The Young Ones (1.2)

2009-12-08T06:55:00.000-08:00

<< Read "The Young Ones (1.1)"

The St. Vincent Retreat was a pleasant walk five minutes from the bus stop, a cluster of five double-storey blocks built on higher ground from the busy road. Three mature trumpet trees lined the short driveway on the right, and on the left was a row of straggly cassia shrubs. Towards the end of the hot season in August and sometimes stretching through to October, the Trumpet trees would bloom – their crowns covered entirely with the large pinkish flowers. The driveway then would also be carpeted by these clumps of tissue-like flowers and butterflies would visit the Cassia shrubs. It was altogether quite a pastoral heaven, all thirty-meters of it.

Of course none of this would have impressed Samson a year ago when he had finally accompanied his father to the St. Vincent’s Retreat. The air conditioner in the taxi was turned to a maximum, but still he was sweating and feeling slightly nauseous in the stuffy carriage. Samson’s father had asked “where is this?” as the taxi approached the flowering driveway. Samson could not remember what he had said, perhaps something like “a nice place”. His reply would have made little difference to his father, whose mind was slowly starting to get all tangled up.

“A nice place” was not how he would describe most of the homes he had visited before deciding on the St. Vincent Retreat. At the Chin Loo Meng Home, he had walked past a room where several old men or women – it was hard to tell with their shaven heads and identical pajamas – had at least one of their wrists tied to the frame of their beds, their cuffs made of a sponge-covered rope. The lady showing him around had walked them quickly past this room, but realising that from the corner of his eye Samson had spotted the scene, she softly sighed the explanation that these were patients in advanced stages of Alzheimer’s disease and were prone to physically harming themselves. “It looks cruel, but no choice, we have to make sure they are safe.” Samson had nodded sympathetically, but quickly crossed Chin Loo Meng off the list. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what exactly about St. Vincent Retreat comforted him about his decision. The place was clean. It was professionally run, with two resident doctors and a dietician even. The fee was commensurate with such services, but his father’s pension from the army was sufficient.

Still, the St. Vincent Retreat was not unique in all these. Maybe it was the sight of nuns in habits. His first visit to the St. Vincent Retreat was the first time he had seen real nuns. He had noted they did not have the pale skin and hooked noses of those he saw on the television, not counting Whoopi Goldberg who was, of course, an imposter. Still, the nuns’ presence must have invoked some positive association with the serenity of an imagined Austrian alpine nunnery. In reality, the St. Vincent Retreat was located just on the fringes of a newly constructed network of highways. However, a seemingly incongruous mix of flora in the home’s gardens worked to successfully distract the visitor from this fact. There were bougainvillea shrubs, a hibiscus plant or two, a willow tree in a courtyard with the statue of Mary overlooking a fish pond, and pots of bonsai interspersed between the blocks.

Sister Ann, a small Chinese woman with no eyebrows and barely any eyes, had met him at the gate to the home on his first visit. One of the first things she said to him was not in praise of the home’s facilities but to apologise for the sudden roar of a truck that was obviously going past the speed limit on the highway. “Why we need so many highways, I don’t understand.” To that apology, Samson had quickly replied that the noise from the highway was barely discernible, for if she had not brought it up, he was too busy admiring their lovely garden. “You know,” Sister Ann nonetheless added, “my nephew works in the Transport Department. He tells me, we have more than 2000 kilometers of road. I don’t understand how we can have so many places to go to on this one small island!” She had laughed, prompting him to do the same.

Yes, it must have been the sounds of laughter on his first visit that had distinguished the St. Vincent Retreat. He especially remembered walking by the dining room and hearing a youthful female voice chattering on before bursting into laughter. Samson had thought then – ah, if I were to ever grow old in an old folks’ home, I would be happy to be surrounded by such music! It was the laughter, as he later found out, coming from a young lady named Magdalene Low who, despite bearing the name of a saint, was thankfully a nurse and not one called to a more sacred duty.

It was Magdalene Low who greeted Samson as he walked towards his father's block.

“Hi,” she smiled, all sweetness in a nurse’s uniform. “Your father is sitting along the corridor, he just woke up.” Then she was gone, wheeling the diabetic Madam Wong away.

