THE CITIZEN
We dance our way from the early morning to the sunrise, reveling in the space between the night and the day. A crowd of misfits at the edges of society, enjoying the moment of freedom before time turns the uncertain future into fact, into the past, into the building blocks for rules and prejudice and plans and needs and processes -- locking us back into the rhythms of everyday life, until the next drift of chaos comes out way.
The music dies down. And the three of us -- Tan Vee Bun, Robert Sebastian Cheong, and I -- stand exhausted as the lavender sky presides over our temporary tribe. From the centre of the party, we hear chanting and singing. A slow torch song sung by a mob of exhausted party goers unchained and unmoored from the government's manipulation of the peoples' 八字.
The singing resolves itself to become a mass chanting of the song “Home”. Of course, what else but the unofficial National Anthem of the country? We stand among a crowd of exhausted, happy party goers, their faces solemn as they belt out the torch song for the ages.
AND THIS IS HOME
[PAUSE]
TRULY!
[PAUSE]
WHERE I KNOW I MUST BE
[PAUSE]
THERE IS WHERE I WON’T BE ALONE!
Combined with the afterglow of the night, the devouring of the mantou, and with the sun passing its golden rays across the boxcars, the moment feels perfect.
AND THIS IS HOME
[PAUSE]
TRULY!
[PAUSE]
WHERE I KNOW I MUST BE
[PAUSE]
THERE IS WHERE I WON’T BE ALONE!
They repeat the song. Chanting the lyrics in almost exactly the same way as the first, no changes, no signs of exhaustion, no lowering of volume. Tan Vee Bun and Robert Sebastian Cheong look at each other in confusion. And as the crowd chants the lyrics for a third time, they turn to me.
“This isn’t right,” says Tan Vee Bun.
He takes our hands and leads us out of the party, but we soon realise that we are hopelessly lost inside the crowd. All of the people smiling and yelling dumbly, some with their eyes closed, some clapping to themselves, some holding hands.
We continue pushing forward, in whichever direction we can find, till we find ourselves at the edge of a circle. Revellers in varying states of undress chanting and smiling and staring right into the centre, where an Indian worker stands with his shirt tied around his waist. He has his hands resting on the back of a chair. He’s motioning to an unseen person in the crowd.
And then he turns round and sticks his butt into the air.
A figure emerges from the crowd. A woman with short hair and a familiar back. She’s naked save for a strap on dildo criss crossing her hips, the tip of the plastic penis pulling her towards the Indian worker. It takes me a few seconds to realise it’s my wife, Joanne.
Roughly, she pulls down the workers jeans and underwear, and then anally violates him amid the chanting of the crowd.
AND THIS IS HOME
[PAUSE]
TRULY!
[PAUSE]
WHERE I KNOW I MUST BE
[PAUSE]
THERE IS WHERE I WON’T BE ALONE!
The ceremony continues for another five sing-throughs of the song, at least ten minutes worth of us watching my ex-girlfriend thrust a dildo into a foreign worker. I can’t see their faces, but judging from the deafening cheers, they must be having fun.
And when she pulls out, the crowd stops singing and erupts in a deafening cheer as the Indian worker turns round and kisses Joanne full on the lips.
“We should go,” says Tan Vee Bun.
The three of us back away from the clearing, intuiting that the opposite of this scene, of whatever-this-is, unnatural and fucked, must be the exit. And as the crowd closes round the image of Joanne and the Indian like a curtain, I notice her head spin round rapidly to focus on us, her hair obscuring half her face, where a red, glowing, robotic eye shines out from the inside of her skull.