Zero Hero

Rushing desperately, I raced along the Federal Highway to get home in time for the replay of the Liverpool-Milan game which I purposely missed this morning. Too risky, considering that I have to sit for exam that afternoon. For the entire day, I avoided and refused to hear anything about the outcome of that match. Agitatedly switching between radio channels the moment the DJ spoke about the game while ignoring strings of SMSs pouring into my handphone - worried that it could possibly spoil the thrill of the game. It was almost a psychopathic disorder – fear from knowing the truth while the whole world already knows.

Tuning in to the TV sport’s channel, the Red Army was marching in. Emotions were kept at bay as I gradually hypnotized into the “Zone” where the only time that matters was the clock on the top right corner of the TV screen. For me, this was the finals, Liverpool-AC Milan “LIVE” (although it was a replay). From there on, my heart rate went completely erratic, clutching pillows, fisting and punching the air, throwing vulgar gestures, muttering and refining my vocabulary in obscene curses. It was a thriller, simply because it could have knocked anyone’s heart out of the chest. My Reds, trailing by 3 nil at half-time, leveled by full-time and won on a 3-2 penalty shoot-out. An amazing comeback and definitely a match that tears at the heart of every Liverpool fan…

And, that’s how I ended up in the office wearing this red jersey, boss.

Been Hit And Run

The hall was jam-packed with crowd in vibrant, colorful batik and exquisite kebaya. My dad and I swerved past the chairs and waiters, hunting for empty seats. I was seated to this lady, presumably in her 50s, in yellow tudung next to her husband. The function went well with everyone exchanging hand-shakes and back-slaps until this lady started to throw me some bizarre questions. We started off effortlessly but caught me off-guard when she asked me what I gave my mom for mother’s day. Trying to conceal my guilt for being ignorant about mother’s day, I was forced to put up a little “lie” and said I offered her flowers and chocolates. I passed and she didn’t suspect anything fishy there.

Just as I thought our chat was turning mellower, she threw me another shocker. Quietly, she asked what do I do over weekends and if I go clubbing. Suddenly, my preconception about this borak-borak being a mother-and-son dialogue evaporated and I began to think that this lady was hitting on me. I might be wrong here but truthfully, I was getting uncomfortable. While her husband was into his own private conversation with other lads, I found myself struggling to differentiate between her friendly harmless glances and alluringly nauseating one. I had no choice but to minimize my interaction to sign languages. My abrupt silence went on till I reached home. Yes, she may be just being friendly and I took it wrongly – hesitantly I pacified myself, no matter how confusing the whole ordeal was.

Bargain Haunting Season

Traveling along the New Pantai Expressway (NPE) one day, heading towards Shah Alam, I found myself sitting in a Kancil next to my enthusiastic friend. We dared each other on how many bags we can carry on one arm as we walk out from the Adidas warehouse sale later. As we were nearing the warehouse, I was flabbergasted by the throngs of busy shoppers, screaming and hastening to the warehouse’s main entrance. Whilst the makciks and pakciks were frantically jostling for parking, my genius friend showed me why Kancil is called a Kancil. He brilliantly maneuvered her between the visually-impossible spaces for a spot near the fire-hydrant.

In the hot blazing sun in front of the closed main gate, the crowd was swarming and jostling each other but all with their jaws dropped in disappointment. Curiously, I stood on tiptoe to see over the restless crowd only to spot a short, skinny, old Malay security guard holding a signboard saying, “Harap Maaf! Warehouse FULL”. Apparently the warehouse was so packed that they decided to control the entrance of the shoppers. Initially I decided to try my luck but I could not even last for 5 minutes. The poisonous, nostril-poking body-odor and the stench from the untreated long hair of the mat-mat motor slapping on my face proved too much for me to bear. I walked away in despair, passing by eager bargain-hunters that do not know they were about to be frustrated. Among them were small kids, grandmas, towkays with their Indonesian maids and even outrageously colour-coordinated Bangladeshi executives. All hoping to wear the brand with three stripes, that is only and only if they get through the main gate.