Usually, he would wish she stayed a little longer, sounded even friendlier, allowed him to say more. But today, he was glad to be on his way to the single storey block in the furthest end of the courtyard. Say hi. Make sure he's okay. Get the rabbit home.

"I'm here."

The Young Ones (1.1)

2009-11-29T01:32:00.000-08:00

Not only was the base of the white cotton bag now an iridescent yellow, Samson was convinced everyone on the bus could also smell the animal’s urea. The man sitting across the aisle from him had eyed his bag suspiciously before removing a bottle of medicated oil from his pocket, uncapped it and took a long hard sniff. The lady behind him was also starting shift about in her seat. He did not turn around to confirm this, but surely she was trying to hint at her discomfort. Soon, the smell would travel to the front of the bus. Samson took a quick look at the signs displayed on the board behind the driver’s seat. They commanded that there be no food or drinks to be consumed on the bus, no durians to be brought on board, and no dogs on a leash. They did not, however, disallow his taking along a rabbit in a bag.

The girl at the pet shop had giggled when he took the bag out.

“I still think you should buy a cage. A small one at least. It's not expensive.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I really have something for it at my house already.”

“But – ” she looked at the one-month old creature in her arms. “Sigh. Poor rabbit.”

“It will just be for a short while.”

“My boss is not here. If he’s here, he will surely not allow you to do this. But if he’s not here, I also cannot lend you a cage.” Her initial amusement was slowly starting to turn into a genuine concern for the rabbit’s wellbeing.

Samson decided he had better cut short their exchange. Who knows what she will insist before handing over the creature. It was still in her arms and the next pet shop was going to be some distance away. Besides, he had his eyes on this one. While the other rabbits scrambled about in the shop window, this dusky grey thing simply paid no attention to its pen-mates and gazed instead, Samson imagined each time he approached the pet shop, at the world outside. A pensive one, he would think, or otherwise sick. But the girl had assured him that it was healthy. “If not, the boss will let you take home another rabbit, no extra charge,” she had chimed confidently. He liked how its head was much darker, almost black, than the rest of his dusky brown body. This gave it a somewhat comical look. Yes, a thoughtful rabbit that one doesn’t take too seriously. He definitely preferred this rabbit to the rest. It was this or none at all.

“Here. You said a hundred and fifteen right?” Samson handed the girl the money from his wallet and was relieved that she took it, placing the creature on the counter beside the cash register while she sorted out his change. It stood still on a laminated advertisement for dog food; its eyes, like its short loppy ears, were downcast.

“Have you kept a rabbit as a pet before?” Samson shook his head, but immediately regretted it. Was this some test? “Oka-a-ay, so do you need any tips on how to care for your rabbit?” Her voice told him he need not worry after all. Now that the deal was done, she seemed to grown a little weary of their exchange and was just as keen to be rid of man and rabbit. In her hand appeared three books she had instantly retrieved from the shelf behind her: Rabbits for Life, A Sick Bunny is Not a Funny Bunny, and the more verbose but reassuring How to Care for Your Rabbit – A Useful Guide for Rabbit Owners. “These are our store’s recommendations. This one is only ten eighty.” She placed How to Care for Your Rabbit next to his thoughtful bunny. “It’s the cheapest. But it’s a useful guide.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Do you need a plastic bag for the book?” She asked as she handed him his change. “Or is it also going into ‘The Bag’?”

“I’ll take a plastic bag. Thanks.”

Samson had lined the cotton shopping bag he brought along with a piece of cardboard. It was one of those unbleached cotton bags given out for free, all the rage for the last two years ever since retailers realised that being “green” was going to endear them to consumers. The one Samson used was taken instead from one of the conferences his editors did not want to attend but had to send a company representative to all the same. The bag had the conference's logo printed on it, a blue stick figure leaping towards a bright orange light bulb with the words “I innovate!” under it. The words and the orange light bulb were now bathed in a large yellow glow and the stick figure had even started twitching. Samson pressed the bell to alight at the next stop. It was all a mistake. He should have just taken a taxi home from the pet shop and not be stingy, not even after spending a hundred and twenty five dollars and eighty cents on a rabbit and a book. Instead, here he was, stinking up the bus and on his way to stinking up the old folks home.

Posted: 29 November 2009

My Life as a Magician's Rabbit

The Young Ones (1.2)

The Young Ones (1.1)