Fixing a Broken Heart

Stanley has finally met his match.

Not the swipe-right type of match.

This one, oh no. This one isn't immediately associated with the qualities of Mister Right.

He's neither very right (in fact, he's very un-politically correct), nor is he fully a mister, judging from his wardrobe choices.

But he has a good heart, a hearty laugh and God, he's so damn entertaining.

The year is late-2018, and Stanley, Carl and I are meeting our loudmouthed friend who is visiting from Australia.

Meet Sam Baker.

1.76m, 82kg, visiting from Down Under. Newly single and ready to mingle.

And because we're meeting the Sam Baker, we had to choose a very strategic place.

Somewhere gay friendly, somewhere loud so that we're not the centre of attention, and somewhere with booze.

We're gonna need it, baby.

Because tonight, we are on a mission -- Sam Baker is heartbroken.

At around 7:30pm, the stars aligned and in strolls the loud and proud Sam Baker.

"G'dai bitches," was the first thing Sam Baker uttered in his signature high-pitch voice. "How ya doin' mate!"

What followed was a blur of activity which I remember included tight hugging and exchanging of loud and precisely pronounced air kisses.

I also recall Carl the dense one -- who has zero interaction with out and loud queens -- curtseying awkwardly at Sam Baker.

Some five minutes after the elaborate ceremonious greeting, we settled down at a corner table of Bill's 8 Café, a restaurant that's known for both its delicious food and yummy owner.

Stanley and I both exchanged looks and glanced down at our watches.

Give it 5 minutes. 
No, I think, maybe less. 3 minutes?
Okay, let's see how long he'll last.

Turns out, Stanley was right.

It took Sam Baker less than three minutes to falter, and fumble, and revert from his Aussie Twang to his roots.

"Eh, very tired to be Aussie the whole time la Sundal," Sam Baker finally crumbles, using the Malay word for slut.

Sam Baker -- short for Samsul Abu Bakar -- is a self-made lifestyle coach.

Whatever the heck is a lifestyle coach, I have no idea.

But apparently, this Sundal is making it big Down Under, collecting decent bucks by offering clueless angmohs lifestyle tips, relationship advice, meditation classes, and philosophy counselling.

I wanted to tell Sam Baker that he might as well throw in Balinese massage since he looks head to toe very Melayu.

But no -- I'm not Melayoooo, Samsul Abu Bakar used to say. "I'm Malay mix."

I remember Stanley asking Samsul Abu Bakar at Niche, a popular gay bar in the early 2000s, what exactly is "Malay mix".

"My father is Javanese and my mother is Bugis," Samsul Abu Bakar said matter of factly.

That night, Stanley went around telling people at the bar that he was "Chinese mix". "My dad is Teochew and my mum is Hakka".

Sam Baker is a friend we all knew in our younger days. 

Oh, those lovely days when walking into a club was such a joy because we're always stopped by the bouncer who demanded we showed we were of legal age. 

But back then, Sam Baker wasn't really known as Sam Baker.

But he was never known as -- and thus, never called by -- his real name: Samsul Abu Bakar.

One of his nicknames was Cik Pon, which Stanley the Peranakan explained to me meant "Ms Pon".

Sam Baker used to turn up at the gay bar to do drag performances and boy, was he good. 

Once, he did a Halloween standup routine where he introduced himself as Cik Pon. 

"Because by day, I am cik Pondan, and by night, I am cik Pontianak," he said, stroking his long black wig that stood out prominently against his white bedsheets of a dress. 

We loved Sam Baker -- he made us laugh all the time.

But now, Sam Baker was about to make us cry. 

Back at 8 Café, the heavyset Sam Baker is perspiring, his upper lip dotted with dozens of mini sweat beads. 

He had just broken up with his partner of 4 years and immediately spiralled into depression for six months.

Though we were Facebook friends, Sam's posts didn't always show up on our feeds because we haven't really been interacting socially with him.

So when he disappeared from the grid... nobody knew.

