She Said Yes

Last week, my elder sis messaged my brother and me and our oldest sis -- who's living in Australia -- in our sibling group chat titled "The Little Lees" and made an announcement that would move share prices. 

Younger brother Barry responded with a group video call without delay. Only oldest Sis Jo didn't pick up (she goes to sleep on Do Not Disturb mode).

"What are you eating again? It's 12:15am," my sis S complained. 

"That should be the least of your worries," I interrupted.

Barry nodded zestfully since his mouth was full.

When he swallowed, he shouted. "WOW!"

Sis smiled then giggled like she was drunk after Prom Night. 

After nearly 50 years of being a single woman (with a tumultuous dating history filled mainly with assholes and a few good men), my sis was finally proposed to.

The man is someone slightly younger but to be honest, they both look good together.

"I don't know if that's a good thing," Stanley, who knows my family well, said when I broke the news to him later.

It must mean that the man looks super old, he said, reminding me that my sis is nearly 50 (though she can definitely pass off as someone in her mid-thirties thanks to good genes).

"But Mainly Assholes and a Few Good Men sounds like a great title for my biography," my sex bunny friend said, adding "will you write it for me in future?"

And so, during one of our regular family gatherings that Saturday -- this time at Tanglin Club -- my sis broke the news to the family.

Her exact words came out without warning. "I'm getting married," she said.

Mrs Lee, ever the dramatic matriarch, set her chopsticks down and covered her mouth with her wrinkly hands in slow motion, eyes fast filling with tears.

Barry leaned over and asked "Why? The congee too spicy is it?"

Mrs Lee hit Barry away and started weeping silently into her hands.

"Orrh.... see what you did! You made mummy cry," I chimed in as I helped myself to a steaming, fluffy piece of Char Siew Pao.

Mrs Lee let out a wail which she failed to control.

A table away, a group of rowdy businessmen uncles stopped toasting one another beer and turned to look at our sobbing mum instead. One of them looked at me quizically and jerked his head upwards which I interpreted as an inquiry that meant "What did your mum eat to make her this upset?"

At a corner, another table of elegant socialite-aunty types -- complete with pearl necklaces and bird-nest hairstyles -- kept stealing secret glances at us while trying to look classy and not busybodies.

My sis, unable to stand the attention, whispered urgently: "Mummy, please stop this right this moment."

Mrs Lee let out another wail, this time, not even controlling her emotions nor volume.

Barry asked "do you think I can be excused from this table and continue eating with those uncles there?"

Sis shot him a look that Barry immediately understood that any movement from him would get him disowned and possibly disembodied.

With impeccable timing, the Tang Yun matron whom The Little Lees nickname Mamasan, strolled over and casually placed her hand over our mum and said "Aiyah, Lei Tai, mat yeh zeng dou lei gom gek dong ah? (Aiyah, Mrs Lee, what's making you so emotional?)

The emotional Mrs Lee pointed at Sis.

Sis looked at Barry and asked: "You wanted to join that table of uncles, you said?"

I took a sip of tea to wash down my second steamy, fluffy Char Siew Pao.

Sometimes, I'm amused at my own family.

One simple message, but it can take a whole 7 mins (I counted) to announce it and even then, it's not over.

To be fair, my sis' announcement does deserve to be celebrated given that she'd been dating this man whom not only she, but also all of us loved.

Tang Yun Mamasan, upon hearing the good news, joined Mrs Lee in Emo Land and started clapping, all the while saying "congratulations, congratulations, congratulations!"

Sis was mortified. This is a PR disaster and she regretted her actions on many levels.

By then, it was too late. Mamasan had help spread the word to the other servers who, over the years, have taken a liking to our dramatic mum for some reason.

One by one, elderly staff of the Chinese restaurant came over and congratulated Mrs Lee and Ms Lee as if suddenly Tang Yun had become the wedding dinner there and then.

The group of uncles collectively toasted our table. Barry raised his Chinese tea cup at them enthusiastically.

The classy tai-tais nodded in approval at our table.

