every time the year is ending. I could set my fucking calendar to this shit, okay? Did you get enough sleep today?”
“No. I was fending off calls all afternoon from my goddamned colleagues. I only got like 2 to 3 hours tops.”

“There you go then. You are tired already. So don’t make it you’re your life is coming down on you or something. Christ, you can be such a downer when you’re out of it.”

Gin & Tonic. Back in hand.

“I think you should toke up before we get there. You turn up with this kind of attitude; we might as well not go. You’re going to be like some steaming pile of shit in the middle of a fine dining restaurant.”

“Too late for that.”

“It’s not too late. I’ll call ‘em and tell ‘em ‘Mr. Zachary Hamid is having a bad day. Sorry Miss Malaysia. And your model friend. Enjoy your dinner. His being a pot full of piss right now. Some other fucking day. Oh yeah, and he hates you models.’ Just say the word.”

His phone. Held up. Glowing. In the darkness.

“Come on.”

Fingers. Resting. Buttons. Waiting to be pressed.

“Just say, ‘Wan, I’m very tired. I don’t want to go out for dinner with Miss Malaysia tonight.’ Just say the word and I’ll call this whole thing off. We go back to your place and we smoke the shit out of that kilo in the boot.”

Oh my fucking god.

Voice. Lowered.

“Wan! There’s a kilo of pot in the boot?!!”

Nods. With a. Huge ass. Won a million ringgit lottery. Smile.


“Are you like fucking crazy? That’s the death sentence in the boot there! And on a Saturday night! There are goddamned road blocks all over the place. Oh Wan. You are insane, you know that?”

“What the fuck do I have to be afraid of? I’m with the best goddamned criminal lawyer in Malaysia, right?”

“You are nuts. You are really nuts?”

“What’s the problem, man? I bring you shit all the time! And I took precautions amigo.” Smile. Still there.

“Yeah, but never this much! You know the limit man. And what precaution?”

“The limo’s rented. Had it washed. Punctured the tyres so it had to be taken to the workshop. No exclusive possession. Like that case you were telling me the other day.'
Taps his head. Right hand. Middle finger. Winks.
'I listen and remember what you tell me. And anyway, it was a bumper! Got the Great Malaysian Sale sale prices on it.”

Sigh. A little knowledge. Dangerous thing. But. Wan's pretty damn sharp.
“And they never check luxury cars. And look, worse case scenario, I’ll just pay them off. These fucking cops are after one thing only anyway. I'm a freaking opportunity here. So, in summary, chill the fuck out.”
Horror night. Tired. As fuck. Dinner. Miss Malaysia. 1 kilo. Marijuana. In the boot. Opportunity, my ass.

"Can you like please toke up or something? You are such a fucking downer right now. Look I’ve got some shit I rolled earlier.”

Reaches. Side pocket. Pulls.

Wan. Rolls. The best. Absolute.

One. Massive. Phatty. Tight. Beautiful.

What I need. Now.

So bad.

“There. Here’s the bomb. Here’s the fire. Light it up.”
“I smoke that shit, I’m gonna fall asleep during dinner. Face first.”

“I don’t care, man. As long as it gets you out of this funk. You awful, awful beast!”


Dulls. The edge.

Sweet. Numbness.

Walking. On water.
Coulda. Woulda. Shoulda.

“Nah. Fuck it. We’ll do it later.”

“No. Smoke it up, man. I can’t take the negative vibes you’re spewing any more. This isn’t how I want to go for dinner. All this negativity. You’re messing my mojo. Big time.”

No way. Out of this.
Flick of metal.
Smell of. Burnt paper. Then a thick musky scent.

An orange glow. Obscures Wan.
"Nah." Hands it over.
Familiar feel. Between the index and middle finger.
Long, strong pull.

MTV. Beats. Pulsating. Spinning. Earth shaking.
Fills. Spaces.
Head's light.

Suddenly. Large. Empty.

Just another room.

Eyes. Closed.



“Did you leave a VCD at my place?”

“Probably. I always bring VCDs over to your house.”

“Yeah, but did you bring any porn?”

“Porn. Whose acting in it?”

“I don’t know. Some guys.”

“Who? Pete North? Lex the Impaler? Ron Jeremy?”

“No. It’s guy on guy action.”

“Fucking gross man. Why the fuck you asking me, anyway? I’m a homophobe.”

“I know. But someone crazy as you is always a suspect for something.”


art harun said...

This is simply ex-mojo-cellent man! Loves the grass part. Sorta remind me of the days of smoking grass at Uno! Haha...and the models...coming out of a Ferrari F355 at Modesto, my friend and me were like accosted by women...one of them was saying..."hi, I am Ivy, I am a module..." Module huh? Hmm....

the Anomaly said...

Aah, Daef street talkin'. Luv it. That Zack geezer mixes too many designers in his outfit, too nouveau riche UMNO Baru, man... and what's with the argyle combo?
Art rollin' a splif?? "To blows man"! (that means "cool" in British street talk)

art harun said...

Haha Anoo, as is usual, you spotted details which my shrinking spongy thing in my cranium failed to even notice! Yerp, way too many mixes of brands. I betcha the watch is a gold Rolex. And I hope the belt wasn't a white brass-buckled Boss!
BTW, Thomas Pink has black linen shirt meh? "To blows man..." :)