Funny how a self-made lifestyle guru isn't able to help himself. 

But that's not the point.

Long story short, Sam Baker soon found his two feet and got right back up.

His counsellor said moving away from his "source of hurt" would do him some good.

Later, when Sam Baker went to the toilet, Stanley took the opportunity to add that the counsellor was probably wrong.

"Sometimes, after an intense sex meeting, my source of hurt is still there no matter where I go."

"That's funny -- but let's not say this to Sam Baker when he's back," I noted, unsure whether it's wise to do that to a hurting friend.

"Yes, you're right," Carl said to our surprise.

Our dense friend, who normally has no situational awareness (Carl had told us he once approached a blind man to ask him for directions), is on form tonight.

"Let's all be supportive to Sam Baker. Hold hands and form a protective circle around him," Carl said, to our utter surprise.

"Errr… and are we doing one of those trust fall activities? Because hunny, if that elephant were to close his eyes and fall backwards, trust me, I'm not going to catch him," Stanley said.

"Catch what?" Sam Baker asks from afar.

"Catch STD," Carl the dense one followed up immediately, once again outdoing himself.

"We're saying that Stanley the Sundal has been recently sleeping around so much he's gonna catch STD," said Carl, man of the match.

Stanley flashed Carl a constipated smile that spoke of betrayal and respect at the same time.

That night, we did all we could to comfort Sam Baker.

Be his listening ears.

Be his shoulder to cry on.

Be his supportive bitch who would chime in at appropriate times to say "Amen" or "what a dick!".

I was particularly comforted by the fact that although we had not met up for such a long time, the bond we formed in our youth was still strong.

And I take heart that we can still help Sam Baker fix his broken heart.

Three bottles of red wine were ordered, and loads of fries were refilled.

Apparently, stress eating does help.

"We need to stop him. Any more fries and we really have to help Sam Baker fix his broken heart -- from hypertension," came Stanley's WhatsApp message to the group, which he expertly typed under the table.

Stanley our sex bunny friend is evidently capable of doing a lot of things well under the table.

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

Grand Dreams

My sister messaged out of the blue the other day.

"I dreamt of por-por last night" was her first WhatsApp message in the family group chat.

"And it was really vivid - I was supposed to give her an angpao".

Our mum was the first to reply.

"Por por is no longer around. Give mummy the angpao instead," wrote Mrs Lee, who followed up appropriately with a gif of a fat hamster cartoon flapping its ridiculously short limbs as if trying to carve out food out of thin air.  

Our brother Barry - who's always too busy to reply in full sentences - wrote: "Wow! I miss por-por".

The unenthusiastic replies, all of five lines, lulled after 50 minutes and my sister's topic died a natural death.

Not satisfied with such cold treatment, my sis engaged me for a one-on-one.

"I haven't dreamt of por-por in nearly 30 years," she revealed.

"Do you think it's a sign that she needs money in the afterworld?"

I didn't reply her immediately, choosing to weigh my answer very carefully instead.

The key phrase that got me thinking was "in nearly 30 years" which means, por-por had been in my sister's dreams until she was around 14 years old.

And that made sense.

I was 10 when our granny died.

My sis was 13.

Barry was 8.

I remember the day very clearly.

It was after dinner, and as usual, por-por sat at the front of her shophouse, enjoying the evening breeze while chanting softly to herself, clutching a long string of Buddhist prayer beads in one hand.

I was sitting near her, always happy to be playing in our front porch, while my mum and favourite aunt nibbled on melon seeds, their usual after-dinner snacks.

Next thing I remember, mum and aunt started fussing around por-por, raising their voices to ask if she were alright.

I watched quietly as por-por grew sleepier and sleepier by the minute, her breaths seemingly more laboured and shallow than her last.

Minutes later, my sis timidly walked out to the porch, drawn by the commotion.

We held hands anxiously as we saw mum and aunt holding por-por by her shoulders shaking her to no end.

