Out on the Town

Michael Yamachandran fumbled his way around his living room,
searching for the ever elusive car-keys. He was going to be late; he
did not appreciate the delay.
"Dad! Have you seen my keys?" Michael shouted up to his Dad, who
didn't reply, invariably immersed in some documentary, picking up
obscure facts from the Discovery channel which would later condense
into life lessons for Michael and Sash.
"Your father doesn't know where his own glasses are when they're on
his head, Mike, how will he know where your keys are?" popped Mrs
Yamachandran, busily laying the table. Michael nodded and hmmed in
agreement, before resuming the hunt.
"Sash!!!" Michael shouted for his sister, also making preparations to
head out for the evening.
"Mikey darling, are you sure you can't stay for dinner? Uncle Danny
will be here, and you haven't seen him in a long time," Mrs Y pleaded
with her son, "I've made your favourite - lamb chops," Michael was
undeterred from his course of action by his mother's trick of using his
'favourite' food against him - at last count, Mike had, as far as his
mother was concerned, about 45 'favourites', and if every one of them
was a reason to stay home for dinner then he wouldn't go out much at
all.
"Sorry, Mum, but this party is important! Everyone is expecting me
there,"
"You mean Julie is expecting you there,"
"No, Mum, that's over - I told you,"
"Oh yes, I forgot. 'Over'. She's such a lovely girl?"
"MU-M! Aha!" Michael had his arm elbow deep in a leather armchair, and
had finally squeezed his hand into contact with a metal lump that he
deeply hoped were his keys. He was as late as ever, and hadn't even had
time to wax his hair. A quick dash to the bathroom and his stash of
beauty products would complete his preparations.
"Sash!!! I'm late!"
"Relax, Mike, your admiring throng will wait, as ever," Sash, from
behind a locked door, made no effort to mollify her long-suffering
brother. Never share a bathroom with a girl, growled Michael
Yamachandran to himself. When he had kids, he would not subject them to
such a basic denial of toilet time; a fundamental human right, in his
book. A woman must have a bathroom to do whatever unmentionables had
them spending three hours locked in there a day, and a man, well, men
must have a stash of comics and assorted pulp fiction for bog-reading,
and in Michael's case, a small pile of facial scrubs and hair gel were
vital to his grooming and care. If this privilege, nay, right, was
denied, well, then, there would be a lot of waiting around.
"Sash! Raj is here," Michael resorted to a 'white lie' to evict his
sister from the bathroom, but sadly she would not give up her territory
quite so easily.
"Tell him I'll be down in a bit, Mikey, and be a good boy and get him
a drink." Being patronised got Mike flighty, but he was getting
increasingly resigned to his lateness.

Fifteen minutes later, Mike was finally ready to leave.
"Where are you going tonight, son?" Mr Y had made himself available,
as Danny and family would soon be arriving for dinner; the Discovery
channel had to give way.
"Aunty Mila's daughter's boyfriend's best friend, who is at college
with me, is throwing a party in town." Not strictly true but, Mike
felt, sufficiently detailed to allay further questioning.
"Another party? Fun is all well and good, son, but you must make sure
you grow! It seems that every Friday night there is another party that
you are running off to - make sure your studies do not suffer!" Mike
braced himself. This path was well worn, and though the words differed,
the form hadn't really changed much in the 22 years his Dad had been
providing him with his ineffable wisdom. "You know, I was watching this
documentary on the Discovery channel, and they were these fellows who
were interviewed about drinking; for a start, Mike, you know never to
drink and drive - you're not drinking tonight, are you? Good. But they
also said, these fellows, that it only took one drink to make it
impossible for them to be productive the next day. One drink! And when
I think about it, you know Mike, its true!"
"Yes Dad - look, I got to go now, and you need to get ready for Uncle
Danny! You can't be late for a dinner party in your own house!" Mike
pleaded, knowing full well that his Dad could and, more to the point
probably would.
"Don't worry son, Danny operates on Indian Standard Time. He'll most
likely be four hours late! Anyway, have fun. You need cash?" Mike had
been on an allowance for several years, and had proved repeatedly his
ability to keep to his budget, but it was still nice that his Dad
offered him cash pretty much every time he went out.
"Might need some change for the parking," Mike said, making for his
shoes and the door.
"Here, take this," said Mr Y, pushing 20 ringgit into his son's hand,
"have a good time son, don't be back too late. Remember - no drinking,"
Mr Y patted his son roughly on the back, tousled his (pristine) hair
and then retreated leisurely to his bedroom, probably to do a little
exercise and glean a little more wisdom from the Discovery channel
before dinner. Mike hastily readjusted his coiff, and made his final
departure.
"Bye Dad - Mum - Sash! See you later!" Mike slipped into his shiny
black 'dancing' shoes - not specifically designed for dancing but
stylish enough to wear on a dance floor - got into his car and drove
out onto the busy streets of Petaling Jaya.

