Beneath the silky veneer hundred and eighty centimeters deep, you can see thunderbolts quivering within the perimeters, a gigantic rectangular basin tinted hyacinth-blue. You can see everything, omnipresent, like god. Everything seems to drift along - time, motion, bare bodies, swallows soaring, the white menacing bloom. There, between the threshold to celestial heaven, one woman in black one-piece waddles overhead, showcasing series of lethargic, slow-moving strokes to push herself a notch forward. A tremendous feat of mobility, considering that she possessed a huge silhouette, wide hips, flabby arms and thighs. There is always an inexplicable pleasure, seeing massive mammal floats on water, denying the nature of gravity and logical notion that pigs are not meant to fly above the heads of humans. She cruised in the many diaphanous whorls unperturbed. Her movement, however clumsy and indelicate, succinctly conjures up vivid images of much happier times, putting me back to the Underwater World visit to Sentosa Island with my parents when I was a kid. Howling in awe, frantically gesticulating to my unobservant dad who somehow coordinates with my childish bewilderment: ‘Look daddy– a hippopotamus!’ They were much more tolerant of my amusement then.
Behind this Botero is a youthful contender in black tights gaining stride. Taking full advantage of his streamline position and nimble legwork, he torpedoes forward, sharp as an arrow, silting through sleeves of cerulean blue water as though blade’s work through the canvas. Even the nearby burst of sun fractures by his velocity. He almost caught up with that giant fat sea turtle that goes hither and thither before I am put out of breath. Upwards, upwards and frantically surging upwards, I propelled myself vertically up to the summer holiday sky till my lips kiss that delicious warm air and take them in by one big gracious gulp. This very act of survival, however, transports my senses back to the other dimension I hate so much. This is the fifth time I tried drowning myself.
It seems foolish to attempt another suicide, right after five consecutive failures in one afternoon, especially when you know without a doubt that this self-inflicted death would bring forth a slew of survival mechanism so ingrained in us humans that, without the aid of a person or some tangible burden to sink with, it is naturally impossible for a pro to drown by his own weight, let alone knowing the fact that there are no perilous waves in the calm lagoon of Hougang Swimming Complex. Even if I tried umpteen times, and fully exhaust myself trying, I would still inevitably rise above the water, floats back to the surface, to live for another day. Neither would the two lifeguards, both in yellow tee, red shorts flaming hot cut halfway the thighs, air-filled floats ready by the side, could be of any help. Stationed high up on metallic chairs in middle of two pools, one facing adult pool while the other look upon shallower water, pretending to look cool and vigilant when one-third of their muddy brown faces hidden by shades. Who knows? Having seen me snorkeling down and up again at the same spot five times in a row for no apparent reason, if they are really wide awake they might already mark me as a potential voyeur. Or perhaps their veiled visuals have detected some lassie’s cleavage and remain plastered to the crescents. Anyway, attempting suicide in Singapore does not come easy than said.
I got out the pool, pull off my goggles, and slovenly walk back to my blue recliner held in reserved by my towel and duffel bag, dripping chlorine aqua all over scorched amber-brown tiles in each stride. If my bare feet are not as sodden, I could have pranced in double-quick steps the way that poor old chap ahead of me do. Probably mid-thirties, Straits Times folded across his hairy armpit, looking thoroughly vexed. He sort of bunny-hop to a vacant seat one recliner beside mine, dump all his belongings and newspaper on the chair before he jump straight into pool, an amateurish leg-first, causing a big tumultuous splash and a caustic ring of sizzling soup. As I pass his seat, I take a sideway glimpse on the latest news, curious about what events on Wednesday, November the twelve, 2011, holds. This is the way I get my updates here, everyday, peeking some snippets from other people papers. There is, however, nothing in that ninety-cent worth interests me, or at least for the first page of the folded halve. Nothing there but chunks of words in beetle typeface, and a powder-blue Tiffany & Co print advertising some silvery bracelet with a superimposed padlock pendant hanging on it. And with that macabre glare it is almost impossible to catch a single word without straining your eyes. But there is something else that immediately caught my eye, easily recognizable even from afar; the three dimensional, the smooth curves, that rustic metallic frame of the latest Iphone model. An Iphone 4GS! My heart is wailing inside the throat, stirring me to do some impulsive act. Glinting alluringly like a slab of ebony gold slightly exposed from the pile of tattered sheets, tempting my conscience to snatch it without the owner’s notice. Just do it, says an inner voice, you are a goner anyway, just take it and go to hell with it. Nevertheless I walk back to my chair, kicking myself up in the very next instance that missed opportunity. This is once my graduation prize, but guess I have to find some temporary jobs to earn it, maybe a cashiering job at FairPrice just like my cousin Bernard. At least he can count notes every day without the need to learn algebra.
Smoothen out like margarine spread; the cobalt towel still bears the fine imprints of my shoulders, though much of it has long been evaporated. Not bothering to dry myself, I lay completely still, not totally horizontal-flat but with slight deviation, relinquishing the recliner’s bony structure creep through the thin fabric to my spines. This is the ideal spot for tanning, smacked at far end of the pool, tinkling on the edge of lifeguards’ visual periphery. And best of all it is adjacent to the open sprinklers, where I could sneak some cursory peek on hot girls and guys, rinsing themselves before making the dip. There are, however, no such things to drool upon in the pool of Hougang Swimming Complex, other than that portly one-piece diver-suit madame. No surprise here, with the Korean trend blowing ever harder, no decent-looking guys and girls in their right frame of mind would ever want an iota of skin expose to sunlight, not without smearing a good dose of whitening cream and sunscreen of SPF eighty, preferably with more whitening effects that, once the sun glare onto the skin, reflects it like an iridescent unicorn. An uphill battle for these creatures, considering we are living in the tropics - a city always in the baking.
My eyes stay shut, chill under the many wondrous sounds, listening to the rhythmic waves lapping over the cesspool, crows roosting softly over verandas, leaves rustle from an occasional spell of zephyr, and the definite ‘tut tut tut’ sound of racket strings striking a cork from the sports hall behind. An exclusive symphony no orchestra could match or ever want to replicate. It almost sounds therapeutic in one sense, especially so since there are no swimming lessons or noisy kids to spoil the tranquility of this premise.
