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William Shakespeare wrote, “Life is a tale told by an idiot—full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Although I readily admit to telling my tale with a touch of idiocy, I disagree with the bard that ones life is not significant; at least for the short-term. I do agree that long-term (considering the size of the universe) an individual life doesn’t count for much. I mean, here we are existing on a diminutive rock bound to a minor star in a small galaxy in a so-what constellation. Still it’s all we have, which to me means living loudly with bawdy joy, and figuratively having a last cigarette before you pucker up and kiss this world good-bye. If I took Shakespeare literally I guess our story would be as follows: we’re born, go to school, get a job, have children, grow old and die. Told in wheels-of-life dialect: baby buggy, stroller, tricycle, bicycle, used car, sports car, family sedan, ambulance, battery-powered scooter, wheel chair, and hearse. The man said nothing we do, no matter how famous we become, will be significant. In the long run sooner or later we’re all forgotten. Here’s a partial list of “unforgettable” people that above average high school students (I asked) never heard of: Mickey Mantle, Jonas Salk, Johnny Carson, Albert Schweitzer, Johnny Unitas, Margaret Thatcher, Ayatollah Khomeini, Ted Williams, Jim Brown, Indira Gandhi, and the list goes on. So I suppose I see Shakespeare’s point. Anyway, to keep the ball rolling, and being guilty as charged, here’s some idiocy in which I participated: Once upon a time in Singapore… Chuck and I were walking down a small side street between the Crown Plaza hotel and Orchard Boulevard. It was about five-thirty in the afternoon, the day still sunny, but with only a hint of the usual stickiness. We arrived at Changi airport from Perth, Australia an hour earlier, checked into the hotel, and decided to find a watering hole for a cocktail or two before dinner. Two very attractive young girls walked toward us on the opposite side of the street. Chuck and I checked them out because that’s what guys do—it’s an involuntary reflex. But—it was not an eye-popping, ogling stare, just a quick, fleeting glance. In a flash, they crossed the street and one grabbed Chuck’s crotch, the other standing by. I quickly stepped away flabbergasted, and I’m ashamed to say, even had a fleeting thought about abandoning my friend. Thank God both of them ignored me. They only had eyes for Chuck. I was relieved with a capital PHEW!!! Chuck was taken completely by surprise. In warp speed he went from astonishment to anger. “Don’t touch me! Get the hell away!” The girls slunk away, clearly astonished by his negative reaction. Good thing. The Singapore government has no tolerance for prostitution of any kind, and comes down extremely hard on violators—customers and suppliers alike. Punishment is issued swiftly, and involves physical pain as well as fines and jail time. I would guess that type of criminal activity rated at least five strokes of the rattan—some call it caning—among other consequences. “Gee, Chuck, you hurt her feelings,” I said sarcastically. “Not really, whores—and ugly people—have no feelings.” He smiled to let me know he was kidding. “By the way, why didn’t they try to jump you?” I looked at the sky thoughtfully then said smugly, “They could obviously see that I’m a happily married man.” “Happily married? Is there really such a thing?” he mused. Chuck and his wife were having troubles. She wanted him to become a stockbroker in Manhattan and live on Long Island. “All I know is that once you’re married and come home, say, from work there’s no more going out. You’re in for the night. You’re on lockdown.” At the bar we ran into an expansive, full-of-himself German financier named Günter (pronounced Goon´-ter) and told him about Chuck’s run-in with the young prostitutes. The guy was sloppy overweight and sweat-filmed, wearing an expensive, but ill-fitting, suit. His teeth and fingers were nicotine stained, and he had a cigarette-induced, rasping, wheeze every time he exhaled. Günter amazed us when he described the street girl, and her partner, perfectly down to their physical attributes, jewelry and the colors of dresses and shoes. “You know them?” asked Chuck. “Oh, ja,” Smile, wink, and sigh, “But I vish I didn’t!” He lighted a cigarette and took a deep drag. “She and her friend joined me in mein zimmer, uh, room, a veek ago for—you know—ménage a trois. Ven I voke up I had, ach, zuch a headache, mein money vas disappeared, und I vent to German embassy for penicillin. Dose lousy whores, zey gave me a pox.” “Why didn’t you turn them in; tell the police?” I asked. “Vas! Nein, nein! Za police get me alzo, maybe cutting off mein schwantz, nein, nein. I am—how you say—attached.” Günter laughed lustily punctuating it with a halitosis-filled wheeze and a rolling cigarette hack after which he took another long drag. “You know, they didn’t bother me; they both made a bee line for Chuck here,” I said then added, “Him being such a handsome rascal.” “Ja, sure. Of course zey did.” “Why ‘of course’?” “Zey are eine, how you say, tag-ged team. Zat’s how zey vork. Only von victim at a time. Zey prey on our vanities knowing vee all vant screwing mit two girls.” He chuckled. “Und you know—zey are right!” He threw back his head and laughed heartily, which induced another green-fog wheeze and coughing jag followed by another deep drag on his cigarette. Two ladies from Washington DC that we later found out were sisters, entered the bar, recognized Chuck and I were Americans, and asked to join us for some typical where-are-you-from, what-do-you-do