Month: February 2016

The boy’s eraser was well used. Its once pristine edges made blunt by friction. The Turkish flag on top smudged with pencil lead.

The boy readied himself. He only had this one eraser. With a delicate flick, he sent the eraser airborne. The eraser did an awkward somersault before landing triumphantly on Ah Seng’s Singapore flag eraser. The boy raised his hands in triumph as Ah Seng groaned at his loss.

A few tables away, the girl observed the commotion. She had a box of flag erasers in front of her. Her mother had bought her an entire box at her request. There was an empty space which the Singapore eraser once occupied. She had wagered that eraser in a duel with Ah Seng a week ago. She had lost.

The boy took the Singapore eraser. He ran to the girl. Extending his hand, he offered her the eraser.

“For you.”

The girl looked up. She smiled at the boy.

“Don’t you want to keep it for yourself?”

“It’s okay. I won it for you.”

The girl accepted the eraser. The boy smiled a silly smile. He scratched carelessly at his head before he headed back to join the other boys.

Ah Seng was unhappy. He challenged the boy to another match. The boy hesitated. He had already achieved his goal and won the Singapore eraser back for the girl. He took a look at his old eraser. It was barely two thirds its original size and the school term was not even three weeks old. He did need a new eraser. He accepted Ah Seng’s challenge.

Rummaging through his collection, Ah Seng selected his favourite eraser. His champion. The Saudi Arabia eraser. He had won seven eraser duels in a row with this treasured piece.

Ah Seng got the first move since he lost the last match. The Saudi Arabia eraser encroached aggressively on the Turkey eraser. The Turkey eraser moved defensively backwards and to the side. The Saudi Arabia eraser moved forward still. Undaunted. The Turkey eraser flipped forward, but failed to land on top of the Saudi Arabia eraser. It was now too close to the Saudi Arabia eraser. With a forward flip, the Saudi Arabia eraser came to an easy rest on the Turkey eraser. The battle was over.

Ah Seng took the Turkey eraser gleefully away from the boy. He looked at how dirty the Turkey eraser was and decided that he would throw it away on his way home. He had lost three erasers to the Turkey eraser, but it did not matter. His mother could always buy him more. He had disarmed his enemy. The losses were worth it.

The boy sat alone at the table. Ah Seng had left with his friends. They had cheered loudly as Ah Seng proudly held the dirty Turkey eraser aloft and saundered away.

The boy took out his Math homework for the day. He just had to be careful and not make mistakes. He had no eraser for rubbing away mistakes.

A delicate hand placed a Singapore eraser on top of the boy’s Math homework. The boy looked up to see the girl standing in front of him.

“For you.”

“But I won it for you.”

The girl sat down in front of the boy.

“But how do we duel if you do not even have an eraser?”

The boy smiled. He accepted the eraser.

The girl placed a Japan eraser on the table and moved it forward.

“We are not playing for keeps!”

The boy laughed and nodded. With the gentlest of touches, he moved the Singapore eraser towards the Japan eraser.

Sweat beads and trickles down the wrinkled tattoos on his torso. The late afternoon sun simmers a murky heat, tanning his wrinkled skin ever darker. Images flicker in and out of his imagination, never lingering long enough for him to capture.

There is desperation to his etchings. A fervor for detail he cannot render. He squeezes his eyelids close. Hoping to see what he wants to draw more clearly. He grabs at his close shorn hair. Tears almost well in his eyes.

Defeated, he collapses from his half-squat onto the floor. A half-empty mug of coffee rests amidst cigarette butts. Islands of wet cigarette ashes float precariously on cold coffee. He takes a sip of the coffee. He gags. He curses. He takes another sip. His eyes never leave the wall.

Charcoal streaks mark the white wall in front of him. Sketchings of a human face. He drops the charcoal piece in his hand. He claws at the wall. His dirty fingers smudging its once pristine surface. That face. Just behind the wall. Trapped in the concrete. His fingernails start to chip. He does not stop. His yelps of desperation draw looks of alarm from passing strangers. They pause. They keep their distance. They move on.

The kopitiam auntie hears the yelps. She runs over. She pulls him back. Holds him down. Seconds pass. He calms down. The kopitiam auntie replaces the dirty coffee mug. Places a new pack of cigarettes next to him. A fresh box of matches. He does not notice her.

He digs into the pack for another cigarette. Fumbles the matches with his charcoal stained fingers. He seeks answers between cigarette puffs. He tips pregnant cigarette ashes into the fresh mug of coffee.

The sunlight takes an orange amber hue. He traces the charcoal lines on the wall. He watches as elongated shadows trail the movement of his fingers. He looks for a break between movement and silhouette. A gap in reality.

He grimaces as pain sears up his head. He hits his head gently with a clenched fist. The throbbing does not stop. He feels the faint contours of a scar on his scalp. He wonders how he got the scar. The ambient noise threatens to overwhelm. Words he does not understand. The laughter of strangers. The clatter of metal cutlery on plastic bowls and plates. He fights to keep nausea at bay as his world starts to spin.

The nausea passes. He feels the residual heat of day escape from the floor. He smells the stale odour of his own sweat. He paws helplessly at the wall. Tears escape him.

The middle aged man looks at the collapsed figure of the sobbing old man. He asks the kopitiam auntie what he owes her for the day. Two packets of cigarettes. Three cups of coffee. He is concerned that the old man has not had any food. But he does not press the point. He pays the kopitiam auntie for what the old man consumed and for a couple of char siew buns. He tries to ignore her look of disapproval.

The middle aged man walks over to the old man. He settles down next to the old man and waits for his presence to be noticed. He takes one of the buns and bites into it. He offers the other bun to the old man. The old man wolfs down the offered bun.

The middle aged man removes a crumbled photograph from his wallet. He shows it to the old man. The photograph shows a man with tattoos with his arm around a woman. The old man grabs at the photo. It is the woman behind the wall. It is her. The middle aged man holds the old man gently by the arm.

“Time to go home, Pa.”