Lenny’s frustration grew with every tick of the clock. He squirmed in his uncomfortable chair, equipped with a cushion for his back but plain plastic for his buttocks. Wasn’t Changi Airport supposed to be paradise on earth – a replica of Heaven’s own aviation terminal? Surely they could afford better seats? He must have really pissed off the customs officer earlier with his typical New York levity.
“Well, who cares about my ass, they’re gonna cane it anyway,” he muttered under his breath. His smirk seemed to irk the officer sitting across the room. Or rather, he thought he had annoyed her. She was completely expressionless, almost catatonic, but her death-stare seemed a bit more intense, so she must have been ticked off by his insouciance.
But hey, what could he do? He was a hound dog, sniffing out amusement in every situation.
“Hey, ‘smirk’ and ‘irk’ rhyme!” he smiled clownishly. Why was he so easily entertained by the slightest thing? He couldn’t help himself! That’s why he was brought into this sterile waiting room, fully furnished with awkward chairs, an abnormally loud clock, and a dour, bespectacled bureaucrat whose stony demeanour gave him the heebie-jeebies. He was left there to stew in the eerie silence, all because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
No, hang on a minute. Lenny refused to shoulder the blame for his predicament. It wasn’t his fault that this country had no sense of humour. All he wanted to do was inject a bit of mirth into the humdrum of lining up (oh wait, they say ‘queuing’ over here) at the airport border control. Was his joke really that offensive?
He cast his mind back to his freshman year in Columbia, where he spent countless hours with his Singaporean buddy, Jackie Chan. (Actually, he had an unpronounceable Mandarin name – something like Chan Zi Hong or Chan Zhi Huang or whatever – so Lenny just gave him the natural nickname.) Jackie spoke incessantly about his country, and curious Lenny lapped it all up – the Singlish, the acronyms, the National Service stories, even the odd custom of ‘choping‘ tables with tissue packets.
But what really piqued his interest were the SPGs.
“You know, Lenny, if you come to Singapore, you’ll have a lot of SPGs chasing you,” Jackie cheekily remarked one day. Lenny gave his characteristic quizzical look, waiting expectantly for his next nugget on this quirky country.
Jackie continued, “We call them Sarong Party Girls. They like to go for ang mohs.” Now he really had Lenny’s rapt attention. As he explained what a sarong was and the peculiar origin of the term ang moh, a mischievous grin stretched across Lenny’s face.
“Looks like I’ve gotta find myself some SPGs!” Lenny chuckled. “So when I visit you in Singapore, and the customs officer asks what the purpose of my visit is, I’ll exclaim, ‘Spaghetti Girls!'”
And that’s precisely what landed him in hot soup. Damn jialat, as Jackie would say.
Welcome to Singapore, where banter is banned, and fun is done, Lenny quietly quipped. Of course, he didn’t do himself any favours by guffawing at his own joke at the customs desk. But besides the bans on smoking and some queer spiky fruit – not to mention the ridiculously menacing warning about the death penalty for drug trafficking on the customs form – he was quite certain that there was no restriction on laughter at this world-class airport.
Or was there?
As he nervously wrung his clammy hands in the waiting room, he thanked his lucky stars that he didn’t shoot his mouth off about his brilliant solution to Singapore’s falling population. Back in college, when Jackie told him that only the men had to spend (or did he say ‘waste’?) two years in the military, he railed indignantly against the gender inequality of the system. Then in his classic witty style, he proposed an ingenious way that women could serve the nation too.
“You guys should start a Reproductive Regiment!” he blurted out. “The more babies, the higher the rank!” The bewilderment on Jackie’s face back then was priceless.
Lenny glanced at his watch, crossed his legs, uncrossed his legs, glanced at the blasted ticking clock, sighed in exasperation and scratched his blond locks. The robotic immigration officer glared mercilessly at him. Lenny thought about starting a staring contest, but he changed his mind, lest he be accused of leering inappropriately at a woman. Or of trying to pick up an SPG.
The officer’s scowl was getting too much to bear. What was his crime? Had he really been so insensitive that he had to be detained? Had he violated some sacrosanct Singaporean custom? Why was everyone so touchy here? This country has redefined absurdity!
Lenny was resigned to his fate. Since his sorry ass was most definitely going to be hauled off to jail – after it was caned of course – perhaps he should just throw all caution to the wind and have himself a bit of fun. He stood up slowly, shuffled across the room to the soulless uniform, looked her straight in the eye, and smiled the gentlest smile that he could muster.
“Excuse me, Miss, do you have any chewing gum on you?”
The ticking clock was drowned out by Lenny’s racing heartbeat. The lady was stunned. Her deadpan face betrayed a slight quiver of the lip as she tried in vain to suppress a grin. Lenny held his breath, surprised that he had actually found the chink in her armour. She got up quickly, turned around and scurried off to the next room, fighting back the giggles.
Moments later, a senior ranking officer entered the room with a beam plastered across his face. Lenny clenched his fist, ready to sock the man in the jaw with full immunity – for right there before his eyes stood his college buddy.
“Jackie Chan, you son of a gun, you’re a customs officer?!” Lenny threw his arms around his friend.
“The joke’s on you, buddy,” Jackie declared triumphantly. “Welcome to Singapore. Let’s grab something to eat.”
“How about spaghetti?”