The Spirits of a Christmas past
The rain told cold stories in soft voices and the breeze sliced through the walls themselves that night. The rickety wood panels were shivering. The fan was shifting ungainly, the lights were flickering. On the couch facing a TV that had just turned itself off, sat me, and my two flat mates with trembling paunches, and we were all shaking in our boots.
In fairness, not one of us had lived in a haunted house before.
We pulled on our winter socks and snuggled up, too afraid to go to our separate bedrooms. The pitter-pattering rain had now become a hard pelting rain. Bizarre scraping sounds, like claws scraping metal, could be heard screeching far below and the rafters creaked just above. Shadows danced. I could hear faint groans. An out of sync banging. Suddenly our telephone started ringing but when I picked it up nobody was on the other end. Our computer turned itself on. The internet connected itself. Doors slammed. The kettle steamed. None of us remembered filling it with water. The door on the balcony swung open and the wicked wind swept across the lake though the room chilling us to our bones.
“Jesus,” said myself.
“Perhaps, Si, you shouldn’t have been sleeping in the altar room.” said Jacob with a tremor in his voice.
“Yeah, well you two tip your fag ash in the libation cup,” Si retorted.
“That’s not technically a libation cup…” said I.
“And you burn incense in the toilet to get rid of the smell…” added Si.
“That’s not good?” said Jacob now with bulging eyes.
“No! It’s sacred!” said Si slapping his head.
“The toilet?”
“No!" said Si standing up and walking across the room to shut the windows. "Jesus!”
Just then the bushes rustled, the trees shook and as a whipping wind passed the house, then silence. Then we noticed we couldn't hear the normally ever-present croaks of the filthy frogs from the lake. Only our beating hearts seemed to be audible.
“Do you really think there’s a ghost?” asked Jacob.
“Well we’re not versed in the local laws of ancestor worship, are we?” moaned Si. “It’s hardly unlikely that we could have disturbed the spirits of the house. We sleep in the altar, piss and smoke in the pots and have absolutely no respect for their family.”
“Well”, I rationalised, “If there is a ghost he seems to be alright, all he does is turn things on and off. Maybe it’s the ghost of a remote control.”
Again lights flickered, a rattling of pipes trundled above us, distant groans could be heard and then the creaking came, this time, from below. Once again a sequence of clicks danced around us. The kettle boiled. The computer turned off. The TV went on back on and the door on the balcony closed. That was no remote control.
“…”
“…”
“Cup of tea?”
Then as clear as day to night there were slapping footsteps. Stomping up, as bold as brass. Faster and faster. (Well, if there is a ghost we supposed, it’s his house. Why shouldn’t he make himself at home?)
We were cowering in the blue light shining from the TV. The Spirit’s footsteps were right by the door. The handle turned. The door stood tantalisingly ajar. The dark thick air seemed foreboding from outside. A pale white hand came into sight and pushed it open.
“Jesus!”
“No!”
"Mother of God..."
“Merry Christmas!” shouted our landlord grinning like a loon. He was drunk and swaying with a bottle of whisky and some glasses: “Drink! Scotland!”
We gasped in relief. Lit cigarettes. We sat him down and he opened the bottle. I tried to explain in Vietnamese how we were afraid that we had disturbed the spirits of his ancestors.
“No!” he chuckled. “My family from country! Here new home. No ancestors! No spirits.”
He sat grinning like a child pouring the twelve year old scotch, the one we’d given him, to the brim of the glasses.
“Oh, so did you build this house?” asked Jacob, still with an inquisitive tremor in his voice. “Perhaps... there are spirits from another family?”
“No,” said the landlord with a shake of his head, wincing from knocking back his whisky in one. “It used to be a brothel! Nothing but happy spirits! Down the hatch!”
We sat for a moment taking this in. The landlord swigged back Si's whisky, filled it and skulled that one, too.
As Jacob tried to explain how one is to sip and savour 12 year-old scotch, my thoughts went back to the day our neighbours unveiled a plaque back in Dublin saying ‘Ernest Shakleton lived here: 1880-1887’.
My father stood in the crowd as the bearded Shakletonites toasted their idol and compared exploits from varying trips they had themselves taken around Iceland, to van Dieman's Land and back, around the Cape of Good hope and so on.
