The Great Conversationist
Part One: A Beautiful Thing

It was his first shot at spending time alone with a girl his age and doing things together, or as kids nowadays call it: dating, although technically none of them were young lovers of any kind, but simply classmates who were bored by the usual weekend chores of being a student and lazing. To him personally, although the girl may have thought of it using an entirely different interpretation of the word at the time, the date was not at all a date in the strictest sense of the word. They were classmates, close comrades in their study, and that changed at least half of the aspects of the meeting, he thought. And it was her who asked him for the two to meet and spend the weekend together, and not him, the guy, and that changed whatever was left of the aspects, he further rationalized. To him, in his own words he used to justify the date in the end, as he walked to the bus stop to rendezvous with the girl, it was "a casual, friendly outing; a gentlemanly favor, perhaps".

We'd better dress down. We don't want to give her any ideas, do we?

He was a virgin in all ways, sexual and social. When he saw the colorful, sparkling attire that she had herself on for the date, he did not know how to compliment it properly. At first, he thought that maybe a sly, slightly teasing remark would do the job well, and he thought that he knew her well enough all of these years to execute such a remark, but then he feared that she may not be the same person that he had in his records, that maybe he had filed her under a faulty subject heading: Is she a funny girl, or a fun girl?

He decided not to jinx the date. Although he found the fashion in which she dressed herself for the occasion that day quite the sexier image of her than he had only heard of from the other guys who have known her better and more intimate than he had, he kept his opinion only to himself. But of course, he could not hide his feeling of appreciation for her fresh display of fashion that well, for it glowed through the shine of his shy, clear eyes.

She looked beautiful, especially in the fancy getup that she had assembled for the date that day. Although the fact is, she is, naturally and even under the most unflattering light, a beautiful girl, but that day, she looked even more ravishing than usual. Often, during school days, she would dress up as best as she could and generously treat all of her colleagues to the warmth and sexual tension that she always brings to the room, but for the date that day, and especially to him, she prepared herself to be seen in the eye of the public for an entirely different motivation: a date. He was flattered by how lovely she was.

And so, he decided to compliment her simply, as sincere as he could.

"Lawa baju hari ini."
"Terima kasih. Saja je, hujung minggu kan."

Her silky, dark blue tudung and her crisp, light blue long-sleeve complimented each other at the top, while her stiff, brown suede jeans matched her open-toe leather sandals at the bottom. The handbag that she carried, she kept it close under her right arm, and only in several rare occasions during the date would she hold it over her left shoulder, like when she needed both of her hands, or when she felt the need to wipe off the dust of her face.

She had a fashionable dark sunglasses on, which he had never seen her with, and to him frankly, although he did not mention this opinion of his to her explicitly, she resembled the female film stars of the sixties, the likes of the glamorously iconic Sarimah, the seductively entrancing Saloma and the soulful diva Normadiah. He wanted to tell her a joke about it, her and her dark sunglasses and her traffic-stopping getup, that she looked like she could very well be a celebrity who had lost her directions on her way to a filming location at Studio Jalan Ampas, but then, he thought, maybe it would sound too cheesy and too much of an effort to woo her attention. So, he kept it to himself, laughing alone.



He found himself doing things that he won't, under normal, manly circumstances, be doing at all in his entire life, especially with a girl witnessing all of it next to him:

"Jom pergi Hallmark, nak beli kad birthday."

And he found himself so out-of-place, as he waited for her to finish, in a store where he had no idea why he became into being present there in the first place:

"Lawa kan kasut ni, sayang dia tak on sale."

Most of the time, he was clueless, and he simply followed her around.



The Mall is such an unfamiliar place to him, a very intimidating part of the world where no young man should ever have to spend hours in, browsing and buying, roaming and relaxing. He knew this, about the Mall and the horror that it contains, even before agreeing to the date, but he thought naively, and he thought wrong: the girl took her time buying a new pair of shoes from just one store that was on sale, and they were more than the counting fingers he has that were selling shoes for half-price that day, and she also took her time buying a new shirt from a store all the way on the opposite side of the building's wing. But he did not complain, and he did not show boredom. His knees were sore, yes, and his hands were full with her plastic bags, yes, but he smiled a pleasant young man's smile still.

