October Diary
Blok M diary, October 2004
It’s difficult to say anything new about Top Gun, because one of its eccentric charms is that, rather like the Club, since its overhaul a year or so ago it simply hasn’t changed. It’s reported that the place is under new ownership, but no-one seems to know who they are and there’s no sign of any intention by them to stamp their personality on the place by changing everything round - for which small mercy the regulars are very happy.
One minor improvement is that they’ve finally tamed the rogue staff who were turning the music volume up so high, and it’s now possible to enjoy a conversation in the old place without requiring a megaphone or having to resort to sign language.
The big let-down is the floor carpet. How the bar owners ever got it into their tiny minds that the punters want carpeting on their bar floors defies comprehension. The stuff is beginning to fray at the badly-stuck joins, so the management puts duct-tape over the splits, making it look even more cheap and tacky. After a few months of hard ware the pile has pretty well worn down, and the surface looks like a very skillfully made camouflage cloth - patches of beer stains, cigarette burns, spilt food, impacted chewing gum, all contribute to the mottled patina.
The pool table is suffering from benign neglect. The cloth hasn’t aged very well - again, it was done on the cheap. The balls still lock up somewhere in the viscera of the underside of the table, and the pool sticks are the same ancient remains as they were seven or more years ago. Indeed, one of the sticks holds a particular place in the Reveller’s affection, as it’s the very same one he learnt to play pool with all that time ago.
The big disappointment for the Reveller and other longstanding patrons is the gradual but sure decline of the catering side of the business. Famous in its heyday for its fish and chips, its steaks and its excellent mie goreng, nowadays it can barely rustle up a decent burger or a bog standard bit of chicken.
The girls are old faithfuls. Indeed, many of them - like the ancient pool stick - were around when the Reveller first hit the place. They’ve weathered well, most of them, and in the dim light can still make guys’ heads turn if they’ve had a few beers. Ever the haunt and happy hunting ground of Indramayu girls, the place has a timeless charm. The sad thing is that between nine thirty and ten the Sweet Older Things all troop off to My Bar, as there’s no longer any late night action in Top Gun. By eleven, the place is sad and a bit forlorn; by twelve, the shutters have come down. This in a place that used to be open well into the early hours of the morning until a few years back.
But the Reveller still has a soft spot for Top Gun, and every evening when he’s down the Blok it’s his first port of call for a game of pool, a chat, and a couple of bottles of ale. It’s his homage for all the good times he’s had in there over the years.
One thing the Blok M regulars do agree upon is that the Pelatehan security guys are in general a great bunch of chaps, unfailingly cheerful and courteous. It’s all the more strange, therefore, to hear a report of rogue behaviour from one of them.
An acquaintance of the Reveller is driving down Pelatehan looking for a parking space when his wheel goes into one of the pools of water left over from the afternoon rainstorm. A couple who are walking down the middle of the street not unnaturally get splashed, and are very unhappy about it. So the driver stops and gets out, and apologizes for the splashing. Ungraciously, the guy doesn’t accept it, and rants on about him driving too fast and not being careful. Now driving fast down that street is damn nigh impossible at the best of times, and it’s pointed out to the guy that walking down the middle of a waterlogged street is not the wisest thing to do.
At this moment, one of the security guards posted outside Everest strides up and intervenes, saying that the Reveller’s friend was definitely going too fast. When politely asked to mind his own business he turns aggressive and shouts out that he’s a policeman. "Not in that uniform, you’re not", is the retort. As the guard walks away he calls the Reveller’s friend "a piece of shit".
Now an unsavoury event like this can quite spoil a night out before it’s even started. Regardless of the rights and wrongs of the situation, a security guard has no business whatsoever to stick his nose in - and publicly insulting a Blok M patron is completely out of order. And anyone daft enough to walk down the middle of a puddled street has only themself to blame if they get splashed.
Flings aren’t what they used to be
Driven more by curiosity than by expectation, the Reveller drops into Blok M on the evening of the Tuesday before the four-day closure for the Id Ul-fitri. He’s put off his stride because Top Gun is closed that night - the only bar on the street that’s shut. So weighing up the possibilities, he opts for an early evening in My Bar and has a very pleasant hour of quiet reflection accompanied by his regular sop buntut and a few ice-cold beers.
The staff are as charming and friendly as ever, and as he’s finishing his second bottle of the evening in walks his good friend Captain Birdseye. Like connoisseurs mulling over a bottle of vintage wine, they speculate on what the evening will bring. It’s agreed that the Friday and Saturday nights will be very hard acts to follow, but also that Blok M is always full of surprises and defies any attempt to predict the direction it’ll go in.
