Clinton willed himself to get some work done this Monday morning. Having been out of job and luckless at finding a new one for the past three months, he had not done much of anything except for eating, drinking and sleeping. His bulging belly was restrained tightly at the waist by his navy blue Milford shorts. Donning a white Crocodile singlet, he started to tune his guitar.
When ready, he flipped the time-wrought brownish pages of his songbook filled with lyrics and music notes. He found “When A Child Is Born”, a song he remembered having sang for the umpteenth time at Scout camps and overnight barbeques along East Coast Park some twenty-five years ago. The tune was there, but his fingers needed limbering up for a more fluid rendition. He plucked and strummed his acoustic guitar with a transparent plectrum a few more times while singing the words of the songs. His fingerings recovered quickly and he moved on to the next song, El Condo Pasa. It was surprisingly easy to play. He played and sang some more -- till he was satisfied. And, then progressed on to the next song.
By lunchtime Clinton had packed in a repertoire of twenty songs -- a modest but adequate target in his reckoning. He did not feel throaty. His voice training during his teenage years under Joan, his elder sister who used to sing in the Singapore Youth Choir, proved more valuable than he had imagined. He wondered how Joan was getting on with her two young sons and her husband, Willis. She had recommended him with potential jobs in a few hotels and departmental stores, but he showed no inkling of seeing himself as being a waiter or sales personnel. He was not about to tell her now what he was about to embark on. It would make things less complicated in not having to answer or explain the how and the why of doing it. He had grabbed this job prospect with zest just yesterday evening, a self-employed position made possible with due thanks to Gopal, a former colleague from his despatch-riding days.
*
When they met for a drink and makan at Satay Club, Gopal had merely suggested that a person is at his best when he does something that he loves and that would serve as a leading light for one’s choice of employment. Together, they talked of baking bread and pastry, gardening, mountaineering, deep-sea diving, and other out-and-out jobs for which many ordinary folks have found uncommon success. Envisioned by such a new belvedere, Clinton believed that it’s true, all true. Be that as it may be, he reasoned that he has nothing to lose except for not trying.
Clinton listened on and started to contrive a little something for himself in this, oh yes, like what Gopal said, ‘brave new world’. The way Clinton saw it, Gopal made a lot of sense, but wasn’t King Solomon, reputedly the wisest man who ever lived, who said that there is nothing new under the sun. Well, maybe when we have been there and done all that is there, we would also reach the same conclusion. Leaving that aside, Clinton, when Gopal took a breather to sip his coffee, seized the opening to make a meek confession.
“What was that you said?” asked Gopal, with some interest.
Clinton cleared his throat briefly and repeated himself, “Singing. I like to sing.” His breastplate was removed now and Clinton, for a moment, did not feel that Gopal would resonate his confidence. It might hurt more than embarrassment. It could well cut like a knife that is thrust into his heart. The knife should be coming now.
Thankfully, Gopal, still on a high from having a captive audience in Clinton, nodded encouragingly and said, “Great.”
Clinton went on to impress Gopal with his interest in singing while as a teenager. Without mentioning the likes of ducks taking to the waters, Clinton elaborated further on his ‘calling’ in a manner which earned him exquisite praise from Gopal for having spoken with ‘passion’ -- a requisite for success. The table was indeed turned as Clinton took up command and dished out his die-die must do postulation. When Clinton was through with his soliloquy, a pregnant pause ensued before Gopal interjected and wrapped up their evening with some practical suggestions. Sweet dreams were made of stuffs like these.
*
The two underpasses linking from Orchard MRT station to Tang Superstore and from there to Isetan Scotts were obvious choices. Being at a prime segment of crossroads in bustling, cosmopolitan Orchard Road their traffic flows were as throbbing and pulsating as it can get in Singapore. The weekends and year-end holidays were especially crowded. However, as with any entrepreneur staking out his market, Clinton observed that this location was well tapped by established players. He explored other suitable sites and after some deliberation took up a space at the junction of the underpass leading from Citilink to Esplanade--Theatres On The Bay. He had ruled out the thoroughfare of Citilink Mall which came across as being rather commercial. Moreover, he had a hunch that the authorities may be kinder to him for erring on the side of art.
There was enough legroom in his Piaggio Excel for his guitar, speaker and microphone set. The portable stool and collection box were placed into a Stadium casing mounted to the rear of his scooter. This starting out was no rocket science or Apollo, but to Clinton it was one small step to testing out a market for real. It would be a swinging good time; the songs had rung so true and eagerly these past few mind-boggling days at home and in the Katong studio where he had done some private recordings. Come on, baby, let it be me. Yeah, bring ’em on!
On a more realistic note Clinton was prepared to cut his losses should his venture turned out miserably over a week’s time. His most expensive outlay was for the second-hand microphone and speaker set. He had called Cash Converters and asked whether they had any available set. They said: “Yes.” And, he had promptly gone over to their shop near HDB Hub in Toa Payoh where there were two available sets. He clinched the cheaper of the two at $350. A new set would have depleted him of $580.00. As for the studio rental and recordings, he expended $150.00. For a five-day week, he figured that he would need an average taking of $100.00 per day to recoup his initial investment. That would be nice for meaning to just sing for the love of it (without burning a hole in one’s pocket).