My father, out of curiosity to see his reaction, took the city council official aside, and asked if anyone famous had lived in our house, perhaps out of jealously, why can't we have a plaque? The answer was no although the council man told him that our house had been a brothel. My father went back, straight to the shed, whittled up a little plaque and wrote on it: 'Ernest Shackleton shagged here: 1880-1887' and hung it on the inside of the door.
By the time I finished my memory our landlord had finished all the whisky in our glasses and now was just swigging from the bottle. I managed to procure a wee dram informing the landlord I would like to make a toast.
“To the ladies of the house!” I said with a grin.
“Yeah, and the ghosts of a Christmas past!” said Si.
“Cool bananas," said Jacob.
“Tee-hee-hee," tittered the landlord, "hee-hee-hee."
He was drunk, I could see, and as I poured him another whisky I could see him gazing around the room, his thoughts as clear as cartoon-thought bubbles above his mischievous little head, if this was a brothel, and there were ghosts, he was thinking that this could be a ghost story with a good old happy ending.
Friday, October 10, 2003
Dep (but pronounced zep): An insight into mankind via plastic sandals
*Pre-note: Central to a solid understanding of this story readers should be aware that Dep is to be pronounced zep. Practice before continuing.... dzep zep zep zep zep ... got it?
She was pushing her bike as she passed me in an alleyway that leads to a café out the back. The sort of alleyway which seems narrower the further you go in, which doesn’t stop the locals driving down them. We pressed up against the dusty walls, sacrificing cleanliness to avoid embarrassing physical contact, I pushed back and she kept her head down. Both of us trying to avoid her chest brushing off me, which would be doubly regretful if she were looking at me when it happened; there’s no need to personalise such unforseen complications, I’d feel like she’d thought I’d done it on purpose. She must be a nice sensible woman I thought as I pressed myself back some more, making sure the wheels weren’t going over my dainty little toes.
As I scraped my back off the wall I noticed she was looking at my feet. At first I thought out of concern. I was wearing, dare I pun, yes I shall, a fairly pedestrian pair of plastic sandals, known as flip-flops in my part of the world, jandels to antipodeans, thongs to others, plastic slippers in Danish. Here they fall under one handy banner, simply dep.
Dep are a big business in this hot and industrialised part of the world. The sock is a strange foreigner who visits solely in winter. Even some Vietnamese people are unsure of the word sock in their own language. But not dep. Lord no! They come in all shapes, colours, and materials. Made from plastic, leather or wood there are working men dep, office men dep, svelte dep, perfunctory dep, cute as a button dep, gay as Christmas dep, girly dep, Grampa dep, shower dep and the list goes on.
But there is more to it that that. As her eyes rolled over mine, brushing past each other intimately, I saw her take in size, colour, expense and status. I saw her gaze was cold and condescending. I felt a tingle of shame. I had clearly not impressed. Should I be wandering the streets wearing such footwear? Had I miscalculated? Had I barged into the treacherously oblique realm of inappropriacy? Did I accidentally skip the page on the inflight cultural intergration manual that said there are some dep for the streets, some for the house, and some for the little boy who lived down the lane that shouldn’t be seen at all. With this one brief inspection I was instantly undermined. Like a sweeping karate kick I was floored. It was the kind of stare that reduces you to your bare facts. There’s no escaping your profile. It is as clear as Hollywood lights. You have a low salary. Are unmarried. Have scant taste. Speak with your mouthful. Pick your toenails in public, drive a cheap motorbike and probably smell in summer. It is an ephiphany. Now I know why the ladies chortle at me at the reflexology centre and play paper, scissors, rock to see who takes or returns my sandals.
I’ve wasted years in the dark, paddling around in the wrong kind of dep. But no more, I tell you, no more! I turned around and headed back out to buy another pair, right there and then, but of course all these thoughts had happened in an instant, so she was still squeezing past me trying to avoid my oafish frame and scuttle out the door unscathed. As I turned she bolted with fright thinking I was all aroused and up to no good in a dark lane in the middle of the afternoon, looking for an unsolicited rub. I would have explained my revelation if I could have, but she wouldn’t have listened, not while I wore those dep, and there was no time to waste. So I just waddled behind her down the alleyway, my flip-flops flapping in their testimonial performance. I watched her as she trooped off, in her high-heeled brogues that clicked authoritively, demanding attention, like a German Officer. My lord I thought, they’re a fine pair of shoes, and thus, by proxy, she must be a fine woman, with a decent salary, elegant tastes, delicate table manners, be good in the sack and a sweet scent must exude from her no matter whether the weather be hot or not.
