Great Expat-ations

The date was some weekend in late-August.

The year was 2017.

The venue - at Stanley's insistence - was a pretentious Italian rooftop restaurant along Ann Siang Hill.

"It's about time we tried somewhere new," my sex bunny friend Stanley said, obviously imposing his promiscuous principles on our weekly dinning routine.

"Eating out with your girl friends is like handling marriage. We have to keep trying new places and injecting new things into our friendship," Stanley said with the enthusiasm of a newly-minted orientation group leader.

Yet, the occasion for our gathering was grim.

And the boys were about to find out why.

"I will have some of those buns. Immediately," Stanley said with fierce determination, eyeing the buttocks of our waiter who left us to decide on our orders.

"Boys, let's get down to ordering. There's much to discuss," I urged.

With trained military precision, the three of us got down to our orders - each of us habitually selecting one item in each category.

Stanley raised his hand and rapidly said: "I'll choose the pasta and the dessert!"

For starters, Carl our dense friend chose sweet potato fries (he needs to bulk up because he's on one of those never-ending diets that required him to eat a lot of carbs, and then pump a lot of iron at the gym), Spanish cheese plater and deep fried meatballs.

Stanley decided on the cold angel hair pasta with truffles as well as pizza.

I had the most work to do.

Choosing a bottle of wine - Italian at that - with no help at all from the menu.

All it said on the wine list were the name of the Italian wine which only a nimble tongue like Stanley's could pronounce, the price of the wine, and that's it. No description whatsoever.  

Some googling on vivino dot com later, I decided on a bottle of red that is easy to drink - and also easy to pay for.

Ninety dollars a bottle isn't too expensive for two working adults, minus Stanley the newly retrenched. 

With our orders out of the way, it was time to break the news.

"Boys," I said.

"Yes," Stanley and Carl both replied by way of habit.

"I have news."

The next 15 minutes whizzed by.

In between the wine glass placements, tasting and pouring of wine, passing of dishes and clinking of glasses, Stanley and Carl were still digesting the grim news that I'll be taking up an overseas posting.

"What did J say?'
"How long will you be away for?"

"How often will you come back?"

"What will happen to your apartment?"

By the time we polished off our Spanish cheese and sweet potato fries, Stanley and Carl were digesting both the appetisers and the news.

My new job offer would be quite jet-setting.

Starting with a quick stint in China - where I would be trained for six months - before settling down in another Southeast Asian country.

I had expected them to feel excited for me.

But I was also worried about how they'd take it.

This is not me going on a long holiday.

It's me uprooting, moving miles away, and most importantly, disrupting our weekly routine.

Since we knew one another when we were 19, we had only been apart when I had left Singapore to study.

Surely, it's not easy to say goodbye to these two, whom I've known longer than my partner J.

"I'm gonna miss you," Carl said unexpectedly.

Our dense friend, who on good days can recite the alphabet without singing it, was in good form.

He was aware of what's going on, and could express himself, much to Stanley and my delight.

Because with Carl, one really needs to be patient - much of his blood flow which could have gone to his brain is often diverted to his muscles. 

Stanley, on the other hand, has too much blood flow to his nether regions, but that's a story for another day.

"I'm happy for you, Adam," Stanley said unwillingly, placing his hand over mine, as if he were a doctor who had to tell a patient he had terminal illness.

"I'm sad," Carl the Dense said, and placed his hand over Stanley's.

We ate the rest of our dinner pensively and despite the bottle of wine, Carl insisted we did round two at E-bar, his favourite gay bar in town.

And later at the bar, just as a sweet young thing brought us our bottle of Macallan, Stanley inquired out loud "so, how big is your package"?

The young waiter and I exchanged glances, each of us unsure of who should answer Stanley.

Finally, the nervous youth scurried away to fetch us ice.

I eyed Stanley and laughed.

"I am so going to miss your stupid antics."

"What, I was being serious. I want to know how big your package is."

When I revealed my potential earnings, Stanley stood up, placed both his hands in the air and posed as if he were a Russian gymnast that made a fine landing, then said to me dramatically by whispering into my ear, "I lurve your big package, mister."

"Please don't ever do that again," I raised my shoulder defensively and pushed Stanley away.

"I have always loved fat, expat packages," Stanley said, reminding us of the time he bumped into an Aussie working for a big firm in Singapore. 

"And now, Adam Lee, I'm loving your fat, expat package."

That night, the three of us let go.

We had initially promised ourselves to be respectable old men and ordered only one bottle of Macallen but we ended up sending Carl and his biceps over to the bar counter who returned with another cute but straight bartender who later brought us one more bottle of Martel. 

And boy, did we drink.

Three emotional boys nearing their 40s and two full bottles of hard liquor are no joke. 

“I’m happy for you but I’m gonna miss you,” Stanley said between hiccups that night. 

Hick, Carl responded solemnly. 

“What’s the first thing on your agenda when you get there?” Stanley asked with a drunken slur. 

“Oh, I know. Go get yourself a nice Peking Duck,” Stanley said with a smile. 

“And then go find me a nice Peking Fuck,” added the Great Whore of China.



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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people