"Lalat lapar dah? Jom makan kat food court."

At last, to the food court, his pay-off for being a good boy.

The first thing of business was to find a strategic dining spot: partially hidden, if possible, so that, God forbids, if any wandering Malaysian students from the U also happened to be spending their weekend at the Mall, none of them would be able to identify the two of them from the immediate range of a few yards; far away from the commotion of the theme park and the food stalls, hopefully, so that, if this date were to be a memorable event, the two of them could have a decent talk over the delicious food after all of that hysterical shopping and nonstop walking. And such a spot they found, and they settled into it nicely.

"Lalat nak makan apa?"
"Apa yang ada sini?"
"Nasi goreng pun ada. Mexican. Nak?"
"Boleh jugak. Lauk apa?"
"Ikan ada. Sayur ada. Beans ada."
"Sounds nice, sure, why not."
"Jaga meja, beg. I'll be back."

It had been years since anyone attended to his meal. Sitting alone at the dining table, he was reminded of his mother, and how she would shout out the names of everyone from the dank of the kitchen, and from the biggest to the smallest, the whole family would run down the flight of stairs to the dining table, racing each other elbow to elbow to get to the juiciest, most tender chicken drumstick. The father, always in his cool, relaxed steps, arrives the latest, but he cares not of protocol and etiquette. If the kids were already there at the table, with their dirty fingers in the dishes, scraping and digging, he would simply scare them off with a restrained groan or a lazy grunt, and the kids would behave out of respect for the old man. Then, he would hand to each of them justly a piece of the prized food onto their plates, and he would ask them each to say their prayers before they eat. And he would stand there, at attention, like a guard, and wait for his kids to have the first taste, and he would ask them, softly, as if a dire secret: How is your mom's cooking?

"It's good, as always. But why aren't you eating?"
"I am waiting for your mother, she eats with me."

Dinner was such an event, and he rarely ate one at home in any other way.

From the thick shroud of hungry customers standing in line for their food, the girl came out through them and towards him, and in her hands were two plastic TV-dinner plates, with a cup of soda latched fittedly each at the side. From afar, he could see the rising hot vapor from the steaming Mexican fried rice and the condensating air on the icy cold paper cup, and the wide, satisfied grin of a hungry young lady, walking cautiously on the thin, slippery line like a tightrope on a windy, autumn day. Her dark sunglasses fastened into the many creases of her tudung above her forehead, and the colorful, fancy getup that she had herself on, and the sight of her tiptoeing and juggling and warily looking down the invisible center line in front of her, to avoid spilling the hot food onto the floor, by raucous children running around chasing down their imaginary pet; the contrast that became her, he found that peculiarly amusing, and he wanted to tell her how comically adorable she was.

But he didn't, of course.

When she finally arrived at the table, and promptly did he took over the plates and the paper cups from her nervous, tired hands, she sighed in relief and in satisfaction, and she smiled a gloriously comforting smile at him, as he slouched back onto the seat behind him, absorbing her new unhurried, relaxed composure, little by little. There, they sat, against each other, and not a word was exchanged, until she indicated to him using her eyes to the fried rice that sat on the table, untouched and unappreciated, between them, and she nodded a go-ahead to him, as if to say: Go on, dig in, but be careful, the food is very hot.

And so, he took a spoonful, and she asked:

"Sedap?"
"Okay je."

Upon hearing that, she smiled and she grabbed herself a spoon, while he reached for the paper cup and washed down the horrible, oily taste of the fried rice with a big gulp of soda.



On the way to the Mall of America, on the bus that was packed with commuters to and from the city, there was an enormous amount of talking between the two. The arranged seats made it a rather difficult task for them to keep a decent conversation up and running, added that it was noisy and the next seat passenger was half-asleep with his forehead knocking on the glass each time the bus hit a bump on the road; they were seated close to each other, their elbows touched. The girl kept turning her head sideways towards his, and he, in his effort to the conversation, kept turning his head sideways towards hers, also, and they did this brilliant pecking dance, this silly foxtrot, all throughout the journey.

