Tears, Beers and Sad Luck Days

As I made my way up the steep driveway to the Mitre Hotel I almost rememberd the girl's name. The one hanging off my arm with hair in her eyes and smoke curling around her mouth, spilling her Corona... disgraceful.
I kick a can up to the front gate. It rattles for a moment but Uncle doesn't hear us.
"Uncle...hey Uncle." I said rocking the gate back and forth with my eyes closed. My lovely companion now at my feet, tossed gently on the filthy concrete.
Uncle comes shuffling out from behind a door. He pulls up his suspenders and yawns a wide, black, toothless yawn like a lion in some forgotten zoo. He stares for a moment through his swollen eyes "Ahhhhh..." he says.

"Two Tiger Beers" my eyes still closed. Uncle pushes them through the gate and falls backwards into his peeling imitation leather recliner, an empty birdcage at his feet. In a moment he is snoring again. There is the chatter of the bugs, a few far off laughs but other than that we're alone. At least I'm alone, my companion is asleep, her long fingernails curled around her phone. It's pink, like everything else.

I grab a three legged chair and balance myself against the crumbling pillar all peeling and dusty. Another time I might have seen this place when it was alive. When it rivaled the Raffles Hotel. Men in white turbans and white gloves parking cars. The yellow candle glow of a chandelier dripping down the walls like honey, socialites smoking cigarettes, and music coming from real live people.

Now the Uncle runs the place. Pushing warm canned beer through a rusty gate for two bucks a go. They say you can still stay here. But why would you? It has become a dumping ground for everything people want to get rid of. The main lobby and ballroom are filled with old matresses, waterlogged boardgames, broken plastic pistols that still spark, and books and magazines of every description. Not one worth reading. None of the stools at the bar match. Some covered in green slashed vinyl, another a wooden number from some pirate themed place on Boat Quay, and another and another, nothing matched.

Gotta hand it to this place though, it's still got charm. This ain't how I pictured my Sad Luck Days. I pictured a cold place, lonely and gray. Singapore is bright and sunny, friends around every corner. Except tonight. I stare at my companion, sprawled on the stairs...what was her name. I pick one of the beers off the ground and crack it. There his a huge bang. Uncle and the girl both wake with a start, and look back and forth in unison. She lays back down but Uncle is up, he is squinting his eyes and sniffing the air. Suddenly he jumps to his feet, slips into his mismatched bedroom slippers and starts opening the front gate.
"What is it? Hey, Uncle what is it!?"
He waddles off into the darkness. I look inside, the case of Tiger beer is sitting on the ground torn open like a fresh kill. Under the lip of the wound I can see a can or two just picking up the twitching fluorescents. Should I grab one?
Just then uncle comes running into the light holding a huge durian in his arms. The smell of the durian is strong, sweet and mysterious. Uncle holds it out for me to see. I get real close. It's covered in small sharp wooden spikes. The small, intricate valleys awash with ants, thousands of them. The whole surface of the fruit seems to be alive, twisting and growing in the old man's hands. It was beautiful.

The Way Of The Gun

Of all of Man's tools, I think the gun exemplifies humanity the best. The best of Man's faculties are represented equally and exquisitely in this, the most influential of his many gadgets.

One, craftsmanship, from the beginning state of the art engineering goes into each one of these delightful little treasures. They have to work with the precision of a watch, the reliability of a vehicle. After all a lot is riding on them, as they say there is nothing more useless than an empty gun. But this is not all together true. There is much art that goes into them as well. From the pistol in the picture to the M-16 they all have their own charm and the stamp of the designer. Some more utilitarian like a Volvo, some with a bit more flair, like a Ferrari.

Two, science. Both physics and chemistry are equally represented. Gunpowder, a mixture of sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate were found to burn so quickly nothing could contain the amount of heat and gas created when it burned. Making it perfect as a propellant or explosive. Also, the gun must be perfectly balanced to ensure that the bullet goes where the shooter intends. To aid in this a rifle was added to the inside of the barrel to allow the bullet to spin as it left the muzzle of the gun. The spinning effect caused the bullet to fly more strait and travel further, much like the spin put on a football.

Lastly, killing. Man's main preoccupation since the beginning of time. Killing is after all what we do best. It is our most efficient means of communication and the one thing we all pull together to achieve. Kindness, compassion, and charity are not Mankind's strong suit. After all when was the last time ten countries got together, spent 100 billion dollars and lost 60 million people doing something nice?

The Park

He was looking at my sheet over his glasses, blowing smoke out of his nose with a dying cigarette in his hand.
"Who you know?"
"Pat Migliaccio, sir."
"Don't call me sir, I ain't no fuckin' officer!" he barked, punching out his Marlboro in an overflowing green plastic ashtray.
"Pat Migliaccio." I repeated.
"Ummmm" he said, rubbing his chin for a moment and then making a few marks on my sheet.
"I'm putin' you with Monk and Buster today. You know how to line a softball field?" He asked without looking up.
"Not yet." I said.
"They'll show what to do."
A layer of smoke hung at eye level in the room. I glanced up at the 3-D picture of Jesus hanging over his desk and reached out to grab my sheet. He handed it to without looking up.
"Call me Joe G. Call me 'sir' again I'll be wipin' your ass off my boot."
"Understood." I said, beginning the tight toothed, upper tongue movement of the "S" sound before stopping myself.
"Meet those two idiots outside." He said, tossing another Marlboro into mouth and looking down at his lighter.
I pushed my way through the screen door to half-a-dozen green pick-up trucks and a peeling picnic table with a group of green t-shirted men standing around a Coca-Cola can.
"Leave 'im alone, he's havin' smoke." said the tall one with wraparound sunglasses and a thick gold chain. Everyone laughed.
"Yeah, he's takin' a break in there." Ha, ha, ha, rang the chorus.
They all laughed and looked at the Coca-Cola can with thick streams of smoke pouring out the mouth.
"What's goin' on?" I asked.
"We caught a bee in there, and Nicky tossed his smoke in there." One of them said and then pressed a cigarette up to his lips and pressed hard as he sucked in. He looked and spoke like a man short of breath.
"We're seein' how long he can take it."