That’s as good as a scientifically proven fact.
*Pre-note: Central to a solid understanding of this story readers should be aware that Dep is to be pronounced zep. Practice before continuing.... dzep zep zep zep zep ... got it?
She was pushing her bike as she passed me in an alleyway that leads to a café out the back. The sort of alleyway which seems narrower the further you go in, which doesn’t stop the locals driving down them. We pressed up against the dusty walls, sacrificing cleanliness to avoid embarrassing physical contact, I pushed back and she kept her head down. Both of us trying to avoid her chest brushing off me, which would be doubly regretful if she were looking at me when it happened; there’s no need to personalise such unforseen complications, I’d feel like she’d thought I’d done it on purpose. She must be a nice sensible woman I thought as I pressed myself back some more, making sure the wheels weren’t going over my dainty little toes.
As I scraped my back off the wall I noticed she was looking at my feet. At first I thought out of concern. I was wearing, dare I pun, yes I shall, a fairly pedestrian pair of plastic sandals, known as flip-flops in my part of the world, jandels to antipodeans, thongs to others, plastic slippers in Danish. Here they fall under one handy banner, simply dep.
Dep are a big business in this hot and industrialised part of the world. The sock is a strange foreigner who visits solely in winter. Even some Vietnamese people are unsure of the word sock in their own language. But not dep. Lord no! They come in all shapes, colours, and materials. Made from plastic, leather or wood there are working men dep, office men dep, svelte dep, perfunctory dep, cute as a button dep, gay as Christmas dep, girly dep, Grampa dep, shower dep and the list goes on.
But there is more to it that that. As her eyes rolled over mine, brushing past each other intimately, I saw her take in size, colour, expense and status. I saw her gaze was cold and condescending. I felt a tingle of shame. I had clearly not impressed. Should I be wandering the streets wearing such footwear? Had I miscalculated? Had I barged into the treacherously oblique realm of inappropriacy? Did I accidentally skip the page on the inflight cultural intergration manual that said there are some dep for the streets, some for the house, and some for the little boy who lived down the lane that shouldn’t be seen at all. With this one brief inspection I was instantly undermined. Like a sweeping karate kick I was floored. It was the kind of stare that reduces you to your bare facts. There’s no escaping your profile. It is as clear as Hollywood lights. You have a low salary. Are unmarried. Have scant taste. Speak with your mouthful. Pick your toenails in public, drive a cheap motorbike and probably smell in summer. It is an ephiphany. Now I know why the ladies chortle at me at the reflexology centre and play paper, scissors, rock to see who takes or returns my sandals.
I’ve wasted years in the dark, paddling around in the wrong kind of dep. But no more, I tell you, no more! I turned around and headed back out to buy another pair, right there and then, but of course all these thoughts had happened in an instant, so she was still squeezing past me trying to avoid my oafish frame and scuttle out the door unscathed. As I turned she bolted with fright thinking I was all aroused and up to no good in a dark lane in the middle of the afternoon, looking for an unsolicited rub. I would have explained my revelation if I could have, but she wouldn’t have listened, not while I wore those dep, and there was no time to waste. So I just waddled behind her down the alleyway, my flip-flops flapping in their testimonial performance. I watched her as she trooped off, in her high-heeled brogues that clicked authoritively, demanding attention, like a German Officer. My lord I thought, they’re a fine pair of shoes, and thus, by proxy, she must be a fine woman, with a decent salary, elegant tastes, delicate table manners, be good in the sack and a sweet scent must exude from her no matter whether the weather be hot or not.
That’s as good as a scientifically proven fact.
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Is it the end of Hello?