My sis wanted the day to end but was very moved by everyone's gestures.

Finally, Mrs Lee spoke.

"Does Eddie know?" she asked, concerned. 

Barry burst out laughing, his Chinese tea spewing into the air through his mouth. 

I slow-clapped at Mrs Lee's spot-on humour.

Even Eddie, our soon-to-be brother-in-law who was watching the Lee drama unfold for the past 10 minutes couldn't help himself, and broke into a throaty peal of merry laughter. 

Sis was not amused. 

It was an afternoon of emotional rollercoaster ride and I think our table -- no, sorry, our mum Mrs Lee -- singlehandedly raised the raucous energy in that classy Chinese restaurant. 

What followed Sis' announcement was a series of follow-up questions.

Where and when being key.

Eddie and Sis took turns to explain that they're still looking for a place. I knew Mum would secretly want a Chinese-style wedding but knowing Sis, she's the opposite.

But it was happy news nevertheless.

There would be lots to do for the couple, for the family, and of course, Mrs Lee.

She would naturally be excited. This was the first matrimonial event of the Lees, not counting our mum's own marriage. 

Mrs Lee began texting in various of her group chats to spread the word.

"I"m texting the extended family first," she said, as she left a voice message in her "Fami-LEE" group made up of all our aunties and uncles.

"That's not a text, Mummy," Barry pointed out. "That's a voice message. And might I suggest you rename that group to ElderLEES."

Mrs Lee had no time for Barry's joke. Waving him away, she left another voice message in another group chat. I haven't seen our mum so animated in a while.

As Tang Yun Mamasan brought over free desserts on the house to mark this very joyous occasion, I looked from my mum to Barry, and Sis and Eddie, and felt a nice, fuzzy feeling in my tummy.

At last, Sis and Eddie are a step closer to getting married.

Just then, the table of Tai Tais walked past us. A woman who wore her hair that must be fashioned after the late-Queen of England, smiled at our table and meekly said, "Congratulations."

Sis and Eddie, both holding hands under the table, smiled and looked at each other.

That Saturday, my life felt very complete.

 

 

 

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

House Viewing

House viewing ought to be fun.

The boys -- Stanley my sex bunny friend, Carl the dense one -- and I would always make house viewing a grand event. 

But when it's my unit that's up for scrutiny, up for judgement, and eventually, up for grabs, it suddenly isn't that fun.

"House viewing is fun, full stop," Stanley stated for the record, taking on the role of maitre' d as he poured a Chateauneuf-du-Pape into my cheap decantor, the action making gurgling sounds that filled my almost empty apartment.

Carl the dense one, who is blessed with an innocent's child's mind, clapped upon hearing the word fun.

"House viewing is a great gateway for sex or to meet eligible men," continued Stanley whose mind is far from that of an innocent child.

"Seize every opportunity, Adam," Stanley said like a demanding mother, stressing the word seize. 

Carl instinctively crossed his legs for further protection. 

"Think about it. Even with Grindr, you're not going to see such a large flow of men through your doors. And the ones who can afford to view your unit are obviously not poor," said Stanley. 

If Stanley had antennas attached to his head, right now,they'd be rod hard stiff and giving off alarming flashes of red. 

"What exactly are we talking about, Stan?" I asked, annoyed.

"Yes, what exactly are we talking about, Stan?" Carl parroted, truly lost at this multi-dimensional conversation. 

If Carl had antennas attached to his head, they'd not have any reception at all. 

The year was 2022, two weeks plus, after my unit was put up for sale.

Already, I'd received quite a number of interested viewers.

"If only your Grindr profile were as lucrative as your PropertyGuru listing," Stanley said.

"Bitch."

Stanley had insisted we spent the evening in my place for as long as I still owned it.

Or before I was homeless, I believe was the phrase he had used. 

And wanting to maximise my home and kitchen while I still am the legal owner, I whipped up a feast.

