Cheryl Tan - Sarong Party Girls

“My god,” I said, putting the photo down.

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s my mum!”

Her mum? I couldn’t believe it.

“But…” I started to say. I had so many questions I didn’t know where to start.

Imo put her finger on her lips, making a very quiet “Shh” sound, pointing to the storage room nearby where we could hear her mum moving some boxes around. Rummaging around all the photos on the table, she finally picked up a small brochure and handed it to me. It was one of those folded pamphlets that you’ll see in boxes outside shops or offices trying to get your business. Although it was quite old, a bit yellowing, it was in good condition. I could tell from how sharp some of the corners were that it had obviously been very carefully stored.

The front of it was filled with square photos of what looked like a quite happening nightclub—not the sort that Imo and I go to in Clarke Quay but the kind that businessmen will bring clients visiting from Korea or Japan, that kind of thing. There were a few glamour shots of women who were dressed and made up just like Imo’s mum, along with some photos of a big stage outlined with bright lightbulbs. In some shots, the center of the stage was packed with a few girls in short sequined dresses, dancing; in others, there was just one singer, always a woman, in a long shiny gown, holding a microphone. Across the top, in large words: “Golden Lotus Night Club.”

Walao eh! Auntie was a nightclub escort? OK, this time, even Jazzy didn’t know what to say.

Imo saw how shocked I was and just laughed.

“I tell you,” she said, leaning close to me so she could whisper, “I’ve never seen your face like this!”

Of course, all of a sudden, this explained everything.

The thing about Imo’s mum is—yes, she’s quite chio and yes, she’s very sweet and nice. (And also has become quite a champion crocheter over the years, as you can tell from the cushion covers and blankets that you see all over the apartment.) But something I always wondered is how on earth she managed to get a semi-rich man like Uncle. I mean, Uncle is not super rich—hallo, Imo lives in Waikiki Towers, not in some two-story bungalow with a swimming pool—but still, he’s rich enough to give them all this. (And obviously more—but all the best stuff goes to his first family of course.) And Auntie after all is not say super hot or very smart and her personality is about as happening as a piece of paper.

But this photo, this brochure. Now, I see.

“It’s how they met!” Imo said, after I finished thinking through all this and looked at her again. “It was a long time ago though. She left the business when she fell pregnant.”

She looked like she was going to say something more but then Auntie suddenly came back into the dining room, holding a box. “Imo, talk less, finish faster,” she said, setting the box on the table and dusting off her hands.

Watching Imo’s mum’s round backside slowly leaving the room in her auntie auntie housedress, I guess I could see why she never told us about any of this. I’m sure, even though Imo thinks it’s funny—and now I have new respect for Auntie—it’s something maybe she’s a bit ashamed about. Also, I guess this is why Imo also never really sees her mum’s family—in fact, I think she’s only met her grandparents a few times, a very long time ago. Her mum told her that her family lives in Penang and we all just believed it. Who knows? They probably live in Singapore also, maybe even nearby! But of course once Imo’s mum became an escort they probably wouldn’t have wanted to have anything to do with her anymore lah. I guess if you think about it, it’s sad to see parents treating their children this way but, what to do? At least, in the end, life sort of worked out for Imo’s mum. Come on—Waikiki Towers! Don’t play play!

I was about to ask Imo something else but Auntie poked her head in again. “Girls,” she said, “stop daydreaming!”

The cool thing about Charlie is how she says the word know.

She’s Singaporean, yes. But then her life changed—she went to Australia for uni and came back sounding different. Now when she says some words, there’s this sexy sexy twang. Like know, for example—instead of just “know” like we all say, she says “naeiooe.” My god, when ang mohs hear it, they also steam. As if she’s Nicole Kidman or some shit.

But the thing that’s quite happening about Charlie is that even though she’s not in Ozzie anymore, the way her life is, it’s almost as if she’s still living there. Even after she came back, she still only dated ang moh guys. Plus, they’re all serious serious, crazy about her. (Not like all our one-night stands or one-hour rubba rubba in the club and never see them again type.) The guys Charlie sees all want to see her again and again and take her to nice restaurants and all.

Charlie, even though she went to Ozzie to study, at the end of the day, she actually is just like me, Imo and Fann. (But less cute than Sher.) We all look quite the same—quite chio but not so pretty that can say, win Miss Chinatown or something. And it’s not like she has a super power job or her family has a lot of money. So if she can have so many ang mohs wanting her in a serious way, maybe we also have chance! When I look at her—wah, I feel very inspiration.

When I called Charlie after leaving Imo’s place and asked her for help, she suggested meeting her at her usual bar that night, even calling it her “office” and all. Really vain, this one. Since when is a bar someone’s office?

Even so, I knew the evening was going to be productive. In fact, Charlie taught us her first lesson even before she showed up: Always be late. Walao, this woman. Tell us to meet her at Harry’s at 9 P.M. then don’t show up until almost 10 P.M.? By the time she showed up we had just ordered the third round of vodka Ribenas so we were definitely a bit happy. When Charlie sat down, she just looked at us.

“Aiyoh—mabuk already?” Charlie said, blinking at us one time while she pulled out her cigs from her handbag and threw them on the table. This woman was really damn action! Her eyes are quite big and pretty, so she knows that when she acts drama a bit with them, men confirm will steam when they see it. Some more she always outlines her eyes with thick thick black black pencil, so it makes them look even bigger and darker, a bit like those chio Bollywood actresses. This type of move—yes, is quite obvious drama, but that night, I thought to myself, Jazzy, better take notes. If you can pull this off well, it can be quite useful.

Even though Charlie was talking to us as she was sitting down, her eyes actually were not looking at us. Instead, I could see her scanning the whole room, trying to see who’s there. A few times she would smile and wave “Hi hi,” blowing kisses at people sitting who knows where. When she saw Imo and Fann trying to turn their heads around to see who she was waving at, she just blinked at them one time and rolled her eyes. “Guniangs,” I whispered to them. “Try to act a bit cool, OK?” The two of them just quickly picked up their drinks and hid their faces a bit. I felt quite bad scolding them, but they should know better—if you’re going to go to Harry’s, must act cool! Of all the SPG bars in Singapore, this one is damn history. Must respect a bit. Before Harry’s, I don’t know where decent girls went to meet ang mohs. Last time we only had those sleazy Orchard Towers bars where the ang moh sailors and tourists go for cheap hookups or Thai prostitutes.

Now, we avoid Orchard Towers (unless we’re craving Thai chicken wings from that stall on the second floor) but that one time years ago when we decided to go just to see whether the place had cute guys or not. The scene—my god—was damn scary man. First of all, all the corridors in the entire mall were filled with the smell of smoke—you know that kind of smell where you step in the building and you know right away that you confirm must wash your dress the next day. Then, everywhere we looked, you could see ang moh guys with these very young-looking girls in super short skirts—schoolgirl schoolgirl type—in very high heels just walking around, arm in arm, the guys sometimes rubba-ing the girls’ butts as they walk. All along those narrow corridors there were bars, yes, but also massage parlors, cheap Thai restaurants and also these small provision shops that not only sell all the kinds of cigs you want but also had gigantic displays of condoms. You know me—I very not shy. But when I saw these condom displays—my god, even guniang over here started to feel a bit embarrassed.