*

The air-conditioning hit Mike full force. He didn't expect to be able
to keep cool for much of the rest of the evening, so he took full
advantage of the Proton Saga's powerful air-con. At a traffic light, he
switched out of his dancing shoes into a pair of trainers, throwing the
gleaming redundancies into the back seat. He flipped out his mobile and
sat it in the hands-free holder. A few redial taps, the light changed,
the phone rang.
"YAMAYAMAYAMAYAMAYAMACHAAANDRAN!"
"Hey man - look, I'm running late. Parents, you know,"
"Yah lah, never mind, me too. How far are you?"
"10 minutes. Got the food?"
"30 packets of Nasi Lemak. You owe me 15 bucks."
"Okay. See you in a bit. Ciao man,"
"Ciao," The phone was beeped noisily off, the radio flipped noisily on,
and Mike drove on into the night, which didn't stretch out nearly as
far ahead as he needed it to.

*

"Eh, what is this nonsense? So late, how we going to find parking, you
lah, bladiful bastard," Mike's friend, and partner-in-crime for the
evening, Chow Yip Kit berated him, sporting a broad grin, "Open the
door lah!" Mike stretched to the back seat, unlocked it, and then
repeated the process for the front. Kit threw the food in the back
seat, and shouted in to his family.
"I'm going out now,"
"Ok, ok, bye," came a voice from indoors, presumably Kit's father. A
small figure ran out towards the car, as Kit hopped in.
"Where are you going?" asked Kit's little sister, who Kit would only
call 'Monkey', and who Mike rarely had occasion to call anything. Kit
referred to her to his friends, however, as 'her royal pain in the
buttcheeks,' a title she had earned time and time again. Her real name
was, rumour had it, Lin.
"Out - bye, Monkey. Mike, drive, let's go."
"Where, lah?' the little tyrant monarch persisted.
"Out. Go inside, you'll get bitten by mosquitoes,"
"Tell me or I'll tell Dad!"
"Tell Dad what?"
"Um? you're going out boozing and to have sex with women!"
"Atch! Only eight years old and already I have to put up with this.
Mike - drive. Let's go. Now. Oi, Monkey, tell Dad what you want. I'll
deal with you later."
"Bye Lin," said Mike, feeling guilty on behalf of Kit for his
treatment of the young queen.
"Bye," she said curtly, as if suddenly embarrassed, and turned and ran
into the house as Michael put the car in gear and drove on.

*

"Shit," offered Kit, after a minute or two of driving in relative
silence, apart from the hum of the aircon, the buzz of the car, and the
low, persistent whine of Radiohead coming in on Time Highway
Radio.
"What?"
"Shit," again, no further information offered. Kit stretched round the
front seat in order to gain access to the food in the back.
"I say again, 'what',"
"Damn bloody bastards?. Ah, damnit. Go to 7-11,"
"What? Why? Oh, shit, spoons?"
"Yeah man? Idiot didn't give me any spoons. How those guys going to
eat?"
"Kit, man, we're in Malaysia, not bloody London! We eat with our
fingers here, it's practically a national sport!"
"Dude, its not like they can wash up before sitting down to 'supper'.
Their fingers will be covered with all kinds of shitty shit,"
"I'm on the highway already, man, the only thing between here and
there is a McDonald's,"
"They have spoons - go there,"
"McSpoons?"
"Yeah, for stirring their McTea and McCoffee and other assorted
McCrap, turn now, you'll miss the turning,"
"Bloody frontseat driver," muttered Michael, and obligingly signalled,
cutting across three lanes of cars, who honked in an appropriately
irritated, yet oddly reassuring manner.

*

Amazingly enough, McDonalds did have McSpoons, though not for their
McTea, as Kit had supposed; rather they had them for their McFlurry's
and other assorted ice-creamed goods, and Kit was able to extricate
thirty of the needfuls from a corrupt McDonald's official (a.k.a
Do-you-want-fries-with-that guy).

"Finally. Let's go,"
"Indeedy,"
"Indeedy?"
"Yeah, indeedy. Gotta problem with that?"

They grinned, and drove, as ever, on, out, and away.

**

"So where are the kids tonight Yama?"
"You know these kids and their parties, Danny."
"Ya, lah. Our Ani is the same. You know I ask her where she's going,
she just says 'out' like that's enough of an answer."
"You know Danny, if you give them your trust you'll find they earn it.
We give Michael and Sasha the freedom they need, and they respect our
concerns. Although occasionally we have to wait up quite late for them
and worry ourselves!"
"Ha! Yah, but that's what parents do. All this stuff in the papers -
who wouldn't be worried?"
"Ya, the nonsense, all these drugs and sex and drink - you know,
Danny, I was watching this program on the Discovery channel, and they
were saying that you only need one drink?"

**

"There there, that bastard's moving, quick, quick," despite his
needless and prolific swearing, Kit was doing Mike a service by finding
one of the rare creatures, so frequently sought, so rarely found, the
'parking'. Sadly, a Perodua all-too-quickly inhabited this particular
specimen.
"Drive faster, lah, what lah you," Kit chided his friend, before
shouting once again "there there there!" Mike drove, and this time made
the grade.
"Thank God!"
"'Indeedy'," mocked Kit.
"Shut up. Bastard. Get the food," they hopped out of the car, locked
the doors, and looked up.

