Vietnamese gangsters. So I borrowed another personality before I came in: superimposed it upon my own. It seems to work. I can scrap with the best of them, steal their food before they rob me of mine, intimidate them, put them in their places, establish a pecking order with me at the top. They fear me for my inherently fierce nature, my vicious character, and either stay out of my way or suck up to me.
Why not? Someone’s got to be the king pin, so why not me? With the help of an overlaid persona, of course—that of the most belligerent black drongo I could find, Yat Ho.
BONSAI TIGER
Anyone who met Dylan Tom, my irascible house cat, will know what sparked this story. Dylan would let you stroke him once, then he would turn and sink his teeth into your hand. He was not a bad a cat. He just hated being fussed. Dylan live 19 years, often sleeping in open drawer of my desk while I worked. Strangely, I miss him.
‘ B reaking up is so hard to do . My computer had come up with that when I had asked heaven that morning whether I would ever get over her.
It confessed it was a line from an old song, an ancient song, probably. Yet, like all simple, trite sayings, it was so true. Breaking up with Krystina was killing me. I was so depressed I wanted to murder her and the bloody new boyfriend. I hadn’t even met him. When I tried to imagine the two of them together, he was like some phantom twerp in the shadows behind her, tall and weedy, good at nothing, cynical.
Krystina and I met for the last time in our favourite rice-wine bar on Reynold’s Path, overlooking the river. I watched the water traffic skimming the wavelets on the other side of the smoked glass with moody eyes, hoping she was noticing how miserable she had made me.
She had noticed.
‘Stop being so full of self-pity,’ she said, coldly. ‘It’s history.’
‘History is further back than two weeks,’ I replied bitterly, though I added with some spirit, ‘It’s only history to you because I’m the one being dumped. When I suggested we split up last year you told me it made you feel sick to your stomach. You reminded me that we had both said it was Forever. Some short Forevers around here, that’s all I can say.’
Her eyes were like those balls of light-blue ice barmen eject into drinks. ‘Well, what did you ask me here for?’
I shrugged. ‘I thought—I just wanted to talk it over. We’re still friends, aren’t we?’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ she said, fiddling with her shoulder strap. ‘I think it’s best we should break clean and not see one another again.’
‘We always agreed that we’d stay friends,’ I gasped. ‘That we’d go on seeing each other, for lunch or whatever, even though we might have fallen out of love.’
‘That was before I met Mendal. Now I don’t think it’s workable. I think you need to move on. I have. I’ve grown. I’ve gone beyond what we had together.’
‘You bitch. Are you suggesting I was a stepping stone to something better?’
Her mouth twisted and I think she was about to say something really nasty, something that would have crushed my heart like a ripe plum thrown under the heel of a Spanish flamenco dancer, but then she changed her mind. Instead she offered a word of advice.
‘Look, Dean, I don’t want to say things that will hurt you. Have you thought of doing something to take your mind off things? What about going on holiday. The Far East? You’ve always liked Indo-China and jungles full of animals. Or better still , get yourself a pet . You can love that all you want and it won’t leave you like one of us rotten bitches.’ She said this tongue in cheek of course. ‘What about one of those new bonsai pets? I’m sure it’ll help. Now, I’ve got to meet Mendal at the theatre. You look after yourself, Dean, and .. .’ I knew she was about to say ‘keep in touch’ but she thought better of it. ‘... you just hang on in there.’
She left me then.
Why not? Someone’s got to be the king pin, so why not me? With the help of an overlaid persona, of course—that of the most belligerent black drongo I could find, Yat Ho.
BONSAI TIGER
Anyone who met Dylan Tom, my irascible house cat, will know what sparked this story. Dylan would let you stroke him once, then he would turn and sink his teeth into your hand. He was not a bad a cat. He just hated being fussed. Dylan live 19 years, often sleeping in open drawer of my desk while I worked. Strangely, I miss him.
‘ B reaking up is so hard to do . My computer had come up with that when I had asked heaven that morning whether I would ever get over her.
It confessed it was a line from an old song, an ancient song, probably. Yet, like all simple, trite sayings, it was so true. Breaking up with Krystina was killing me. I was so depressed I wanted to murder her and the bloody new boyfriend. I hadn’t even met him. When I tried to imagine the two of them together, he was like some phantom twerp in the shadows behind her, tall and weedy, good at nothing, cynical.
Krystina and I met for the last time in our favourite rice-wine bar on Reynold’s Path, overlooking the river. I watched the water traffic skimming the wavelets on the other side of the smoked glass with moody eyes, hoping she was noticing how miserable she had made me.
She had noticed.
‘Stop being so full of self-pity,’ she said, coldly. ‘It’s history.’
‘History is further back than two weeks,’ I replied bitterly, though I added with some spirit, ‘It’s only history to you because I’m the one being dumped. When I suggested we split up last year you told me it made you feel sick to your stomach. You reminded me that we had both said it was Forever. Some short Forevers around here, that’s all I can say.’
Her eyes were like those balls of light-blue ice barmen eject into drinks. ‘Well, what did you ask me here for?’
I shrugged. ‘I thought—I just wanted to talk it over. We’re still friends, aren’t we?’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ she said, fiddling with her shoulder strap. ‘I think it’s best we should break clean and not see one another again.’
‘We always agreed that we’d stay friends,’ I gasped. ‘That we’d go on seeing each other, for lunch or whatever, even though we might have fallen out of love.’
‘That was before I met Mendal. Now I don’t think it’s workable. I think you need to move on. I have. I’ve grown. I’ve gone beyond what we had together.’
‘You bitch. Are you suggesting I was a stepping stone to something better?’
Her mouth twisted and I think she was about to say something really nasty, something that would have crushed my heart like a ripe plum thrown under the heel of a Spanish flamenco dancer, but then she changed her mind. Instead she offered a word of advice.
‘Look, Dean, I don’t want to say things that will hurt you. Have you thought of doing something to take your mind off things? What about going on holiday. The Far East? You’ve always liked Indo-China and jungles full of animals. Or better still , get yourself a pet . You can love that all you want and it won’t leave you like one of us rotten bitches.’ She said this tongue in cheek of course. ‘What about one of those new bonsai pets? I’m sure it’ll help. Now, I’ve got to meet Mendal at the theatre. You look after yourself, Dean, and .. .’ I knew she was about to say ‘keep in touch’ but she thought better of it. ‘... you just hang on in there.’
She left me then.
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