Soon, my other aunts and uncles who live in next shophouse, along with some concerned neighbours, started gathering around por-por.

I remember two of my uncles lifting por-por from her seat to her room.

By then, voices were raised, cries were heard. And the adults were scrambling around the house - from por-por's room to the telephone to the front porch, and to her room, and to the front porch again.

I had never seen the adults so panicked before.

I remember our usually cheerful and playful mum had started to wail like she was my age.

My sis and I held hands tightly till they felt cold.

My favourite aunt, however, was eerily calm.

In her usual clinical fashion, she began instructing her siblings - even her older ones - on what to do next.

At some point, one of the neighbours pointed out the obvious.

Something that none of por-por's seven children were willing to acknowledge.

The 89-year-old grand matriarch is no more.

I remember that my sis and I were sent upstairs, instructed to make sure Barry the pig remained sleeping and we were not to come downstairs.

My sis and I didn't speak that night, both of us frightened by our first sight of death.

The death of our ever-doting por-por.

In retrospect, por-por probably doted on my sis and Barry a lot more than she did me, because I was a wilful brat who would always talk back to her.

But that's not the point.

That night, the adults remained awake for as long as I remember, while my sis and I drifted to sleep only when child-like exhaustion lured us to slumber.

The next day, I remember being allowed to stay home but I was in no holiday mood.

Everyone was sombre.

So I remained obediently quiet in my own room, mindful enough to not bother the vexed adults.

My sis, however, had to attend school for some test or exam.

When she finished school, my sis went to por-por's house first - which was what we were all taught to do as kids.

When you come home, you make sure you go to por-por's home first to greet her before you do anything.

That afternoon, my sis habitually walked into the living area of por-por's home, only to scream at what she saw.

Por-por's body had been freshly prepared and made up for her five-day wake.

In my sister's memory, por-por wore a traditional and grand-looking samfu "the kind you would see in Hong Kong zombie movies."

Por-por's face was powdered to a near shade of white, her lips a contrasting bold red with two round patches dotted on each side of por-por's cheeks like they were mini peaches.

I remember my sis having not been able to sleep for the next few months, often crying in the middle of the night, haunted by the unearthly look of por-por, who had such a genteel, wrinkly face when she was alive.

Lucky for me, my last memory of por-por was of her chanting her prayer beads, and then breathing slowly and dying what seems to be peacefully and effortlessly in front of my eyes.

I can only imagine the trauma sis had to go through.

I recall sis not being able to sleep well for at least six months.

In retrospect, her experience must have caused her to hate - or rather, fear - watching Hong Kong zombie movies later on.

Which is why I had to be really careful with what I replied my 43-year-old sis about por-por, given that the scardy-cat now lives alone in a relatively big apartment.

"Do you think por-por needs money? You think I should burn her some?"

Before I could give any input, sis again typed on WhatsApp.

"Uncle just replied me separately - he says por-por is a millionaire and is richer than all of us combined given that over the years, the uncles and aunties made regular fund transfers to por-por by literally burning money".

"Cousin Jo says por-por would have been reincarnated by now".

And then my hilarious brother told sis:

"Do NOT burn por-por money. Nowadays got a lot of identity theft. What if it's a ghost swindler trying to cheat money out of you then how?"

Sis later told me she'd wait and see if por-por would return to her dreams to ask for money.

"If she returns again, it means it's real right and she needs money right?" my sis the superstitious queen asked.

I didn't know what to say.

"What did mummy say?" I ask, hoping that sis got some motherly advice separately.

"That woman is still asking me to give her the angpao".

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

Dying Thoughts

Not too long ago, my partner J's aunt was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer.

The doctor told her then, she only had months left.

And so for her remaining days, Aunty Nora decided to live life to the fullest.

She drew up her will, met friends and loved ones regularly, diligently watched lots of K-dramas, and ate many a hearty meal.

J, ever the sweet boy, would take Aunty Nora out once a week for a good meal with his parents.