Someone needs to put a stop to it, not that's there's anything wrong with a friendly hello. But my throat is dry, my voice is hoarse, my will threadbare, my alternative sensibilities yearn out for more. Also, my neck is stiff from turning on my bike everywhere I go, as I pass children, building sites, travel into the boonies, down country roads, over the hills and far away. Everywhere I hear "Hello!"
When you first come here you think it would be rude not to reply, yet the numbers are stacked heavily against you. Mark my words you'll rue the day you take on the task of replying to everyone. It's akin to counting the grains of sand on a beach.
Age or status isn't important. Infants, teenagers, shoe shine boys, middle-aged fruit mongers, doctors, pimps, truck drivers and toothpick vendors. As I pass them all they uniformly shout "Hello". When I'm full of vim and vinegar I holler back, yet when I'm exhausted and sunburnt I just raise my eyebrows. Yet you feel guilty ignoring them, just like the Monkeys, they're just trying to be friendly.
Only the old Ong's and Bac's are left out of it. My heart goes out to them. Sometimes they'll catch your arm and chance a risque 'bonjour' when they think no one is looking. These poor souls are remnants of phapophilic past when the country played host to French buereaucrats, dapper soldiers and pernod was downed in one. Then it was de riguer to learn French. Now despite strenuous French investment it is out of favour.
Even more tragically, once sadly, a old man with translucent skin, bewildered eyes, shaking hands and the fear upon him, met me in an alleyway in the suburbs of Hanoi. "Ruski?" he said hopefully and tentatively. Perhaps he'd studied there once upon a time and a flicker of a romantic past was on his lips. Poor chap. Perhaps all he wanted to say was 'Zdrat-s-voyei-tre' Then a bunch of whippersnappers came scrambling out of their boxes roaring "Hello! Hello!" Running through my legs and jumping on my bike. He shuffled away sadly, left out in the cold, now behind an iron curtain of linguistic homengenisation and new fads. Learning Russian now is like wearing leg warmers and buying a hula-hoop to be in fashion. Ah History, ye fickle mistress and cruel temptress! Now he is merely a crumb of the past and a bystander to the grand cult of Anglaise.
The other day, having nothing better to do than wait for beer drinking PM, I decided to count the greetings. There were no less than 72 hellos directed towards my good self in all. So, giving the matter no thought whatsoever, in any non-given SARS mid to peak season with an average of 25,000 Anglo-Tays, from north to south, I estimate there is a staggering one million eight hundred thousand hellos being uttered daily. That is a staggering 45 billion hellos per year.
The country is pushing itself to gross extremities. Exhausting that solitary word. Beating it into the ground of insignificance until it can muster no more. Soon Anglo-Tays will pass the polite hellos, seeming rude, stuck up or indifferent. It shall be nothing other than a faint whisper. Like a distant buffeting breeze unremembered. A sad image you'd have to agree. Like a candlelit dinner for one.
Therefore, I would like to launch the "wahey" programme of cultural integration task force. We shall teach country bumpkins and urbane city folk to shout "wahey!" when they see a Tay pass by their office, door, street corner, hammock, shop, tree, bench, massage parlour in any non-life threatening traffic situation. And when that gets annoying we'll change it to "Good Day to you there!" then "Yoo hoo!" and then "Let there be rock" and so on, so forth.
All in favour say "Wahey!"
May the future be bright and ridculous, amen.
Someone needs to put a stop to it, not that's there's anything wrong with a friendly hello. But my throat is dry, my voice is hoarse, my will threadbare, my alternative sensibilities yearn out for more. Also, my neck is stiff from turning on my bike everywhere I go, as I pass children, building sites, travel into the boonies, down country roads, over the hills and far away. Everywhere I hear "Hello!"
When you first come here you think it would be rude not to reply, yet the numbers are stacked heavily against you. Mark my words you'll rue the day you take on the task of replying to everyone. It's akin to counting the grains of sand on a beach.
Age or status isn't important. Infants, teenagers, shoe shine boys, middle-aged fruit mongers, doctors, pimps, truck drivers and toothpick vendors. As I pass them all they uniformly shout "Hello". When I'm full of vim and vinegar I holler back, yet when I'm exhausted and sunburnt I just raise my eyebrows. Yet you feel guilty ignoring them, just like the Monkeys, they're just trying to be friendly.