Seafood chili pasta -- generously stewed with fat scallops, crab meat, tiger prawns and crab sticks; wok-seared wagyu steaks, a kale fruit salad with grapes, chopped mangoes, almonds, tao kae noi seaweed, tossed with cheese and olive oil. 

Stanley bought dessert -- ice cream cake. 

My partner J was in New York for a work conference so he sent love all the way from across the world. 

“I can’t believe you’re selling your house,” Carl said with a pout. 

“I want to be around when your potential buyers view your unit. There needs to be a round of QC and review of whomever buys over your unit,” Stanley said seriously. 

Dinner that evening was bitter sweet. 

I enjoyed my time thoroughly that night but there was a nagging feeling that this would be the last time I refilled everyone’s wine glasses. Or that it would be the last time that I’d walk the boys downstairs and waited till their ride came. 

The following week, I began meeting potential buyers. 

One of them was a wealthy-looking man with thin hair and a case of extremely bad body odour. 

He smelled of onions that’s left unattended in the heat for too many days. 

But he’s potentially someone who could bail me out of poverty so who am I to complain. 

And then there was a couple — non-Singaporean — who came by and took one look at my place, which was designed as a bachelor pad, and decided in my face that it wasn’t baby friendly. 

Days later, an older gay man (at least that’s what I thought), viewed my home and was extremely impressed with what I did with it: The 2-metre long table capable of hosting the Last Supper if Jesus decided to do so, my bright and airy decor that consisted of plants, and even my cosy balcony that featured both a bar table and stool as well low tables and chairs for post-dinner dessert. 

But in the end, it was an old aunty who bought my unit. 

I learnt later that she had bought it for her young daughter who was still in university. 

Oh how unfair life can be. 

But still, it was this rich and generous old aunty who eventually bought my unit. 

When the day came, the break up felt extremely painful. 

The boys had come to help me pack. 

J had, by then, returned from the US and stayed a few nights with me while I packed my belongings and nursed a slow, eventual closure with my apartment. 

My first apartment — the first property I had owned — had come to a close. 

When the day came for me to hand over my keys in exchange for a fat cheque (and a lifeline out of my ridiculous mortgage), I finally cried privately, into the shoulders of J. 

He patted me gently and said nothing. 

“It’s ok,” he said after what felt like half an hour of rearing. 

“You’ll have a new chapter ahead.”

“House hunting — even if you’re renting — can be fun,” he said. 

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

Bring Us To The Test

As a student, I have always aced my tests and exams.

But this is one that I can't study for no matter how much I wish I could excel in it.

Full body, medical exam.

In keeping with my plans to prepare for retirement and to pave the way for good-quality-of-life in my golden years, I had dragged my partner J with me to undergo medical tests together. 

I had found a medical centre -- Pulse, located near Singapore's gay bars -- which, apart from providing sexual health consultation, also does medical screenings.

Pulse has branches in other cities including Bangkok and Hong Kong and they cater to, among others, the LGBT community. 

Why not kill two birds with one stone, I thought, hoping that I can support such initiatives while gaining from it.

And so that Saturday morning, my partner and I headed for the clinic.

We immediately felt at ease, knowing that this is an extremely welcoming environment. 

We were allowed to both enter the consultation room together where our ECGs,  blood tests and prostate exams were taken one after another by the doctor.

That immediately got Stanley my sex bunny friend's attention. 

"That's extremely kinky," he said, looking up from his phone. "Watching your partner being probed by a doctor. I watched a movie clip with that exact storyline on PornHub."

Carl the dense one looked worried. "I never thought J had such fantasies. You're okay with that?" he asked with great concern, going completely off track. 

"How was your prostate test experience," he asked, reaching for some nuts (actual nuts) across the table.

Carl shrank and cringed. 

Stanley shot him an accusatory look and said "really? You're spooked by a prostate test? You? Really?"

With timing that can only be planned only by the Divine with a great sense of humour, a scrawny aunty in her 50s who looked like she's one of the Mormon sister wives with her bangs and bob cut, set our meat dish and gave Stanley a disapproving look.

