Strangely Chaste

Thanks to the energetic efforts of an ex-preacher, I arrived last night at "raw" Palembang.

Mud-caked karaoke bar, rough looking patrons pouring, literally pouring out their hearts to the karaoke screen, something about "I'll meet you in Massachusetts when the skies are clear." - never heard of the tune, but it was in English, as were all of the karaoke monopolizer's songs, let's call him Massachussetts.

I'm guessing his English skills were restricted to the bar's karaoke playlist. But it was nice to hear him sing. He had a nice voice actually. Gruff and full of feeling.

Massachusetts, was maybe sixty, smoking like a chimney, a real rough look in his eye and missing his two front teeth, but laid it down like an Asian Luther Vandross.

****

We were sitting across from him and his crew. I was there with a group of 10. 8 guys 1 girl and me.

The girls for hire, "hostesses," swamped around us pulling up chairs beside all of the guys and I was left in peace.

After a while one of the girls decided that since all of the guys were taken, she might as well try to get me to buy her a drink.

She was very friendly to me until she found out that I had forgotten my wallet at home. Then I didn't see her anymore. Felt a little bit what it must feel like to be a guy.

***

Asked a married guy why he let himself be sidled up to the way he was. He told me he feels bad to turn the girls away "I don't want to make them upset," he said. So he sits like a statue as they move in close and hold his hands.

Despite everything it's strangely chaste though. At the end of the night -- when the fluorescent lights come on -- the guys leave, the hostesses get paid out, and everyone parts as if they've never met.

Like the whole evening was a pantomime taking place in a parallel universe and the crazy glare of those overhead lights is the wormhole back to reality.

****

On a slightly unrelated note. I saw a really nice motorcycle last night. It belonged to a guy in our party. This really sweet narcoleptic policeman.

The bike was sleek yet rugged. It looked vintage, black with flames painted on the side. It cut a really nice line in the dusty streets. Like a comic book or something.

They wanted me to ride on the back from one place to another but I was wearing a long dress and politely declined. The policeman and his friend insisted I could ride side saddle like an Indonesian girl, but all that kept running through my head was Isadora Duncan, Isadora Duncan. . .maybe next time when I'm wearing my skinny jeans.

It was a really nice bike.