Only the old Ong's and Bac's are left out of it. My heart goes out to them. Sometimes they'll catch your arm and chance a risque 'bonjour' when they think no one is looking. These poor souls are remnants of phapophilic past when the country played host to French buereaucrats, dapper soldiers and pernod was downed in one. Then it was de riguer to learn French. Now despite strenuous French investment it is out of favour.
Even more tragically, once sadly, a old man with translucent skin, bewildered eyes, shaking hands and the fear upon him, met me in an alleyway in the suburbs of Hanoi. "Ruski?" he said hopefully and tentatively. Perhaps he'd studied there once upon a time and a flicker of a romantic past was on his lips. Poor chap. Perhaps all he wanted to say was 'Zdrat-s-voyei-tre' Then a bunch of whippersnappers came scrambling out of their boxes roaring "Hello! Hello!" Running through my legs and jumping on my bike. He shuffled away sadly, left out in the cold, now behind an iron curtain of linguistic homengenisation and new fads. Learning Russian now is like wearing leg warmers and buying a hula-hoop to be in fashion. Ah History, ye fickle mistress and cruel temptress! Now he is merely a crumb of the past and a bystander to the grand cult of Anglaise.
The other day, having nothing better to do than wait for beer drinking PM, I decided to count the greetings. There were no less than 72 hellos directed towards my good self in all. So, giving the matter no thought whatsoever, in any non-given SARS mid to peak season with an average of 25,000 Anglo-Tays, from north to south, I estimate there is a staggering one million eight hundred thousand hellos being uttered daily. That is a staggering 45 billion hellos per year.
The country is pushing itself to gross extremities. Exhausting that solitary word. Beating it into the ground of insignificance until it can muster no more. Soon Anglo-Tays will pass the polite hellos, seeming rude, stuck up or indifferent. It shall be nothing other than a faint whisper. Like a distant buffeting breeze unremembered. A sad image you'd have to agree. Like a candlelit dinner for one.
Therefore, I would like to launch the "wahey" programme of cultural integration task force. We shall teach country bumpkins and urbane city folk to shout "wahey!" when they see a Tay pass by their office, door, street corner, hammock, shop, tree, bench, massage parlour in any non-life threatening traffic situation. And when that gets annoying we'll change it to "Good Day to you there!" then "Yoo hoo!" and then "Let there be rock" and so on, so forth.
All in favour say "Wahey!"
May the future be bright and ridculous, amen.
A Walk in the Park
Every now and again I feel an emptiness of habit. The ghost of a former routine creeps up and taps me on the shoulder. There is a voice to it. It will say something like “Not much fibre in your diet these days” or “Fancy going to the cinema, don’t you?”
More often than not, the voice hits the nail on the head. Just like yesterday, when it said, "strolling through a park would be nice, wouldn't it?". At the time I was driving full throttle through the traffic, head down, inhaling my own fumes, gritting my teeth and yes, I had to agree, a stroll through a park was a nice idea. Now normally stuff like this is on the end of the list, down with things to do next month, like get a cool tattoo, ring your mother, buy some Bran Flakes, go to the cinema, but coincidentally I was actually passing one. Although I was driving, like the locals - as if there was no tomorrow, or very hungry - I had actually nothing to do and pretty much nowhere to go. I decided I would break with tradition and take a walk in the park. I had already decided it would be a beautiful moment. Perhaps, I might even write a poem.
I parked my bike by a tree and stepped into the confines of a park, which acts as a large traffic island diverging the traffic, sending one lot west and the other east. At first glance the park is serene. A whirlpool of motion outside. Inside, shaded benches, with geriatric old men sitting in their P.J.’s, puffing on fags, chewing their gums, shuffle around. The fountain sprays over children who frolic around gaily. Groups of men sit on their hunkers, watch and play chess, which I didn’t realise could be a team sport. Other kind and gentile folk stroll around with a dragged step. With the oppressive Hanoi heat, it would be foolish to be excessively lively. The end result is a classic moocher’s motion. A kind of a strolling slouch. Yes, I thought, this is nice. How about that poem? Yet, I needed characters. I needed inspiration.