Not one to back down, Stanley looked at her and said "Ooo, I love my meat. Do you, aunty?"

Carl shrank and cringed even further. 

J dispelled the tension by portioning the meat, placing the fatty char siew, dripping in viscous sweet sauce, on everyone's plates.

J and I decided to meet the boys at Yan Palace (Chinatown), after our medical checkup near Tanjong Pagar.

"So, how was your test?" Stanley asked, persistent for an answer. 

J shrugged and said "the doctor will email us the results." 

"Was the doctor cute?" Stanley asked just as Mormon sister wife aunty placed a plate of fried noodles on our table. 

Carl shrank no further. He leaned forward, eager to know if the doctor who had "fingered me and then J" (Stanley's words) was cute or not. 

J laughed and did something more productive: Serve everyone a portion of the newly-arrived noodles. 

As our 8 dishes arrived and dinner as well as proper eating got under way, Stanley said in all seriousness.

"I actually freak out at medical exams, you know. I mean, sometimes, ignorance is bliss."

Carl the dense one nodded vehemently at that comment. 

It's true. 

I mean, if cancer cells were forming in my body discreetly, do I want to know? 

Carl was the first to answer.

"I would... but only if there's a huge chance of survival at the point of knowing. If I find out at Stage 4 where nothing can be done, then I'd rather just live ignorantly and enjoy my remaining years," said Carl who's key principle in life is exactly that.

I looked to Stanley for his answer.

Setting his chopsticks down, he pondered. 

"I fear death, actually. But I fear the uncertainty even more," he said thoughtfully.

"Death is certain. So we don't think too much about that. What's uncertain," he said, looking all three of us in the eye, "is the permutation of possibilities that can kill you."

"A car accident. Choking on this chicken feet. Being crushed by a falling printer or fridge."

"Stan, now you're just reciting the plot of Final Destination," I said. 

But Stanley does indeed have a point.

The aim of a medical check up is to hopefully pick out something in time for us to stop it from manifesting to the point that it kills us. 

But what if, as Carl said, we find out we have only three months to live? 

As we grow older, the certainty of death becomes even clearer.

In my younger days, I would never think twice about hopping on to a rollercoaster ride.

Now, I'd tell myself I have safer things to do in life. 

Leave it to Stanley to quell the cloud of morbidity that's hovering Table 14 of Yan Palace.

He waited for Mormon sister wife to approach our table with a teapot before saying: 

"So, this doctor at this gay clinic who puts his fingers into the assholes of men to feel it all around... he's a good doctor right?"

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

Doing Adult Things

The older we get, the less time we have in this world to do the things that need to be done, I announced to the boys the other day.

Carl the dense one looked at me, clueless. 

Stanley frowned in my direction and asked if I had gone slightly stupid.

"That sentence of yours is a waste. A waste of your breath, a waste of our time, a waste of words. They don't say anything at all," said Stanley who's the toughest boss to please in the whole wide world. 

Carl, who's usually on the receiving end of such comments, immediately switched sides and nodded accusingly at me. "Exactly, Adam," said Carl, who, if he were born during World War II, would no doubt be an easy traitor with loose allegiance. 

"It's like saying stupid things such as I may or may not know," Stanley continued, stoked by Carl who was huffing up his chest like a bouncer and agreeing vehemently in the background.

I'm glad to see Carl, for once, enjoying himself in a conversation without being a victim of his own denseness. 

But back to my point. 

At 45, we are morbidly nearing our death. 

And if we don't do anything about it -- such as prudent planning for health checks and retirement plans -- we might just have to brace ourselves for a slow and uncertain journey towards death.

Carl tried to register my words to the best of his ability but he simply couldn't grasp the impact I wanted to create.

Stanley, to his credit, let his defensive guard down and said "Okay, actually, I know what you're saying."

On cue, Carl's python-size biceps deflated and he nodded understandingly, agreeing with Stanley.  

The three of us were, for a change, meeting for supper.

It was something we used to do when we were in our 30s -- when we had more energy than we do now.