With everything laid out he put on his recently spruced-up Ray-ban glasses. He felt young again and started to play in the underpass of the Esplanade at 8:30 on a Monday morning. It was 13 January 2003, the day following Maurice Gibb's death from a heart attack after undergoing surgery for a blocked intestine. He sang the songs of the Bee Gees throughout the day as a mark of dedication. The passers-by came, heard and was moved to give. By the time he packed up at 8:00 in the evening, after several breaks in-between, he had, upon counting at home, collected $140.85. He was elated, but could not help wandering whether it was his dark glasses, or the passing away of the younger fraternal twin of Robin and the brother of Barry, that had garnered the responses. Within the week, he had recovered all his expenses with a small surplus to spare.
His daily collections for the next few weeks hovered just below $120.00. He would sing from 8:30 AM to 9:30AM to catch the rush hour crowd with upbeat and sonorous numbers to guide and prod his fellow countrymen and foreign talents to seize the day. Then, it was time for the washroom, refreshment and rest till 10:00 AM. He would then dig into a mixture of songs in Asian languages like Bahasa Indonesia, Japanese and Chinese to wow the herds of tourists making their way round. They are usually gratified and would give generously. It was just reward considering that he had made it a point to understand the lyrics of these songs.
A typical lunch, from 11:00 AM to 11:30 AM consisted of pre-packed nasi lemak or fried noodles with fishcake which he had bought earlier at Lau Pa Sat market where he usually take his breakfast. For the lunchtime crowd, Clinton played fast tracks to pump up and infuse energy to his listeners. He sweated for their relaxation. And, as before he sang with enthusiasm, fleshing out the words and envisaging the need of the crowd for infectious vibrancy to alleviate their heat and work stress. By 2:30 PM he was done. The dreariness came thereafter. It was hot and sleepy. Worse of all the passers-by tend to be few and far between. This is when he would take a nap, read the papers or a novel, and/or listen to his pocket-radio.
It would not be until 5:00 PM that he took up position again belting out ballads, pop, rock and roll, and country music. He strained himself for both the evening strolls of working adults returning home and those going to a concert. People were generous what with this bloke still working while they had broken free for the day. Tough luck, mate. You’ve been a-working here all this while haven’t you? By the time he had had his dinner at Marine Parade hawker centre and showered up, it was 9:30 PM. He would then just settle in for some CD music in the soundproof music room of his own 3-room HDB flat.
*
Stemming from his moments of idleness in the afternoon, Clinton had cooked up Phase 2 and brought along his cassette recorder and master tapes. He initiated a new time-slot from 3:00 PM to 4:00 PM whereupon, as an added routine to his set-up, he would jack the concealed recorder to his speaker set, clip the dainty microphone onto his guitar, and tape but not plug the microphone wire into speaker. The contraption was put into action while he went through the motion of mouthing or half-singing and half-strumming his guitar. The ruse worked well; his takings improved marginally.
The discovery came though, hard and furious, on one crowded Saturday afternoon. A familiar voice had called out his name. He looked up and saw Joan. She was alone and all dressed up in a pretty black dress complemented by a pair of black shoes with stiletto heels, a small purse in her right hand and radiant make-up on her face, strutting on her way to the Esplanade before she came to a halt.
“Clinton, what in the world are you doing?!” Joan demanded as she came right in front of him.
“Making a living,” whined Clinton after he had switched off the recorder quickly.
Joan shook her head, clucked away by drawing in breadth through the narrow opening of her mouth in unpretentious disbelief. She said, “Times must be bad, huh? I didn’t know. Sorry.”
At least she understood. So Clinton let off a sigh of relief. But it was short lived when she continued, “BUT that doesn’t give you the right to cheat!! How could you?! Don’t you have any conscience? What would Pa and Ma have said if they were still alive, to see that their only son could be so despicable? If you want to sing, sing for real lah. But, don’t bluff your way through, PLEEEASE. ”
Clinton knew that such tongue-lashing from Joan would not be unleashed unless the situation warranted it. He could still recall vividly how she had taken it upon herself once before to give him a proper dressing down, without telling their parents, when he had, at the age of ten, stolen into a neighbour’s house while they were away for vacation. She had found out through his accomplice’s elder sister. It was a day that had become infused into the genetic code of his character; he will never trespass other people’s property again. And, that resolve had stood the test of time.
As Joan maintained her seething glare at him, Clinton turned his pounding head sideway and looked away hoping for a panadol or some other quick fix. For now he had to survive, without assistance. He steeled himself for more. She came with a left jab below the belt: “And, why must you wear those sun-glasses? What are you trying to hide from -- the sun inside of this tunnel? Can’t you just take off your mask and to thy own self be true? The world will love you the more for it. If you can’t even stand up for who you really are or what you are about, then don’t expect people to listen in.”
The torrent of her anger swept passed him and abated as quickly as it had come when she swished round in a huff and headed for the Big Durian. Life had to go on; there is so much living to be had. On Clinton’s part, he sat on to handpick all the pollutants swept up to dry on his side of the riverbank. That day he saw how far he had descended from his cherished stature of a nobleman (befitting a respectable civilian in modern society) to that of a street urchin. Worse still, he felt dirty inside.
It was, like what his maths teacher used to say when teaching differentiation; a turning point. A turning point in life. From then on, Clinton forsook his con routine, regained his mission, and sang his heart out each and everyday that he turned up for work without putting on or having to put on his sunglasses. Many a times he felt at one with his guitar and vocal gymnastics.
His hard and honest work paid off when he was spotted by the lounge manager of a hotel. Today, he sings in a circuit of nightspots and hotel lounges on contract basis. Life is getting better. His thoughts are happy thoughts -- a luxury that he could ill afford after being laid off. He willed to spend some time this evening and plan a treat for Gopal and his dearest Joan. There is just one more thing to note about Clinton; he introduces himself as “Newton” nowadays.