Thoughts at a Lounge Bar<\/p>\n
By Valentinus Irawan<\/p>\n
This is my third glass of tequila. The first irritated my
\nthroat, but this one is helping me forget the daily nag of the
\nmonetary crisis. I have never faced such a nuisance in all the
\ntime since I was appointed bank director.<\/p>\n
\"Don't you think you have drunk too much,Pak?\"<\/p>\n
The question came from my new secretary, sitting beside me.
\nShe is fresh from secretarial school. Here am I, a workaholic,
\nenjoying myself. I need the refreshment.<\/p>\n
I gave her a signal to pour more into my glass. The mood is
\nsoft, accompanied by the exotic Mandarin music. I am actually
\nwaiting for a more lovable moment where my happiness would reach
\nits peak.<\/p>\n
\"Jimmy has AIDS,\" I mumble. I want to discuss something that
\nhas disturbed me lately.<\/p>\n
But she looks offended.<\/p>\n
\"Do you suspect that I will infect you with that virus?\" the
\ntall girl asked with a graphic frankness.<\/p>\n
Now it is my turn to be shocked. How could she feel that I was
\nsuspicious of her in that way? I had not asked her to spend a
\nnight with me. She must be experienced.<\/p>\n
\"No. I just cannot understand how Pak Jimmy, our senior
\nofficer, has contracted the deadly disease. By the way, do you
\nhave work experience elsewhere?\"<\/p>\n
\"Yes. I started working when I was a second-year student. I
\nworked at a South Korean automotive company. But I did not mix
\nwith white-collar employees.\"<\/p>\n
She is not as bright as I thought her to be. She seems to be
\nignorant that AIDS has mostly infected middle and upper-class
\npeople, whose sexual behavior flouts traditional taboos.<\/p>\n
In fact, I'm disappointed I had hired her. I don't like women
\nwho have worked at foreign companies. Managers of these firms
\nlive here alone -- either away from their families or they are
\nunmarried -- and they are usually promiscuous.<\/p>\n
\"You're lost in your thoughts,\" she said, smiling. Her dimples
\nmake her more attractive. She seems to have regained her sense of
\nhumor.<\/p>\n
I am surprised to feel her fingers under the table. She takes
\nmy hand and puts it on her lap. I look around.<\/p>\n
\"You look a little bit uneasy, why? Everyone has come here to
\nlet their hair down and remember this is a club for the elite,\"
\nshe says with her saucy glance.<\/p>\n
I feel so disturbed. I'm scared. Since I got the news about my
\nAIDS-infected colleague, I have been terrorized by strange
\nthoughts.<\/p>\n
I imagined myself being summoned by the clinic where I have
\nhad a general checkup. The doctor first speaks to me about many
\nunrelated things, and questions me about my extramarital sex
\nlife. He then reveals that I have AIDS.<\/p>\n
Positive, he said.<\/p>\n
I imagined myself leaving the doctor's office numbed. Outside
\nI saw darkness all around. In the next few years, I lost weight.
\nMy immunity to disease collapsed, and I could not even fight a
\ncold. In and out of hospital, I felt death was not far away.
\nPeople avoided me. My wife and children fled.<\/p>\n
\"You look very worn out, Papa,\" they would say.<\/p>\n
My secretary is massaging my fingers. What a striking contrast
\nwith my wife, who is always too lazy to move from her chair in
\nfront of the TV set when I get home.<\/p>\n
I look over my secretary's body. She really has beautiful
\ncurves in all the right places; my wife does not even have
\n\"places\".<\/p>\n
Oh God, how could I have such negative thoughts?<\/p>\n
As my imagination wanders further, I find my secretary
\nsleeping beside me in a hotel bed. She stares at my body, which
\nlooks ghostly that day. She touches my wrist -- which is cold --
\nto check the pulse. When there is no response, the woman screams
\nhysterically.<\/p>\n
I had got overexcited in bed. I forgot I have a cardiac
\nproblem, hypertension, cholesterol. I am also a chain-smoker. The
\nnext morning, newspapers carry the headline: A Noted Banker Dies
\nin the Saddle.<\/p>\n
However, the nightmare is not as horrible as the death of my
\nsecretary lying beside me. Some women have died in hotel rooms of
\ndifferent causes, such as taking too many dangerous drugs, while
\nsleeping with their bosses.<\/p>\n
If my tragedy really happened, what would be the effect on my
\ngood name? You see, I am chairman of the church fundraising
\ncommittee. How would my children react to news reports saying I
\nwas found beside my dead secretary in a hotel bedroom?<\/p>\n
And how my wife would cry. How would I face my colleagues at
\nthe office? I don't know, but what I did know was that I was
\ndrenched in a cold sweat.<\/p>\n
\"You are deep in thought. What are you thinking about?
\nDo you think I should have a blood test?\" my secretary asked,
\nonce again flashing her mischievous grin.<\/p>\n
God, every time she does that she really looks like my eldest
\ndaughter. She is a college student. I don't know how she is
\nbecause I have not seen her for months, even though we live under
\nthe same roof.<\/p>\n
I feel my back tingling with cold sweat and my heartbeat
\ngrowing more irregular. I look around the dim hall.<\/p>\n
I imagine my daughter in a corner there with some lonely
\nbusinessman whose potbelly is so hideous.<\/p>\n
It is a disgusting image. Most of the visitors at the bar are
\nmiddle-aged men like me, whose bellies are like mine, too. They
\nare also with young women, so young that they could be their
\ndaughters.<\/p>\n
My thoughts are getting darker. I cannot imagine my daughter
\nbeing ushered into a room by a tightfisted old man. Horrible.<\/p>\n
My daughter might come home one day feverish with HIV. Slowly,
\nher beautiful face would become wan like that of the dead. Her
\nbody would be reduced to a walking skeleton.<\/p>\n
I feel sick and dizzy.<\/p>\n
\"Pak,\" my secretary said, \"if you don't enjoy this place why
\ndid you bring me here? You are always looking around -- are you
\nexpecting someone? If you are, I can go home now.\"<\/p>\n
\"No, sorry darling. I have a slight headache,\" I lied. I ask
\nher to fill my glass again.<\/p>\n
\"It's enough Pak, you have drunk too much. I am not strong
\nenough to carry you if you collapse. Come on, please, let's go.\"<\/p>\n
Oh my God. Her last words are exactly the same as my
\ndaughter's whenever she asked us to leave a boring event. I think
\ntoo much Mexican booze has fogged my rational thinking.<\/p>\n
Or it is because I have drunk too little?<\/p>\n
I grab the bottle and pour the rest of its contents into my
\nglass. Within seconds, I gulp it all to the last drop. Now I have
\nmore cheer than I need.<\/p>\n
I look seriously at the woman beside me. Her form has
\ngradually changed into my daughter. She smiles childishly. Oh
\nGod, could I sleep with my own daughter, my own flesh and blood?<\/p>\n
\"Pak, let's go to the Hilton, Mandarin, or ... another hotel.
\nShould I call the driver?\"<\/p>\n
Her voice sounds so far away to me, and my mind has returned
\nto the clinic where the doctor told me I had AIDS.<\/p>\n
Translated by TIS<\/p>\n
Glossary:<\/p>\n
Pak: a colloquial address for elder men, means sir or father.<\/p>", "url": "https:\/\/jawawa.id\/newsitem\/thoughts-at-a-lounge-bar-1447893297", "image": "" }, "sponsor": "Okusi Associates", "sponsor_url": "https:\/\/okusiassociates.com" }