Not far in the distance; the twin towers; no clich? could begin to
describe the stupidity of the ontology of the buildings, which were at
least in part the product of a national oversupply of testosterone, and
seemed particularly wasteful given where Mike and Kit were standing.
Clich?s do well, however, to describe their glittering peaks, towering
into the sky like jewel encrusted chopsticks.
"Which way?"
"That way,"

They walked on, through the orange-lit streets, down a road few
sensible people took, and which their respective fathers would most
certainly condemn as holding 'rogues' in every shadow. Mike and Kit
weren't exactly at ease, despite having done this and survived a few
times before.

"What do you tell your parents you're doing, by the way?" Mike
asked.
"Nothing. I just tell them I'm going out. They don't mind,"
"Really? My parents think I'm at some party, so if they ask, you were
there too, and we had a crappy time. See - I even did my hair," Mike
pointed to his pointy head, gel-encrusted into a strategic mess.
"Shit, okay man. Good hair, 'indeedy',"
"Shut up," they walked on.

*

In the darkness ahead, a figure groaned.
"Sikit duit, Tuan," a shadow pleaded for loose change. Mike reached
into the bag for a packet of the traditional Malay rice dish, and waved
at Kit for a spoon. They placed them into the hands of the man, wrapped
in filth, and walked on.
"Banyak terima!" he called out to them, already munching amazedly on
the gift of rice, peanuts and spicy Ikan Bilis sambal. Mike and Kit
walked on in silence, not knowing what to say, not wanting to say
anything; just to hand out the food to the suffering inhabitants of the
black back streets.

A page of the Malay Mail fluttered around in the street, before landing
in a puddle and getting soaked. Classic, post-apocalyptic clich?,
thought Michael, expecting to see a headline announcing how the US
President had been appeasing the bad guys, whoever they were this time,
and how he had made a fatal error and nuclear strikes were imminent.
Instead, it simply said "RM51.6 billion for water pipes". Michael was
faintly disappointed, the reverie ended abruptly.

The pair walked on, spotting a bundle of clothes and offered a packet
of food to the woman cocooned within. The sadness in her eyes could
have plunged a pair of new parents into utter misery; a small child
clung to her, and she gratefully accepted two packets of food. No
words; just a glint, and a small appreciative smile. Her smile had
little warmth left to it, but at least she would eat tonight.

The denda for dadah is death, thought Michael. Punished for their own
stupidity, their own circumstances; but we are all stupid, and we all
have bad days, tragic moments. Why not simply understand this, and help
people make the right decisions, help them unmake the wrong ones? Some
decisions are not so easily unmade; some people didn't have any
opportunities or appear to have any choices at all.

Why couldn't people who could help, help more? They could. Why didn't
they?

The silence was blinding.
*

2 hours, 30 packets of food, 30 McSpoons, a couple of fairly violent
encounters with the variously drunk, stoned, and desperate starving
inhabitants of the back-alleys later, as well as a couple of nice chats
with inhabitants they'd met on previous jaunts, Mike and Kit sat in a
Mamak stall in a less seedy part of town, drinking Limau and Milo Ais.
The stalls were fairly empty; it was early yet by Mamak stall time -
they would fill up when people got bored of the bars, or got the
munchies.
"I think that last guy tried to bite me," said Kit, making a show of
checking his hands for puncture marks,
"People get messed up when they have to live like this,"
"Pah," the monosyllable was sharp; contemptuous; resigned. Content
that there was no damaged skin, and no danger of infection, and
following several trips to wash his hands, Kit was content, and they
sat under the constant burr of the ceiling fan sipping their drinks. In
the background, the sound of food frying in the various hawker stalls
was accompanied only by a faint chatter and a tinny female voice coming
through on a radio that not only looked cheap, old and nasty now, but
probably had when it was new. The song, being both in Malay (which
neither Kit nor Mike spoke given the option) and bad, lost little
through the rendition.
"Hey, you want to go catch a movie? We can go to KLCC - they have THX,
man, proper five channel surround sound,"
"No, dude, I got to get home. I have exams in three weeks,"
"Yeah, and I got to go to work tomorrow - who gives a shit?"
"I got to get into London man - I need to go and be somewhere else for
a while."
"Yeah yeah whatever, man. Well, drop me in DJ then - some of my
friends are meeting in a Cybercafe for a Counter-strike session. You
want to come?"
"No, thanks. Come on lah. Let's go."

**

Mike sat at the breakfast table, one eye on the Saturday morning
cartoons, one on his bowl of cereal. The rest of the family would be up
shortly, and his Dad was never too impressed when he walked in on his
22-year-old son watching cartoons, so Mike liked to catch them early
on.
"Morning son,"
"Hi Dad,"
"Watching cartoons," a statement, not a question. Busted.
"Yup,"
"Good fun last night?"
"It was okay,"
"Studying today?"
"Yup, after breakfast. Going out this afternoon for a while, but got
quite a bit of studying to do. First paper in two and a half
weeks,"
"Ok, good."

Mr Y tousled Mike's hair and walked into the kitchen to get his
breakfast.

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