But we also once in a while enjoy doing something spontaneous so when Carl texted in the group chat suggesting supper at Swee Choon, we both readily said yes.

"I think we have singlehandedly pulled down the average age of the patrons here," Carl said with a pout, glancing around the eatery, filled with university-going students or patrons who looked like they were either in National Service or have just embarked on their first careers.

Stanley wasn't having any of it. All he wanted to pull down, in the eatery filled with young, strapping patrons, wasn't the average age. 

But our supper at Swee Choon was a painful reminder that we are ageing.

Once upon a time, we would blend in with the late-night Swee Choon crowd not only because we were young, but also because we still had energy at 12.30am.

At this moment, Carl looked like he was fighting off the effect of sleeping pills, while Stanley stared into his Chinese tea, asking dreadfully where our food was.

"How did we get so old so fast," Stanley said, defeated.

Which brings me back to my point.

We are old. And we will get older, I said to the group, at the risk of being called out for, again, making sweeping statements that have no actual value.

But it's a fact, and it's a fact I choose to handle with the precision of an adult.

You see, when we first started work and earning money in our first job, one of the things that was drilled in me, was to start being financially prudent (Stanley would say that one of the things that was drilled in him during that youthful period was something else altogether).

And so, with my then-meagre salary, I loaded up on insurance protection, started regular savings and the occasional investment projects whenever I had a bonus. 

Along the way, we acquired other things that our increasing pay check allowed us: Cars, apartments, luxury items.

But now... now is the time to look at retirement planning.

In fact, it's a bit too late at 45. 

But better late than never.

At our age, the topics of our generation should revolve around planning for retirement, writing wills, assigning Lasting Power of Attorneys and scheduling yearly health checkups. 

There's so much on my mind that my to-do list is full.

Stanley agreed, though his to-do list, which is also full, consists not of agenda but names of men. 

Carl looked bored with our topic. He's either in a state of cluelessness or denial so he focused on flexing his biceps which look to be the biggest in the whole of Swee Choon.

Indeed, these are tasks we have to do at our age -- especially while we still have earning power. 

We don't want to look back at 70, wishing we had put in more money into our CPF or have bought more investment plans so that we could have a better lifestyle.

Nor do we want to suddenly find ourselves suffering from an illness that renders us useless and have to depend on the state to make decisions for us, instead of our chosen loved ones whom we appointed as LPAs during our sensible, younger days. 

Carl withdrew further from this conversation and began working on his deep fried mee sua, a Swee Choon signature. 

A week later, Stanley texted. 

"I'm making you my donee," he said, taking our conversation that night seriously.

It was a good first step for Stanley. 

That we are taking on ageing not with denial or inaction, but with concrete steps to be on top of our ageing game.

Stanley agrees.

Even when he's old, he wants to be on top of things. Hopefully, sweet young things. 

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

Date Night

Once in a while, we do it.

Twenty-two loving years together, my partner J and I still make time for date nights, just the two of us.

While we are not like many straight couples who're burdened with kids and can never find time for romance, J and I are both extremely busy professionals who devote too much time to our work.

But we also know we can't take our love for granted.

Amid our long working hours, J would always initiate date nights.

And so, that day, J took a day off from his firm to match my forced leave day. 

Our plan was simple: Meet for brunch and spend the entire day (and night) together. 

At this point, I must warn you -- this piece you're about to read will read like it's a journal entry written by a 16 year old who's newly in love.

It's nothing but a simple recount piece. 

But one that's recounted with love.

That Friday morning, we met at Suntec City for brunch.

J, who was always early, scouted the perfect place for our meal. A restaurant that ran a promotion for a $14 set lunch comprising an appetiser and main course.

I went on to order just that, plus wine that cost us more than our set lunch.

It was a wonderful day. 

We had an unhurried meal -- not the type where I was distracted by chewing my food and reading work documents at the same time.

And J had plans.

"We can either watch a movie, or be tourists and get on the topless bus tour around Singapore," J said with that impish smile which I had first fallen in love with in 2002. 