Peranakan food, Coca steamboat (senior citizens got discount lah, J says), and international hotel buffets and high teas, you name it.  

Last Tuesday, Aunty Nora died at age 73.

I received J's message while I was on my way for a meeting.

Though I had known Aunty Nora for the last 18 years I was with J, I didn't feel overwhelmed with sadness.

One, she had outlived her doctor's prognosis by slightly more than a year.

Two, she had had a full life after all, having been a Tai Tai, without having to worry about money and always indulging in the finer things in life.

And three, in Aunty Nora's final days, she was so frail and in so much pain that she really wanted to just leave this world.

It was a sad day for J and his family.

That night, I fulfilled my duties as the daughter-in-law to the Tans.

Stanley my sex bunny friend would say that there are many other more interesting roles I can play to fulfill my duties as the Tans' daughter-in-law, but let's not go there.

That night, after Aunty Nora's immediate family ironed out the dreadful admin and logistics work, her body was brought back to her Jalan Chengam home.

Aunty Nora's wake photo was stately.

She had her puffy hair -- in a brilliant sheen of white -- nicely coiffed, and was in an elegant black cheongsam with pink and purple floral patterns.

In her coffin, she looked equally dignified, dressed in that very cheongsam which she had meant to wear in her final journey.

Her clasped hand held a rosary which was used frequently in her living days.

For the next few nights, her Jalan Chengam home was filled with collective chatter from tables of friends and family.

It was in a way a familiar sight given that when she was alive, Aunty Nora would hold such rowdy parties too.


J and I took a back seat from wake duties and just made sure guests are well fed with peanuts, and pipping hot sayur lodeh, cooked by one of his cousins.

During the wake, I learnt that Aunty Nora had been involved in her own funeral planning -- from choosing her funeral mass hymn to making sure she gets her favourite priest to say mass for her.


Great planning on her part.

But it was very morbid.

Days after her funeral, I got to thinking of my own mortality.

And J and I both sat down to talk about our longevity on this planet.

It was an important discussion. We know we will not live forever and there's no way we will escape death.

While J's parents have made afterlife plans (they all bought niche units at their parish churches), it was J's own plans I wanted to know.

My practical partner had opted for sea burial (which is an option for Catholics, I learnt. After cremation, J's ashes will be filled in an urn which will be brought to sea by a priest, who will dump the urn).

I've also studiously made notes about J's funeral hymns.

"What the heck makes you think you'll outlive J," Stanley demanded to know when I told him this over coffee the other day.

"J is healthier and holier than thou," Stanley said, adding that "don't forget you were a young slut before you met J so God knows what sort of underlying STD you have which might just emerge and kill you some day."

Which also got me thinking.

It's true what Stanley said (the slut part and also my naive thought that I would outlive J).

In fact, I want to outlive J.

It pains me to imagine him hovering over my coffin and staring down at me, feeling like his whole world has crumbled.

Me on the other hand, knowing what sort of a drama queen I am, will survive. After all, I'll be theatrical enough to ensure I express my sorrows appropriately.

All that morbid talk got Stanley himself thinking.

"Damn. I'm single and I have nobody to weep big fat salty tears for me," he said, already mourning his future death.

"But I'm making good progress," my sex bunny friend added wistfully.

"I've been diligently sleeping around so that eventually when I'm dead, I can truly live up to the title, the laid Stanley Ong which will be inscribed on my tombstone."




In loving memory of Aunty Nora, who, when the going got tough for her and had trouble eating when she was ill, told me she enjoyed the Myanmar cashew nuts I had been buying for her. And thank you for your years of acceptance, party invites and generous treats and angpaos during Chinese New Year.

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

One Ring to Rule Them All

"It's time to get a ring," Stanley said in the group chat the other day.

To his credit, Carl the dense one ventured to clarify what exactly it is, that our sex bunny friend meant -- because with Stanley, really, you never know.

"What type of ring?"

"The type that is rock hard, perfectly shaped and fits just nicely," Stanley replied, refusing to let the bait go to waste.

