Short Fiction: Reminiscing (1993)

This was written from the point of view of a once-close friend, someone I grew up with. I guess you could say we were soul mates, but that was a long time ago.

The story captures for me a time when being in your twenties was about freedom from school, work and independence, and the luxury of spending as much time as one could with friends, old and new.

The luminous hands on his Tag Huer gleamed eight-thirty as Wei Hsien clicked the remote key at his Golf GTi. Good that he was early. He had to talk to Matt alone, before the others came. He trudged up the slope of the driveway and entered the house by the kitchen entrance.

It led into the dining room and then into the living room. Some lights were on, but the rooms were deserted. Matt’s parents must be upstairs watching TV in their room. Two dogs, one a mongrel with cream-coloured fur, and a black spaniel, padded out of the shadows to nose his denim-covered knees as he slipped off his Timberlands at the bottom of the stairs.

Ever since primary school, Matt’s house in University Road had been their hangout. Matt had once told him that more than 50 years ago, his had been one of the first few bungalows to be built on the slopes of the estate. His grandfather, a tin miner from Malaysia, could well afford to develop the land; then acres of lallang fields, clumps of forest, and dotted with kampongs. As Singapore grew wealthier, the lallang fields and kampongs made way for stately bungalows with front lawns, and European cars parked in long driveways.

Matt’s living room was spacious enough to hold house parties, or functions, as they were called then. One night, the guys had pushed the leather sofas against the wall, stolen flashing signals off roadwork sites, and set up sound equipment and compilations for a party to celebrate the end of the ‘O’s. And before a face, indelibly linked with adolescent schooldays, could surge to the front of his mind, he darted up the staircase two at a time, each leap shuffling his thoughts like cards in a deck.

He found Matt sitting on the parquet floor of his large bedroom, surrounded by empty shoe boxes and piles of CDs.

“Remember them?” Matt waved the cover of A Flock of Seagulls cassette at his friend. “Old party music.” He stared in nostalgic fascination at the gaudy cover of the defunct New Wave band. “Sorting out my collection, throwing the junk.” He tossed the cassette on a hill of similar cassettes on the floor and glanced at the clock on the wall opposite. It was almost nine. “The others should be here soon. I hope they didn’t forget the Haagen Daz.”

Wei Hsien fingered the pile. The titles were mostly extinct bands left over from party days: Ultravox, Psychelic Furs, Culture Club. Apparently, Matt’s musical tastes had grown up. The neatly-stacked CDs had the names of jazz legends on the spines: Coltrane, Miles Davis, Ella Fitzgerald.

“How’s UBS?”

“Not too bad,” Matt said. “You know a dealer’s hours. I’m going to London next week for training. Can’t wait.”

“You gonna look up Jeff?”

“Of course. Gonna get him to buy some West End tickets.” He grinned in anticipation.

“A great job you’ve got, huh. Big bucks, jet-setting.”

“Investing the bank’s funds is stressful sometimes! It’s not all two-hour lunches, you know!”

Wei Hsien laughed and shrugged. He got off his ankles and wandered over to the elegant rosewood desk by the bed. Inside one of the pigeonholes, half hidden behind stacked letters, bills, and college notepads, was a framed photograph. The photo was a group shot familiar to Wei Hsien. He remembered the time it was taken. The frame itself was one of those cheap imitation brass frames you find in corner photoshops. The implications of Matt putting up a photo of himself with his pals was not lost on Wei Hsien. It was probably the only sign of sentiment in an otherwise faceless and functional bedroom, he thought.

She was slightly off-center, perched on the wooden arm of the sofa with an elbow casually resting on Wei Hsien’s left shoulder for support. That she was part of a group of seven or eight did nothing to stop the eyes from coming to rest on Maria. [Next page]