“Why you always like that? I just want one bottle of Tiger at the downstairs kopitiam with Leon and the rest only. Not like I’m going to some sunset KTV or Orchard Towers,” I said, my voice already hitting that flat, tired tone that comes from having the same argument every Friday night.
She didn’t even look up from her iPad, just folded her arms tight. “Tiger you buy at NTUC and drink at home cannot? Save money and healthier. Those kopitiam I don’t know one, later you say drink beer but actually got those hostess in short skirts walking around then you know. Cannot go. Tomorrow we need to see the officer early, you don’t go out and come back smelling like a brewery.”
Knn…
I walked back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. My phone buzzed. It was the group chat. Leon had already posted a photo of three cold large bottles on a messy plastic table. I typed out: “Aiyah cannot make it, she’s on warpath tonight. Next time.”
I stared at the screen. I’m 36 years old. I work ten hours a day. I pay the bills, I handle the installments, and I’m being grounded like a secondary school kid over a $7 bottle of beer at a bright, fluorescent-lit coffee shop where the only “hostess” is a 60-year-old auntie shouting orders for mee pok.
The frustration started to itch. If I have to lie and craft a whole tactical mission just to sit on a red plastic chair and have one drink in peace, why am I playing so fair? She already treats me like I’m a regular at the sleaziest lounges in Geylang. If I’m going to take the bullet for “going out,” I might as well make the wound worth it.
I deleted the message. I texted Leon again: “Wait. Changing plans. Don’t drink too much there. We move to the KTV at Lorong 18 in 20 minutes. Tell the boys. And don’t anyone dare post on IG or tell your wives.”
I walked back to the living room, keeping my face as ‘pek cek’ and defeated as possible. “Okay, fine. You’re right. Save money. I will just go down to the NTUC downstairs, buy a pack, and drink at home later while I watch TV. But I need to go the provision shop first to buy some battery and stuff. Back in ten.”
I didn’t wait for her to audit my statement. I grabbed my wallet and walked out.
The moment the lift hit the ground floor, I wasn’t heading for the NTUC. I was out on the main road flagging a cab. The transition from the quiet, stifling atmosphere of the house to the neon-drenched, chaotic energy of Geylang was a shock to the system.
When I stepped into the KTV, the air was thick with the smell of cheap perfume and expensive cognac. The bass was thumping through the floorboards. Leon was already in a corner booth, two girls in tight floral dresses already pouring him a drink. He looked up and gave me that knowing, crooked grin. “Told you, right? You over-control a man, eventually he will just rebel. Might as well do it properly.”
I sat down, and one of the hostesses immediately slid next to me, pouring a glass of whisky. “First time here ah, kor kor?” she asked, her voice sweet and practiced.
I took a long sip. The whiskey burned, but it tasted like autonomy. I knew the consequences would be nuclear if I got caught, but standing there in the dark, away from the nagging and the “cannot this, cannot that,” I didn’t care. If she wanted to treat me like a criminal for wanting a beer at a kopitiam, I might as well enjoy the crime.