"Lalat tahu tak pasal couple yang kena tangkap basah tu?"

She talked with her hands flying all over the place, and she talked with vigor. And he kept interrupting her in the middle of her fast sentences, asking for her to repeat the names of the people that she was gossiping about: this person from this university who did this, and that person from that university who did that, and they got this in return and they deserved it, and they got that in return and they deserved it. Most of these names sounded familiar, while some were new to him, and he had never heard of them before, and never in that manner, but he kept his face straight and he kept his interest high. And the girl kept on talking, despite the fact that he only listened to her story and never would he interject to put his point of view on the subject. He would merely either nod his head to acknowledge, or smile a blunt smile to her humor, or try his best not to let down his eye contact, and he would do all these without fail, until she stopped for air or to start anew.

And as she told him tall tales from her part of the world, he had his eyes all over her face and chest, and never had he been so fortunate to be up close and intimate to her in that fashion, and at several points during the bus ride, he would stare at her in the most captivated manner. He would look at parts of her face that he had never noticed to have had existed before, and he would have her cordially surprised that he stared so wide-eyed at her face, and she would move one of her hand to that stared spot on her face and she would gently touch it, checking to see what was it that had him staring so bewildered at. Then, as if nothing had happened, she would continue on from where he had her left him to touch her face, and he would continue on pretending to be listening so attentively, as if his entire life was hanging dearly to every word that came out of her luscious, red lips.

A profoundly meaningless conversation, but he enjoyed it nonetheless.



Under the table, he could see the contents of her plastic bags:
    Brand name shoes, all of which were half-price.
    Brand name shirts, made by Third World sweatshops.
    Brand name greeting cards, with automatic audio.
    Chocolates, the expensive ones, with nuts inside.
    Romantic novels, thick paperback, risqué cover art.
    Generic R&B CDs, by MTV soulstress and pop divas.

Usually, at the sight of such items, he would have reacted most opinionatedly. He would start off by effortlessly stating the very obvious of the situation, as an innocent opening remark to spark an honest discussion, to softly moisten her pores, to ready her emotionally and intellectually, and slowly changing phases to a simmering to a rather sarcastic boil, before finally accumulating to going totally ballistic and into his default debate mode: thinly veiled character assassination, laced with relentless ridicule and questions of credibility. But when she caught him looking into her stuff under the table, and quickly did he withdrew his prying gaze, she smiled a small, curious smile and she said thank you for helping her with her bags. He mellowed, and he shoveled more fried rice into his mouth.

But his thoughts continued to debate, still.

The deep fascination with brand name products and the false illusion of quality that they conjure, how it became an accepted, common barometer for gauging the style and class of the consumer's taste in fashion, that has always made him wonder at times. The consumer lifestyle of always striving to be on top of what is hot and what is not, how that game became more than just a game, that has constantly made him stop to think.

What does she sees in those shoes, those shirts, those jeans?

To him, all of the shoes in the store, or any store for that matter, were the same, and none of them was even remotely worthy of the meager two-dollar discount or the passionate scrutiny. A few of them were attractive and cheap, which to his logic, were the best of bargains, while the majority were either too impractical to be worn for work, or simply hideous for any type of work, or worse, hideously impractical. They are shoes, simply shoes, all of them, he mumbled to himself, and behind her back. Thus, the sight of the girl running frantically across the showroom floor in search of that pair of elusive glass slippers that will transform her into a frog-kissing princess and a single mother to seven coal-mining dwarves, who will all reside happily ever after in a giant shoe-house -- such a perplexing female behavior that was, he thought, and such meaningless so, too, he added.

It occurred to him that maybe she was yet to find a sense of purpose that will fill the void inside her soul, the pursuit of meaning that will gradually consume her to the last strand. That gaping hole that she filled up with the materiality of her personality, the novels, the clothes, the chocolates; in a panicky, hurried reaction towards the inevitability of her feeling insecure about how she is perceived, how she is needed by other people around her -- she resorted to being caught up by the blind fascination towards fashion and glitz.

But he kept all of that to himself, not wanting to ruin a beautiful thing.

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