A Night in the Hood

I still fail to entirely understand the events that unfolded just hours ago. It is likely that I will never fully appreciate what just happened in the world of crazy I temporarily visited.

It started simply enough: My friends called me up and asked me out for a drink. We left my place at  around 9:30 and were chilling at a local park’s picnic area shortly thereafter. Not more than an hour or so had gone by when our new acquaintance (and our driver for the evening) informed us that we would be leaving to have some beers with a friend. Not one to turn down free anything, I compliantly alighted the park bench and boarded the express train to crazy town.

As soon as I lay eyes on our destination, I knew I was in for a real treat. The place was not some trendy bar packed full of young socialites, but what appeared to be a kopi tiam where sad, old bachelors came to erase the memories of their lonely lives with Guinness and Tiger. As the place came more clearly into view, I saw our driver (let’s call him “S”) quickly walk up to a man seated at a corner table and shake his hand in a very serious manner, not dissimilar to how you would shake the hand of the Godfather.

I would not have been startled by this action if not for the absurdity of its context. Here I was, staring at a guy shaking the hand of man as though he controlled all of the guns and drugs in Selangor, except that he was in fact a Chinese David Carradine lookalike sitting on plastic furniture in some place I wouldn’t eat at unless my life depended on it.

Note: on the off chance that the gentleman I am describing is in fact someone very powerful and scary,  I implore that he please not stab me or anyone I know as retribution. I will gladly edit this post to his liking if it means not bleeding everywhere and dying.

Danny then quickly followed with a handshake of his own. I suddenly realized that not shaking low-rent Carradine’s hand could result in unpleasantness, so I too followed suit with what became an uncomfortably long handshake. The next two hours or so of my life were spent being very quiet and sitting very still, breaking only to drink as instructed and to answer the questions of another old man which were being posed in English so broken it was close to just noises.

In that time, I witnessed what was either an illicit deal or a sordid love affair (a la Brokeback Mountain alley scene). An old man seated at another table rapped an entire Tamil song.  The owner of the place came by and wiped down the table himself. A man with a hunchback came and shook hands with everyone. A man in his 30’s, missing a third of his teeth, had a very loud conversation with S and eyed me for its entire duration.

I wasn’t sure if I should be amused that I was in such a ridiculous place, paying ridiculous respects to a ridiculous man, or scared that I’m so sheltered and naive that I wasn’t even alarmed. Even now I’m still not sure that I should be so flippant about low-rent Carradine. Even though logic dictates that anyone with a decent amount of illicit business could at least afford to lounge around in a real bar, there’s a part of my brain that wonders if he is somebody.

In short, I still have no idea what the eff just happened, but as far as things to do on a Friday night go, I’ve done worse.

Posted on Monday, August 24th, 2009