The Twelfth

I take a drag on my cigarette and look out into the rain. I’m searching through the downpour for the metal beast of Singapore; common and friendly. Under this shelter that protects your head but not your ankles, cigarette in my mouth, I wait for this metal beast. With its cold breath, and turning legs it’s my transport to its father. The bigger stronger metal beast that is stuck to the lines, forever going in circles. I wait patiently, along with the others. There’s a young Chinese couple, an Indian guy and an older Chinese gentleman. I’m the only white face in this part of this foreign land. We’re all dressed for the tropical heat, and the coolness the rain brings with it is welcomed. I finish the last drag of my cigarette and take the two steps to the rubbish bin and back quickly, yet still managing to get soaked in gods piss, raining down from the heavens. The Indian guy has got impatient and called on one of the metal beast’s baby cousins. They float by regularly, their eye green or red depending on if they’re hungry. He’s too eager this Indian fellow, for before he can swim from the shelter and into the back of baby cousin the great white metal beast rolls up behind. The little guy takes off in a hurry, as if big cousin is going to get angry. Then big cousin pulls up to the curb, opening his three mouths he spills forth a gaggle of Chinese school children chattering away as we that were left step into his cool belly.

I push my wallet past one of his inside eyes, and hear his beep of thanks. He’s taken a dollar, a small token to pay for a ride out of the rain and in his cool continuous breath. We aren’t the only ones in the belly of the beast. Most of the seats, his ribs perhaps, are taken. So I stand in his tail joint, his tail is the same size and shape as his body. It’s as if they have taken the head off one and connected it to the arse of this one. And with ribs of its own, packed with people. I’m standing opposite a girl, Indian and pretty, if not for her skin. Pocked and marked by acne, she still has the light inside that makes her pretty to those not so plastic. Flashing me a shy smile she looks away and starts studying the pattern of the rain on the beast’s clear skin. I do the same. The beast lumbers on through the rain, turning every so often. The joint rotating, bringing me closer to the girl, then away again as the corner is completed. I study the others in the belly. Just a short journey, everyone with the same intentions, on their way to different destinations. The beast stops occasionally, to allow more people in and more people out, until it makes a final stop on this circular journey. Outside another of the shelters braves the rain, waiting for the inevitable vomiting of the beasts that stop. And this one does, everyone leaving their rib-seats and making their way to one of the beasts mouths. Sicking up people onto the footpath outside, the rain making rivers that run through the feet of the shelter and then join in the gutter; perhaps running off to join the clouds once more. I step out and lose myself in the people. Still the only pale face in a sea of Asiatic influences. The last time I ride one of those great metal beasts today I stride of in search of his father.