"Topless tour," I said. "That sounds promising."

J rolled his eyes and asked Stanley to get out of my body.

"Ew," I said. "You know what that sounds like?!"

It was a wonderful plan, the one J had tried to design.

But we followed neither of it.

After lunch, we spent two hours strolling around Suntec City, paying particular attention to furniture shops, imaging our future together in my soon-to-be-bought HDB flat. 

And by the time we reached the theatres at Suntec City to see what's available to watch, we had missed all sensible showtimes.

The old Adam would be very upset but at 45, the Adam now has toned down.

And so, J and I gave up movie plans.

When I asked if we should play tourists and hop on the topless bus, J shrugged and said, let's just enjoy walking around aimlessly.

Forty five minutes later, we found ourselves at Shake Shack where J was intrigued by the fast food chain's local mikshake: Pandan with gula melaka and coconut bits.

It was a cup in heaven -- cos that's where good people with diabetes would end up.

The two of us took turns to suck up the sweet shake like two love birds who skipped class to go on a date at a cheap fast food joint. 

Years ago, I would be anxious if my date with J had no direction.

Age has certainly mellowed me and I have learnt to go with the flow -- something J always taught me to do.

By 5pm, we found ourselves with other tourists outside the Esplanade, taking in the breathtaking view that is Singapore's skyline.

From the corner of my eye, I saw an alfresco restaurant and said to J "let's have dinner there!"

J shrugged. A shrug that said why not and we both found ourselves on the rooftop dining area of Supply and Demand, a restaurant with relatively good food.

I say relatively good food 'cos I simply can't remember how the food tasted.

All I could remember was J and I sitting on the edge of the alfresco restaurant, looking at each other and feeling calm, blissful and loved.

Our order of scallops, pasta and kurobuta pork (with pinot grigio) took us two hours to finish, and by the time we were done with dinner, day had become night.  

And it was the perfect dinner, the perfect day, the perfect date.

As J and I strolled along the Singapore River, staring into the wobbly reflection of the skyline, my pinkie hooked his.

J looked at me with an expression that said what?

I smiled back at him, with an expression that said the three words that no longer need to be said after 22 years.

 

 

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

Flat Hope

It's official.

I am finally eligible to buy a resale HDB flat, after a 15-month wait from selling my apartment.

While I am in no hurry to immediately make a purchase (I am still renting till the end of the year), there's no harm in looking around first.

Stanley my sex bunny friend agrees. He's always on the lookout -- hot property, hot men. 

And so, two weeks ago, I got in touch with Chew our NS friend who's now a successful housing agent. 

Chew, Stanley and I go a long way back: We were once hot, lean and fit soldiers who served in one of the army's most prestigious units. 

More than 20 years later, only Stanley and I are still hot, lean and fit (a given because gay men always age better than straight men -- it's God's gift to the community) while Chew is only hot. 

At this moment, Chew is sweating through his shirt, pools of sweat forming near his arm pits, with tiny beads of perspiration lining his upper lip.

Stanley is right.

Straight men with happy families all end up fat and sweaty when they grow up.

"Sorry I am late!" yelled Stanley from afar.

Chew lit up the moment he saw Stanley who, when he was in NS, was regarded as one of the most helpful soldiers in our unit. Stanley, upon seeing Chew, went berserk. 

"Look at Chew!" Stanley shrieked, to which, Chew burst out laughing. 

"Ya lah, fat already lah," Chew said, giving his rotund tummy a little pat. 

"But confirm rich, bro," said Stanley with a roar, obviously having code-switched from Hoe to Bro.

I instinctively huffed up my chest to match the overwhelming hetero energy. 

And then, Stanley struck a pose inspired by Marilyn Monroe, and in his high-octane voice reserved only for the Cabaret, said "welcome to gay central!" like we were about to enter Wonderland.

Stanley wasn't wrong. 

We were at Everton Park where gay people were fast replacing old people in the estate.

When I began my house-hunt project, I was extremely specific: The flat has to be located either in Chinatown, Little India or Lavender, all of which considered to be either city or city-fringe spots.

