Monday, October 05, 2009
Bagful (of tales)...
spilling out like forgotten letters from the overstuffed mailbag abandoned by a runaway postman.
Even I am beginning to grow forgetful...
So let me sieve through that bag and make out a few stories or more. As far as my memory can read the fading words and nuances...
******
The day the Old Boy met the Big Boy,
it was a Wednesday evening in the July of 2008.
Kitty and I had earlier gone for dinner with Jose, my friend whose acquaintance I first made when the Big Boy and him first picked B and I up.
Afterwards, Jose took us to a birthday party. I was waiting for the Old Boy to come take Kitty and I for drinks. He was having bass classes. It was that period of time where he was stony broke.
We got to the party- it was held at a big restaurant/ bar. The birthday drinks gathering was taking place in a private-ish room. A few girls in black of the birthday girl’s entourage had already kick started the drinks.
Kitty stepped into the room first, then she turned back to me and we headed to the birthday room. Her eyes had widened and she was fast hyperventilating. She couldn’t calm down and exclaimed that the bitch who has been doing her sugar daddy of a boyfriend (the Old Boy’s cousin) and managing his numerous properties at the same time was there! What should she do, what should she say to her when introductions are made later. She was fuming and dying to get back at her.
Relax, I told her. You are the one that have your boyfriend. Just be gracious, ok.
I don’t understand jealousy so there.
Having re- composed herself, we got back to the room. Kitty took the initiative to shake her hand and introduced herself.
“Oh, you are T’s agent, aren’t you?”
“Yes!” The Opponent beamed widely, unaware of what was to come.
“Oh, I am his girlfriend!”
The Opponent’s expression turned a shade darker.
I didn’t like being caught in awkward social situations as such (since I couldn’t see it as a worthy battle to fight for, not over a jerk really) and decided to get myself distracted by introducing myself to other girls around. I was beginning to think that she was about to shit stir and get herself into a catfight.
Frankly, I had no interest in petty quarrels, especially not over a man.
One part of me was distracted. I was worried about my Old Boy. I knew he would be uncomfortable in such social settings anyways- too richy pooh for him! The irony was most of these people had probably earned their yuppie social standings from the merit of their careers. The Old Boy came from old, old money. The poor little rich boy who grew up with amahs running after him, chauffeured rides to school, squash sessions at home and at the prestigious country club with an equally long history and the grammar boarding school breeding (“why are you so anti-establishment?” he once said to me during one of our online arguments).
The Big Boy suddenly turned up. It was not quite expected. He looked really sharp in his well tailored white shirt. He must have attended court that day. He had the height and built to carry a suit well. His wife could not have been prouder to have married well- a man who has earned his stripes in society from having done well in his chosen profession. His social tenacity in hanging out with the smart set and being involved in the committees of some respectable clubs and societies have put him in the “right” place. I even once saw him on Tatler.
As anticipated, the Old Boy arrived and upon awareness that group of strangers in pretty clothes and smart, yuppie dress styles did his usual-he clamped up and became a social hermit, the complex of social inferiority written all over his expression. I love the Old Boy and all I wanted to do was to shield him from discomfort. I even became uncomfortable and socially awkward. I kept my silence and loss my usual volubility. The Old Boy sat on my left on the couch. The Big Boy sat on my right on another couch at right angle to ours.
Corks of Moet Champagne bottles have been popped. The Big Boy must have earlier offered me a bubbly flute earlier on. When the Old Boy arrived, the Big Boy offered him one in which he declined. The Old Boy doesn’t drink. I tried to make him feel better at ease and tried to pour him some water instead. But he also declined. Instead he pulled out his mobile phone and got into his usual anti-social behaviour and showed me something on youtube. Then he spent a good part of our stay outside the room, smoking one cigarette after another.
What happen to the Old Boy’s usual private school stealth wealth charm?
Stark contrast in between the two boys every sense. The height, for starters. The dress style and which one is the high flyer making the good money here? No prizes for correct answers.
Even women preference- one desires fair maidens, the other lusts over brown sugar.
Who look like the rich man’s son?