chit-chat. They were expensively dressed, but much too formal for the near-the-equator climate. They projected an image that they were country club princesses. Günter gave them a syrupy, leering smile, and they looked at him suspiciously. “Cigarette?” He held out a package of Marlboros to them. They wrinkled their noses, and one of them said, “We don’t smoke.” “Zat’s too bad,” said Günter, “But I bet you are liking your men to smell of leather, sweat, garlic, tobacco, und alcohol, no?” “Ewww! Not really!” they replied together mildly annoyed. “Ach, you American vomen. Zo mundane. Zo unsophisticated in vays of za vorld. I could teaching you zo much.” He blew smoke at them, nodded, winked, and gave them the leering grin again. I guess he thought he was charming. “You liking my zuit? Very expensive.” “It’s nice.” They rolled their eyes at each other. Chuck and I looked at each other and smiled. We were enjoying this. “Ja. Feel material. Go ahead.” He rolled the lapel of his coat between his fingers. “Vait ein moment… Vat is dis? Material on mein trousers seems to be much harder.” He rubbed the zipper area. “Zee for yourselves, ladies.” Another uproarious laugh ended with hacking followed by a long, noisy slurp of his cocktail. “Ugh! Of all the nerve!” Chuck and I laughed as well, entertained by the German’s uncouth antics. I waited for the ladies to stand and bolt, but (oddly) they remained. One of them said to call her Mell, and she spelled it out M-E-L-L. “Is that for Melody or Melanie?” I asked. “No, it’s short for Melissa.” Chuck jumped in, “No way! You see, M-E-L is short for Melissa. M-E-L-L is long for Mel!” I laughed with him. Oddly, no one else thought it was funny. “Well, I like to be unique,” she sniffed. “And uniquely high maintenance, I’ll bet,” I said under my breath to Chuck. Chuck nodded knowingly, and then said to Mell, “You know, I’m married to a unique woman too—for now.” Günter became impatient with our small talk and decided to monopolize the conversation with tales of his business triumphs. When the second round of cocktails appeared Günter put a full court press on the ladies coming right out and suggesting a ménage a trois, and allowed as how they should be grateful for the opportunity, him being such an international financial big shot. The sisters were horrified or at least acted like it. Chuck and I exchanged amused looks, enjoying being entertained by a guy totally clueless and who was fully expecting the ladies to take him up on his “generous” offer. Our perception that the ladies were of the haute couture snobby variety, made the situation of their discomfort even more entertaining. “Hey, Günter, don’t forget the pox,” I said laughing, and Chuck joining in. “What’s a pox?” said one of the sisters both already half out of their seats, but thinking maybe there was some kind of joke in the making. They were definitely looking for an exit opportunity. “Seems our friend here—we met him just before you walked in—has a dose of the clap.” Laughed Chuck, “But probably gone by now, right Günter?” “Huh? Oh, ja, ja. Is no problem. I give you good, clean service. You catch nothing. I guarantee.” The other sister, a bit panicky and realizing the German was dead serious, whispered to Chuck, “Would you and your friend walk my sister and me back to our hotel so we can ditch this bore? Please! Frankly, he’s frightening.” Since we also wanted to ditch Günter before he decided to invite himself to join us for dinner, Chuck looked at me and mouthed, “Okay?” I gave silent assent, Günter oblivious to what was going on, him still loudly running off his mouth. Mell looked at the German (when he finally took a breath—guy talked in paragraphs) and said, “Sorry, buddy. You’re too late. We’re taking these two back to our place. We like our men to be fit.” She and her sister stood, and so did we. “Vat? You lousy, used up cunts ditch me for zese poor excuses for manhood? Oh vell, is your loss.” He sounded angry and gave us all a dismissive wave. “Piss off! I not vaste anymore time on you!” When we were outside, I said, “I forgot about the tab. We stuck Günter with the bill.” “Consider it payment for having to listen to him,” said Chuck. “Figure he rented an audience for an hour.” “But, the nerve of that guy!” said one of the sisters. “What did he think we are?” “Well, he was a piece of work in his own right, but in Europe, when men and women are attracted to each other, they just blurt out what’s on their minds. No offense is taken.” I said. “For them it’s normal.” “Yeah,” said Chuck, “He was just doing what’s acceptable in his own culture although most European men do it with charm. Günter’s very rough around the edges.” “How so, uh, the charming part?” “I’ll demonstrate.” Chuck stuck out his lower lip, and with a very bad (but amusing) French accent said, “You lack me, I can tell. Would you lack to make love?” He drew out the last word making us all laugh. “Well, I still don’t like it…” said the other sister with a bit of a giggle in her voice. “Not one bit.” “You must have given him a signal that you desired him,” I offered just to get a reaction. “Oh, my God!” they said as a chorus making shivering motions. We dropped the sisters at their hotel, exchanged nice-to-meet-you pleasantries, and went to dinner having done our good deed for the day. …but we’re not done with Gunter. More to come in Part 2. Copyright 2012 by Gene Myers. Author of AFTER HOURS: ADVENTURES OF AN INTERNATIONAL BUSINESSMAN and SONG FROM LATTYS GROVE, both available from Amazon and Amazon Kindle.
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Shakespeare, idiocy, Singapore, prostitution, ladies,
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