Our first day of viewing brought us to Everton Park where at least a dozen of Stanley and my friends combined, had bought units at. 

Various friends who live there had hosted us to dinner parties. Their units were all artfully done up (naturally). Stanley had also been to more of those units in Everton Park for other types of parties (naturally).

And so, this is a location Stanley deeply approves, deeply being operative word.

To be fair, it is a great location not only because it's a stone's throw away from all the gay clubs in Tanjong Pagar (then again, at our age, we are more likely to visit hospitals than pubs so that's no selling point), but it's also super-centrally located near the heart of Chinatown. 

Chew had lined up two units here, and two more at Lavender. 

All of them were two-bedroom flats and units which I could afford without taking a loan.

That day, I bumped into many groups of buyers, all of whom my potential competitors.

From couples who looked like they were in their mid-thirties to an odd pairing of an elderly man and a young Vietnamese woman with eye lashes so long they could do actual housework, and, of course, other gay couples. 

There was even one viewer (a woman in her forties who wore a consistently pained expression) who came with -- and I kid you not -- a man wearing full Taoist robes. 

The man was carrying some compass and going around the house to assess energy fields only he and the mentally ill could see. 

I have no judgement of other people's beliefs. But this Taoist man is not normal. 

A normal person behaves like he belongs on this mortal earth. 

A normal person walks properly.

This Taoist man -- and again, I kid you not -- is on edge. He doesn't just turn his head to look at things like a normal person does. Instead, he jerks his head around as if responding to voices hissing out at him. 

This Taoist man does not walk. Instead, he takes dramatic strides that requires a lot of dramatic flair as if he were avoiding some cosmic mine field that only he and, again, the mentally ill can see. 

Stanley leaned in and asked urgently "is he house hunting or ghost hunting?"

Chew and I burst out laughing and immediately, and Taoist man and pain-expression lady shot us a disapproving look.

Stanley nodded at both of them affirmatively and whipped out his iPhone, as if he were searching for some cosmic signal too.

"There!" Stanley said. "Five people within our radar in Grindr," he reported proudly.  

As the day of viewings came to an end, I felt amused, exhausted but mainly defeated. 

All the units fared well on paper -- centrally located, high floor, corner units, with loads of amenities nearby. 

But none appealed to me. 

By the last unit in Lavender, I felt worried. 

You know what everyone says about knowing the house is yours when you see it? 

Well. I just didn't get that feeling that day.

I'm certain it's 'cos this isn't my first property. 

I remember when I first set eyes on my first apartment (it was the 11th unit I viewed back in 2012). The moment I stepped in, my heart raced. I looked at the space and immediately could imagine a life there. This corner would be perfect for parties. This can easily be my walk-in wardrobe space. This balcony is perfect for post-dinner drinks!

I am worried I'll never find that excitement again.

Chew told me to calm down. "Adam, take your time. Don't have to see the house and immediately rush in one," he said.

Sex bunny Stanley -- who is the one who would benefit from this advice more than any man in the world -- chimed in with perfect timing. 

"Yah, Adam. You'll know the house is yours when it's meant to be yours. It's like your soul is drawn to it. The house will call out to you when it wants you there," he said.

"You know you don't make a very good house salesman with a pitch like this right?" I said.

Chew looked around the house and whispered to us "don't worry. I think this house is clean. Otherwise the Taoist man will be here."

 

 

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

Farewell Mrs Ong (Part II)

Death always reminds us to live.

To live life to the fullest before Destination Death. 

To live without regrets.

To live with love.

At this moment, our love level was at its fullest, ready for the moment.

Carl the dense one, my partner J and I have braced ourselves for an emotionally draining day: The funeral of Mrs Monica Ong, part-time socialite, full-time loving mother. Mother of Stanley our sex bunny friend.

We reached Stanley's parent's home at 8.15am, dressed in black suits and black ties.

Carl, who was worried we would be overdressed for a funeral, was both relieved and shocked when he saw what the other guests, mainly family and extended family of the Ongs, wore.