****
Tittle Tattle
It was during one of those small talks that I made with someone.
“You know how he can talk, he can’t keep a secret. The Old Boy is a good lover but that’s just about it. Forget him.”
This person must have hinted along the lines that he wasn’t worthy of my feelings (and implied that he is not to be trusted). Like this person knows anything about me unless the Old Boy had been flapping his mouth.
This person brought up the subject first. I didn’t even try digging.
" Everytime I see him, I feel that I love him all over again. But don't worry about me.I'll be ok some day. Thanks..."
I didn’t realise this person had actually gave some thought to my welfare. We are merely acquaintances but very cordial with not many common topics in our typical lifestyles.
I always view this individual as having little opinion and was definitely more of his ally.
Were the thoughts voiced, this person’s own or merely what the person might have delivered on behalf of someone close?
*****
The first time I was addressed as Mrs Z,
we were at the foot spa. Early October 2008. The Old Boy had booked an appointment for us.
The second time, I was mistaken as the wife or possibly having some form of relationship with him. June 2009. I went to the country club to meet him. One British expatriate, his father’s friend mistook me for his wife. The other, also Brit, thought we had some relationship going.
“ I don’t have such good taste,” he smiled in reply.
“P is a good friend and one of the few friends from overseas who would look me up when she’s back....”
My heart was wrung hard and bled dry.
The guys were cooling down from their sports at the outdoor seating. I joined them for beer (barring the Old Boy) and chips.
Later, the Brits invited us to join them for dinner in the country club. We accepted and the four of us had to walk a little distance to the club restaurant. We walked behind them.
The Old Boy whispered tenderly (his usual-trick-girls-to-fall-for-him-through-flattery-way).
“I’ve never been invited by them for dinner. It must be the company tonight...”
I merely smiled.
I always knew his tricks to make himself be desired. Still, I was flattered.
Sucker, I was.
Although I never quite aspire to be the Old Boy’s wife, fancy I always secretly did for being “mistaken” for (the secret) Mrs Z (in our make-believe world where time and our stark differences were temporarily suspended)...
spilling out like forgotten letters from the overstuffed mailbag abandoned by a runaway postman.
Even I am beginning to grow forgetful...
So let me sieve through that bag and make out a few stories or more. As far as my memory can read the fading words and nuances...
******
The day the Old Boy met the Big Boy,
it was a Wednesday evening in the July of 2008.
Kitty and I had earlier gone for dinner with Jose, my friend whose acquaintance I first made when the Big Boy and him first picked B and I up.
Afterwards, Jose took us to a birthday party. I was waiting for the Old Boy to come take Kitty and I for drinks. He was having bass classes. It was that period of time where he was stony broke.
We got to the party- it was held at a big restaurant/ bar. The birthday drinks gathering was taking place in a private-ish room. A few girls in black of the birthday girl’s entourage had already kick started the drinks.
Kitty stepped into the room first, then she turned back to me and we headed to the birthday room. Her eyes had widened and she was fast hyperventilating. She couldn’t calm down and exclaimed that the bitch who has been doing her sugar daddy of a boyfriend (the Old Boy’s cousin) and managing his numerous properties at the same time was there! What should she do, what should she say to her when introductions are made later. She was fuming and dying to get back at her.
Relax, I told her. You are the one that have your boyfriend. Just be gracious, ok.
I don’t understand jealousy so there.
Having re- composed herself, we got back to the room. Kitty took the initiative to shake her hand and introduced herself.
“Oh, you are T’s agent, aren’t you?”
“Yes!” The Opponent beamed widely, unaware of what was to come.
“Oh, I am his girlfriend!”
The Opponent’s expression turned a shade darker.
I didn’t like being caught in awkward social situations as such (since I couldn’t see it as a worthy battle to fight for, not over a jerk really) and decided to get myself distracted by introducing myself to other girls around. I was beginning to think that she was about to shit stir and get herself into a catfight.
Frankly, I had no interest in petty quarrels, especially not over a man.