Well, things are certainly slow starting, and even the Jurassics come in later than usual. There’s a jaded casualness about them, and rather surprisingly most of them don’t even make a cursory show of interest in the guys sitting at the bar. Half ten, and the place is still like a bus stop on a rainy day. Then, as eleven creeps up, the trickle gets faster until there’s quite an incoming flow. But it’s very much the B Team of Blok M, the pioneer core of the Sweet Young Things.
Taking solace in drink, the Reveller and the Captain soon lose interest in the lethargic fauna. As midnight approaches, a semblance of life and vivacity is stirred up somehow, and there’s a rather artificial liveliness generated by the band, who are playing their hearts out, and a few of the stalwarts who start dancing and trying to cheer the punters on. But it all falls rather flat, and hasn’t got that sparkle of vitality that makes for a great night’s revelling.
Paradoxically, some of the younger girls do eventually arrive - but it’s too little, too late. Quite a few guys leave empty-handed, and some express a bit of disappointment as they’d expected that the girls who haven’t left Jakarta for their home towns and kampongs would be eager for a last fling and a chance to pick up some much-needed cash for the Id. All in all, a non-event for most of the guys - and the girls, who just don’t seem to give a damn.
Now whatever other talents the Blok M Sweet Young Things may posses, they are all consummate actresses. One evening the Reveller, who’s flat broke after paying his Internet connection bill, has to turn down a heartrending request for drinks from a couple of his favourite Sweet Young Things. "Sayang, we want Long Island Tea", they plead, toning this down to "Please darling, gintonic!" when they get turned down flat. "No drinks tonight!" firmly but sadly replies the Reveller. Lips curl, brows furrow, eyes dilate and crocodile tears are all set to flow. They stiffly turn their backs, and stalk off in high dudgeon.
The next time he’s in the bar, the girls come in and walk straight past the Reveller - not so much as a hello, not even a smile, no welcome whatsoever. He’s an outcast, a pariah, a nonentity. Instead they exude simmering arrogance, positively radiate haughty disdain as they deliberately walk right in front of the gutted Reveller. "I’m being aggressively ignored!" he melodramatically gasps to Captain Birdseye, who’s creasing himself with suppressed laughter as this little tragedy unfolds before his eyes.
Coming out of the ladies in all their finery they walk straight past the Reveller in the other direction, noses high and eyes fixed in front of them. They even manage to work in a petulant little stamp as they swish past him and very pointedly take up positions at the far end of the bar. Carefully keeping themselves in full view of the Reveller they exaggeratedly flirt with whatever guys are nearest to them, keeping their backs turned to him.
This hilarious charade goes on for ten minutes or so, until they get tired of that little game. One of them finally gets offered a drink by a guy, and by Jove it looks like a Long Island Tea. Clutching her glass she saunters triumphantly across the disco floor - right in front of the Reveller - parading it like some hard-won trophy. Doing his best not to crack out laughing, the Reveller enters into the spirit of the occasion by raising his own glass to her. This provokes a loud sniff and further raising of her nose.
A little later, when the bar is filling up nicely and the Captain and the Reveller are well into their umpteenth bottles of beer, a couple of the Sweet Young Things’ rivals slip alongside. The Reveller greets them effusively and buys them each a drink - first making damn’ sure that the two little minxes down the bar can see clearly what’s happening. Aha, one of them has noticed - just a flash, but she’s hooked.
Suddenly, she casts a carefully angled sidelong glance at the Reveller, which ends in a sour little pout. "Hello hello, we’re back on line!" he chortles to the Captain. The other Sweet Young thing also suddenly spots the Reveller, and she manages the faintest of faint smiles, the slightest of slight inclinations of her head. "Stand by for action!" remarks the Reveller to the Captain as the girls move towards them with exaggerated casualness.
Leaning on the disco bar top with a dramatic flourish worthy of Marlene Dietrich, they fix the Reveller with a mournful eye, release a suppressed sigh, and slowly - like the sun emerging from behind a lowering cloud - the frown turns to a smile, the sigh turns to a cute little gasp of surprise. Pausing only to throw a smug glance of possession at the two girls who’ve just been bought drinks, they’re suddenly swooning all over the Reveller as though he were some long-lost friend. "It’s a pity the Oscar nominations aren’t on at the moment", he chuckles to the Captain.
As he joins in the game, the Reveller reflects that this little episode has quite made the evening for him. Yes, the Sweet Young Things are a source of never-ending delight, so quintessentially feminine and so transparent in their little ploys. The Reveller is happy to report that the girls do get their drinks that night, and that he’s now got Most Favoured Guy status again. Until, that is, the next time he doesn’t buy them a drink…
Epilogue
October has been a goodie, enjoyed by all and sundry down the Blok. As the month passes the guys turn eagerly to the next highlight of the social calendar - Sisters Week, which will soon be upon us. Will it be a classic, or will it be a damp squib? Only time can tell. Capricious as ever, Fate may yet bowl a googly to that eager band of brothers, the Blok M regulars. Watch this space!