Two fellows caught my eye. The taller one looked like he’d got out of the wrong side of bed every morning for 10 years straight. A huge frown, a messy hair-do, grimy hands scratching his ribs, he circled the fountain dragging his feet like he was sweeping up dust. He wore an old pair of football shorts and an oversized shirt. Then a friend approached him, a more chipper chap, strutting along like he was flipping pancakes with his dep (sandals). He grabbed the taller one’s elbow and muttered a quick confidence. The taller one’s face instantly broke into an enormous frown. In fact, he triple frowned. “Oh my god!” He said and then they disappeared around the fountain, into the shade.
I sat on the bench wondering what you would have to be told or see to frown so severely. Just then an old woman waddled in front of me, as fast as her million year old limbs would carry her. She perched over her sack of rubbish and produced a potato and sat mumbling to herself, nibbling the potato. I was half-thinking of trying to talk to her. Ask her some questions. How long has she been coming to this park? How many centuries ago was she born? Is the potato tasty? Then suddenly she pulled down her breeches and started to piss in the shade like an old frog with a conical hat.
I stood up and headed for my bike. Passing the two men who are still frowning, I nod knowingly. If I knew the Vietnamese for “Crouching granny, hidden urinal” I would have said it. But they probably don’t go the cinema anyhow. In this city, who does?
Copyright Pittstop Works
Every now and again I feel an emptiness of habit. The ghost of a former routine creeps up and taps me on the shoulder. There is a voice to it. It will say something like “Not much fibre in your diet these days” or “Fancy going to the cinema, don’t you?”
More often than not, the voice hits the nail on the head. Just like yesterday, when it said, "strolling through a park would be nice, wouldn't it?". At the time I was driving full throttle through the traffic, head down, inhaling my own fumes, gritting my teeth and yes, I had to agree, a stroll through a park was a nice idea. Now normally stuff like this is on the end of the list, down with things to do next month, like get a cool tattoo, ring your mother, buy some Bran Flakes, go to the cinema, but coincidentally I was actually passing one. Although I was driving, like the locals - as if there was no tomorrow, or very hungry - I had actually nothing to do and pretty much nowhere to go. I decided I would break with tradition and take a walk in the park. I had already decided it would be a beautiful moment. Perhaps, I might even write a poem.
I parked my bike by a tree and stepped into the confines of a park, which acts as a large traffic island diverging the traffic, sending one lot west and the other east. At first glance the park is serene. A whirlpool of motion outside. Inside, shaded benches, with geriatric old men sitting in their P.J.’s, puffing on fags, chewing their gums, shuffle around. The fountain sprays over children who frolic around gaily. Groups of men sit on their hunkers, watch and play chess, which I didn’t realise could be a team sport. Other kind and gentile folk stroll around with a dragged step. With the oppressive Hanoi heat, it would be foolish to be excessively lively. The end result is a classic moocher’s motion. A kind of a strolling slouch. Yes, I thought, this is nice. How about that poem? Yet, I needed characters. I needed inspiration.
Two fellows caught my eye. The taller one looked like he’d got out of the wrong side of bed every morning for 10 years straight. A huge frown, a messy hair-do, grimy hands scratching his ribs, he circled the fountain dragging his feet like he was sweeping up dust. He wore an old pair of football shorts and an oversized shirt. Then a friend approached him, a more chipper chap, strutting along like he was flipping pancakes with his dep (sandals). He grabbed the taller one’s elbow and muttered a quick confidence. The taller one’s face instantly broke into an enormous frown. In fact, he triple frowned. “Oh my god!” He said and then they disappeared around the fountain, into the shade.
I sat on the bench wondering what you would have to be told or see to frown so severely. Just then an old woman waddled in front of me, as fast as her million year old limbs would carry her. She perched over her sack of rubbish and produced a potato and sat mumbling to herself, nibbling the potato. I was half-thinking of trying to talk to her. Ask her some questions. How long has she been coming to this park? How many centuries ago was she born? Is the potato tasty? Then suddenly she pulled down her breeches and started to piss in the shade like an old frog with a conical hat.
I stood up and headed for my bike. Passing the two men who are still frowning, I nod knowingly. If I knew the Vietnamese for “Crouching granny, hidden urinal” I would have said it. But they probably don’t go the cinema anyhow. In this city, who does?
Copyright Pittstop Works
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