Story by Wong Ee Xin (UnR1).
I was lying on the bed in my windowless room flipping through ‘Cosmopolitan’ when I came across a feature article on different ways of hair-styling. I sat up and tried to follow the steps to tie my long black hair into a chignon, first separating my hair into three separate sections and then braiding them. As I was going through the drawers looking for a bobby pin to secure my hair in place, the bedroom door opened and a customer walked in.
He mumbled a greeting and started unbuckling his belt. I managed to catch a quick glimpse of my attempt at a “side-swept chignon” in the mirror before the pin came off and my hair came loose.
Lying supine on the bed, the ceiling panels looked like the perfect board for a game of tic-tac-toe. It reminded me of how my sister and I used to always play tic-tac-toe when we were young. We would spend the afternoon in a small wooden hut behind our house sketching crosses and circles all over the wall until Grandma called us in for dinner. My sister always won. She was so much smarter than me. I hated studying and dropped out of secondary school not long after Grandma passed away while my sister went on to finish her studies. Last time we spoke over the phone, she was already applying to universities…
He thrusted himself into me. I flinched, barely, and closed my eyes.
Few nights ago, as I was smoking on the sidewalk, I overheard Ah Feng, the ikan bakar stall owner next door, complaining to Raju about his slowing business. Food prices were on the rise, competition was tough in this Brickfields area and Malaysians were feeling the pinch and no longer eating out as much.
“Itu Najib punya pasal lah,” he said. “Susah cari makan sekarang, tapi business lu okay ah? Nampak solid lah...”
He gave Raju a mischievous nudge and winked in my direction. I turned my back to the grimy smile and dirty streets and returned to my room.
I opened my eyes again. The ceiling now looked blank and indifferent. A gecko was preying on a few mosquitoes hovering near the dim light. I was curious and tried to crane my neck for a better view of the action, but his sweaty palms were on my shoulders and his dark hair hung in my face. Beads of sweat now formed on the back of my neck. I made a mental note to ask Raju to install a standing fan in this airless room.
Raju, a short sly man with a thick moustache and round belly, was my boss. Over the years, we developed a mutual understanding and respect for our working relationship – he secured the customers, I provided the service. Most nights, I was allowed to stay in my room to wait for my next appointment but occasionally, he made me put on a dress two sizes smaller and paraded me on the sidewalk. It’s good for business, he claimed.
Once, on one of these nights, a young girl, probably about the same age as myself, walked up to me and asked me if she could pay me for a short interview. I cringed at the sight of her short cropped hair and knee-torn jeans – these were taboos in our line of work.
Her eyes narrowed as she eyed my short dress and stilettos; she had similar misgivings about how I looked. I asked what she did for a living.
“I’m a writer,” she answered.
“Make a lot of money?”
“Not really, barely enough.”
“Then you and I, sama je,” I said. I took a puff of cigarette and exhaled into a cloud of smoke which grew and enveloped the two of us. For a moment, we were separated from the rest of the world, free from clouded judgments from the outside. In this world, we were just two young girls with hopes and big dreams, struggling through this period of transition to adulthood and trying to make ends meet.
She laughed. It was a jab at the truth, and the absurdity of the suggestion that there was a semblance of similarity in our lives.
She did end up paying for an hour of interview, the contents of which she said she would use for a story she was working on. At the end of the conversation, I gave her my cell phone number and she promised to call back with an update on the story. It had been more than a year since, and I had not heard from her.
I supposed I should not have expected much in the first place. Intan, my closest friend at work, would be furious with me if she found out that I gave away my contact information to a paying customer. I could imagine her lecturing, “Even a beginner would know better than to trust a stranger, there is no room for vulnerability in this business!” She was right, and throughout my two years on the job, I had learned to find much amusement and company in fashion magazines, people-watching on the street and gossips with the other girls.
Just last week, Intan had told me that one of the younger ones had threatened to run away because she claimed to have fallen in love with a customer. What a silly girl, Intan had said, with such foolish ideas. I just shook my head and sighed – sometimes, the sense of solitude which came with the job can be overwhelming. It could creep in, like acid spilling out of a bottle, and slowly eat away at one’s heart until there was nothing left but an empty, hollow vessel.
Back in the room, I felt his grip tightening around my waist. I could smell a tinge of cologne (was it citrus or thyme?). He let out a soft groan and I knew he was finally done. He buckled his belt and as he took out his wallet, I stole a glance at the photo of a young boy, glasses and with a big grin, inside. He pulled out a few fifty-ringgit notes and left them on the dresser.
I asked for a cigarette. He passed me the one he had lit for himself. I picked up the magazine from the floor, sat on the bed and continued flipping through it. The smell of his cologne lingered on my skin long after he left.
This story was workshopped in the first edition of the UnRepresented: KL writing programme. Check out more writings from our alumni in the Past Works section and make sure to follow UnRepresented: KL on Facebook.
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