From tailored black cheongsams and well-pressed shirts to elegant looking pantsuits and dresses. 

"This is a very well-dressed funeral," Carl said without disdain. Just plain awe. 

Stanley received us at the front porch, looking like he's ready to attend a black-tie event.

He took one look at his us, smiled, and came in for a group hug.

"Thank you guys. My mum would have loved this," he said as bravely as he could. 

Funeral mass was held at the Ong's parish church (which is also J's).

It was a surreal feeling. For Carl, Stanley and I -- who have been to many places in our friendship of 20-plus years -- to be in the House of God at the same time.

Stanley, two pews ahead of ours, looked very holy and solemn, keeping his head bowed throughout mass, occasionally looking at Mrs Ong's coffin.

Carl, to his credit, wasn't restless nor clueless. I caught him intermittently looking in Stanley's direction, checking in on him in his quiet way. 

Despite the calming presence of the church, the soothing collective choral singing of the congregation, my mind was not at rest. I was running through a checklist of things in my mind for Stanley, my way of taking care of him.

I was the de-facto events planner. Bus IC, timekeeper, F&B chief post-cremation. 

I was also constantly scanning the surrounding, making sure frail-looking elderly guests weren't alone when it was time to leave the church for the crematorium. I have my stash of bottles of water and packets of tissue, ready to dish them out when needed. And ready to force Stanley to take small sips throughout the day,

But I was also distracted by other uncomfortable elements associated with funerals. 

Heart-wrenching scenes of people dabbing away tears, the waxy scent of flowers, and my imaginative mind which keeps visualising Mrs Ong being in the coffin. 

Soon, the funeral mass came to an end.

Stanley and his family shuffled slowly behind Mrs Ong's coffin as the rest of us followed suit.

The choice of the departing song was interesting but befitting.

It wasn't a Catholic hymn. Not even the usual suspects like Josh Groban's Your Raise Me Up.

Instead, it was a 1990s Mandopop number Zhu Ni Yi Lu Shun Feng (translated less classily as Bon Voyage in English), by Nikki Wu. 

When Stanley was in his Mandopop phase during secondary school, he had taken a liking to Xiao Hu Dui (or Tiger Cub Band, in loose translation) and he would blast all sorts of their ballads, including this ballad by Nikki Wu.

Mrs Ong would sway along with the music and in time to come, had even picked up a few songs. 

Mrs Ong had was particularly fond of Bon Voyage -- a song Nikki wrote to commemorate the band's split.

Stanley decided that the song was therefore befitting of this grand farewell for his beloved mum.

The ballad's lyrics was so meaningful it was painful.

Later, the bus ride to Mandai, as expected, was a very quiet journey. 

I kept wondering how Stanley -- riding separately from us -- was coping.

I would soon find out. Stanley had specifically appointed me to be right beside him when the time came for the cremation. 

I dreaded that task. 

I wasn't ready to face that ultimate goodbye but I loyally took on that role. 

J had reminded me that I had to be a concrete pillar to Stanley, whatever it took.

As Mrs Ong's loved ones each laid a stalk of flower on, or in her coffin, I braced myself for this heavy role.

I linked arms with Stanley.

We watched from the mezzanine level, Mrs Ong's coffin being slowly directed to the furnace. 

Stanley's body began shivering slightly. Then more. And then, his body went limp as he let out uncontrollable sobs, watching Mrs Ong's slow but sure path into the fiery pit.

I planted my feet firmly on the ground, literally and emotionally supporting Stanley.

The scene before my eyes was a very grim but poetic reminder of one's final journey.

As the coffin entered the furnace, the doors closed shut. 

A visual reminder that there's no turning back. 

A visual reminder that the very act was irreversible. 

But also a visual reminder of closure. 

And as the biblical saying goes, when one door is closed, another is opened.

I certainly hope that in the midst of Stanley's grief, God has it in His plans to comfort him in his own merciful way.

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Dedicated to Mrs Monica Ong, 1949-2023