I don’t know why, after so many years, I still think of the Bugis Street Habitue. I have a habit of weaving stories around people I meet casually or watch idly—in the street, the shops, the restaurants and hawker centres—especially if there is something particularly interesting about the way they dress, talk, behave, react to something. There was a young woman I saw in a groceries’ shop many years ago, animatedly telling the shop assistant, a total stranger, about how much her husband loved her, going into little intimate details of how he took care of her once when she fell ill, brewing her special soups, massaging her legs, and so forth, and I remember myself thinking, not at all kindly, ‘Her marriage is in trouble. I could write a short story about that poor, desperate woman!’ With regard to the Bugis Street Habitue, I had thought, after I read about him in a brief, casual report in a local newspaper: ‘I could write a whole novel about him.’ But I never did. His story just stayed in my head—for forty years.

He frequented Bugis Street, but not with the purpose of the many tourists who came flocking to the famous place, to eat the famous local dishes offered by the open-air food stalls, and more importantly, to gape and leer at the transvestites who appeared only after midnight, clad in their skimpy dresses, high heels and jangling ear-rings and bangles. He came with the purpose of making money from these tourists, and apparently succeeded very well.

He looked no more than ten, a skinny little fellow with an oversized head and an unruly shock of hair reaching down to his eyes, wearing only a pair of black cotton shorts held up by string, and worn-out rubber sandals. His small intense eyes would do a quick survey of the tourists sitting at the tables drinking beer, eating noodles, chilli crabs, steamed prawns, quickly picking out the dozen or so who would be his targets for the evening, always avoiding those who already had a tranvestite perched upon the knee, for these would shoo him off with a wave of the hand, with the laughing damsel on the knee knocking him on the head with her fan, for good measure.

Those he had picked up with his shrewd eyes treated him very kindly. ‘Hello, little boy,’ they would say. But he had learnt that the less he spoke the better it was for his business. His business began with his presenting a sheet of paper to the prospective client, holding it up so that it showed clearly a grid of nine squares, preparatory to the game of noughts and crosses. ‘Eh, little boy? What’s that?’ the client would say in a kind voice, taking in the details of the bony frame, the starved look, the ragged shorts. That was the clue for the boy to explain the rules of the game, which he did in halting English, with much gesturing and demonstration with a small broken pencil. They were simple rules: if he won the game, he would accept a dollar; if he lost, he would pay out two.

The reactions of the clients would range from amusement to amazement to gentle compassion. And there would be no question about indulging the little fellow. Everyone sportingly took part in the game, smiling all the while, making sure he won. He put his winnings into his pocket with a very solemn face, always shaking his head vigorously if he was offered more than a dollar, the amount stipulated by the rules of the game. On one occasion he pulled out of his pocket a wad of dollar notes as soon as it had been pushed into it, taking one out and returning the rest.

Some of the clients were intrigued enough by this little entrepreneur of Bugis Street to ask, ‘What’s your name? Do you go to school? Do your parents know?’ But it was part of the success of his nightly business never to answer any questions, and to keep a completely impassive face throughout. Once he had safely pocketed his money, he moved away very quickly, soon disappearing into the heavy traffic around Bugis Street.

The newspaper reporter never managed to get hold of him for a full story, but I am positive that the one I had created about him in my imagination was very close to the truth.

At age eleven, he was already sole provider for a family comprising a drunken father, a consumptive mother and several younger siblings. When he returned with the night’s earnings, their eyes would light up. His father would lurch towards him, with the customary clenched fist, and he would allow some contempt to mix with the fear, as he handed over the money. ‘What? Only this?’ the father would growl. ‘Give me more!’ ‘I have no more,’ he would say curtly, showing his pocket, completely empty now. His mother would look on, her large eyes filled with fear, her thin fingers tightly curled around those dollar notes that he had managed to push into her hand before the father came in, reeking of drink.

I couldn’t help thinking that under completely different circumstances, this little nightly visitor to Bugis Street, with his remarkable intelligence, sharp wits, strength of purpose, and sense of responsibility might have reached a much higher level of success in the world than any of the other habitués.

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About Vignettes...

A continuing flow of little, readable pieces that will constitute what I feel is an important 'legacy of values' to leave behind. Read more about Vignettes...