One part of me was distracted. I was worried about my Old Boy. I knew he would be uncomfortable in such social settings anyways- too richy pooh for him! The irony was most of these people had probably earned their yuppie social standings from the merit of their careers. The Old Boy came from old, old money. The poor little rich boy who grew up with amahs running after him, chauffeured rides to school, squash sessions at home and at the prestigious country club with an equally long history and the grammar boarding school breeding (“why are you so anti-establishment?” he once said to me during one of our online arguments).
The Big Boy suddenly turned up. It was not quite expected. He looked really sharp in his well tailored white shirt. He must have attended court that day. He had the height and built to carry a suit well. His wife could not have been prouder to have married well- a man who has earned his stripes in society from having done well in his chosen profession. His social tenacity in hanging out with the smart set and being involved in the committees of some respectable clubs and societies have put him in the “right” place. I even once saw him on Tatler.
As anticipated, the Old Boy arrived and upon awareness that group of strangers in pretty clothes and smart, yuppie dress styles did his usual-he clamped up and became a social hermit, the complex of social inferiority written all over his expression. I love the Old Boy and all I wanted to do was to shield him from discomfort. I even became uncomfortable and socially awkward. I kept my silence and loss my usual volubility. The Old Boy sat on my left on the couch. The Big Boy sat on my right on another couch at right angle to ours.
Corks of Moet Champagne bottles have been popped. The Big Boy must have earlier offered me a bubbly flute earlier on. When the Old Boy arrived, the Big Boy offered him one in which he declined. The Old Boy doesn’t drink. I tried to make him feel better at ease and tried to pour him some water instead. But he also declined. Instead he pulled out his mobile phone and got into his usual anti-social behaviour and showed me something on youtube. Then he spent a good part of our stay outside the room, smoking one cigarette after another.
What happen to the Old Boy’s usual private school stealth wealth charm?
Stark contrast in between the two boys every sense. The height, for starters. The dress style and which one is the high flyer making the good money here? No prizes for correct answers.
Even women preference- one desires fair maidens, the other lusts over brown sugar.
Who look like the rich man’s son?
****
Tittle Tattle
It was during one of those small talks that I made with someone.
“You know how he can talk, he can’t keep a secret. The Old Boy is a good lover but that’s just about it. Forget him.”
This person must have hinted along the lines that he wasn’t worthy of my feelings (and implied that he is not to be trusted). Like this person knows anything about me unless the Old Boy had been flapping his mouth.
This person brought up the subject first. I didn’t even try digging.
" Everytime I see him, I feel that I love him all over again. But don't worry about me.I'll be ok some day. Thanks..."
I didn’t realise this person had actually gave some thought to my welfare. We are merely acquaintances but very cordial with not many common topics in our typical lifestyles.
I always view this individual as having little opinion and was definitely more of his ally.
Were the thoughts voiced, this person’s own or merely what the person might have delivered on behalf of someone close?
*****
The first time I was addressed as Mrs Z,
we were at the foot spa. Early October 2008. The Old Boy had booked an appointment for us.
The second time, I was mistaken as the wife or possibly having some form of relationship with him. June 2009. I went to the country club to meet him. One British expatriate, his father’s friend mistook me for his wife. The other, also Brit, thought we had some relationship going.
“ I don’t have such good taste,” he smiled in reply.
“P is a good friend and one of the few friends from overseas who would look me up when she’s back....”
My heart was wrung hard and bled dry.
The guys were cooling down from their sports at the outdoor seating. I joined them for beer (barring the Old Boy) and chips.
Later, the Brits invited us to join them for dinner in the country club. We accepted and the four of us had to walk a little distance to the club restaurant. We walked behind them.
The Old Boy whispered tenderly (his usual-trick-girls-to-fall-for-him-through-flattery-way).
“I’ve never been invited by them for dinner. It must be the company tonight...”
I merely smiled.
I always knew his tricks to make himself be desired. Still, I was flattered.
Sucker, I was.
Although I never quite aspire to be the Old Boy’s wife, fancy I always secretly did for being “mistaken” for (the secret) Mrs Z (in our make-believe world where time and our stark differences were temporarily suspended)...