To all of our relief, Stanley had indeed described an actual ring -- for the finger -- though why he wanted one was beyond us.

Then again, with Stanley, you never know.

And whatever -- and whomever -- Stanley wants, Stanley gets.

And so for the next few days, our group chat was filled with pictures of rings provided by Stanley for our approval and opinion -- which is a refreshing change for once.

After 15 minutes of replying with thumbs-up icons for every picture, Carl the dense one's attention span fizzled off like a can of Coke that's left in the open for too long and soon, the group chat became a monologue.

"The reason I want a ring is sort of like a birthday gift to myself," Stanley wrote without anyone asking.

"And I'm drawn to my birthstone -- Peridot -- in case you ask (which we weren't)".

"Also, as Adam would know, I love green (yes, I do know and Carl the dense one doesn't)".

"But a peridot ring is not exactly glam so I'm also looking at embellishing it with diamonds."

By then, Stanley was on his own because I didn't have his enthusiasm in exploring family jewels, and Carl the dense one couldn't catch up anymore.

Finally, last Friday afternoon, Stanley decided to make a bold move.

He has concluded that there are not enough men's rings that feature peridot and diamonds and most of them are very ugly.

And so, he will have a custom-made ring for himself.

It was something that calls for a gathering of sorts so we found ourselves at a shop in Tiong Bahru that specialises in creating jewellery for people with too much money to spare.

Two slim and pretty-looking girls attended to us in the spacious showroom, one of them focusing solely on Stanley's needs.

And to our surprise, the girl could satisfy our sex bunny's needs there and then.

"You know, I usually like it big, but for rings, I don't want them to be too bulky," Stanley was telling Jewel Girl.

"And I've seen a lot of peridot rings online -- they all look like one solid rock, which in another context, is a good thing for me," Stanley carried on loading too much info on Jewel Girl.

"Some of those rings look like they're worn by holy men -- the type which if you rub, a genie might come out," Stanley continued.

Knowing Stanley, I was very afraid for the girl for what might follow.

"For me, if I rub it, it shouldn't be a genie that comes out if you know what I mean," Stanley said as expected.

Jewel Girl broke into a hearty giggle, her white mask vibrating with her chortle.

I sighed with relief, happy that Stanley hadn't rubbed Jewel Girl the wrong way. 

"I'll make you something that you'll like -- don't you worry," Jewel Girl said and with that, she brought out her shop's peridots for Stanley to see.

"I suggest using these smaller peridots -- along with diamonds of the same size," she said and began to arrange the gemstones with a tweezer.

To my left, I saw Carl yawning behind his mask, fighting the urge to doze off.

Jewel Girl then did a rough sketch for Stanley, explaining how she would place the gemstones that would both meet Stanley's brief and expectations.

"You have nice slender fingers, so a large stone won't work well. Instead, I'm using these smaller gems to shape the centre piece. These diamonds will go here to compliment the peridots."

Stanley's eyes lit up on seeing the sketch and the stones that were placed on a transparent sheet for his visualisation.

"I LOVE IT," Stanley said.

"It'll be set on white gold and what I'll do is, I'll combine two small rings to support the centre piece so that it looks classy and exquisite -- which is my impression of you," Jewel Girl said, her eyes squinting with delight.

Next, Jewel Girl held up a calculator and punched in many digits before showing the final figure to Stanley.

Carl's eyes lit up on seeing the amount.

"It's a good price that I'm willing to pay," Stanley said.

It would take two months for Jewel Girl to make the ring but Stanley left the shop that afternoon a happy man.

Carl was still dazed by how fast Stanley went from talking about getting a ring to actually deciding on a customised ring in a matter of days, though mainly, I suspect Carl couldn't t get over the amount.

"$3,200 is just a fraction of our salary," said Stanley, Crazy Rich Asian.

"Besides, I would love to have my family jewels to be as personal as possible," said Stanley, Crazy Asian.

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