Unexpectantly
Mark detested himself - for being so brainless at times, for the lack of ideas within his head when there was meant to be enough time to think. Our man reassured himself that he was not totally in blame. Song writing is a passion for him. The enjoyment of the gust and agony within the lyrics of songs by hard-rockers had served as a form of inspiration. He felt empathy, similarity to how the rockers feel about life. Mark's collection of self-composed songs have hints of vulgarity every now and then, even though the man knew that he will never get his sensitive fellow Singaporeans to hear them.
A talent left undiscovered. Sighing, Mark resolved in attaining some peace. He broke from his mess of thoughts, closing his notebook- his personal “Thoughts from a cynic - with no reference to Confucius' sayings”. He kept the compact book in his underwear drawer, which is an impossible reach from his nosey younger sister. Mark grabbed his guitar, strummed to some nonsensical tune and sang his personal favourite production. “My Maths teacher, she gave… me detention!” he wined, having nostalgic moments of secondary school life, “I sat on the bench… staring at the girls from basketball….” He went on until his sister shouted `shut up' from the next room. He turned to his clock. Eleven-thirty. “Time to sleep,” he muttered to himself, dropping dead on his bed.
As usual, Mark's friend, Aaron - a man who strongly believes that punctuality is a virtue, was before time. Aaron was waiting under the sign, which showed directions to the different sectors of the campus of Singapore Polytechnic, resembling a mannequin of what latest fashion was. He prefers keeping up to trend.
“Hey, morning, Aaron!” Mark greeted cheerfully.
“You moron,” Aaron muttered. “You made me wait for fifteen minutes. I looked like an idiot standing under this hot, burning sun.”
The duo strolled their way to the school canteen, receiving several stares and glances from the girls, which passed along the way. Both were not totally pleased with all that attention.
“I feel like we've been stalked,” Mark grumbled, adjusting his spectacles, “ I guess that's the consequences of having some Prom King for a best friend,”
“That was in Secondary school!” Aaron insisted.
“Don't be modest,” Mark said, reaching out his hand to pull his friend's green-streaked fringe. “Now I hope those first-year girls are not at the canteen,”
“Oei, don't pull my hair, leh!” Aaron retorted.
After a quick bite of fresh sandwiches from the canteen vendor, the two rushed to their lecture hall. Mark broke into a silly tune along the way. Aaron was rather amused.
“Say, who wrote that song? Pretty cute,” Aaron commented.
“Em… that was written by some eighteen-year-old who is hailed as Singapore's Ronan Keating,”
“Local singer?”
“Yeah,”
“And what's his name?”
“Mark Chan Wei Xiang,” he grinned, pointing to himself.
“Oh! That idiot, ah!” Aaron laughed. He noticed a small notebook amongst the pile of lecture notes, which his friend carried. Without asking, he grabbed it, flipping through its contents. Mark stopped, rather shocked. That was his personal notebook. What would Aaron think about all those radical ideas?
“Those are silly… em… writings,” stammered our man.
Aaron looked up. Closing the book, he smiled.
“Interesting,”
On one Saturday afternoon, Aaron was strumming his electronic guitar in his living room when the doorbell rang. Fetching it, he found himself face to face Mark, with his hair all spiked up with the help of reliable strong hair wax.
“You are late!” yelled Aaron.
“Ten minutes,” Mark tried.
“Yeah, what excuse do you have this time? That you took all that time making yourself look like a human porcupine?”
“Yah, Aaron, but please let me in, I need to use your loo! You want me to flood the entrance of your door?”
While Mark was busy settling his own business in the comforts of the toilet, Aaron searched his desk for his latest issue of 8-days. Whilst browsing, he had found an advertisement placed up by the people from Singapore Youth Organization. They had a Youth Park, allowing undiscovered band groups to perform their music pieces. Aaron felt it was a great opportunity for himself and Mark. After Aaron had discovered the hidden talents within his friend, the duo had worked together to form a band called the Juveniles, spending weekends at each other's houses as they composed numerous songs in the whilst of munching on Sour-cream and Onion flavored Potato Chips.
Mark returned from his trip to the water closet, grabbing the can of potation chips upon the table, then starting to devour them.
“Did you wash your hands?” the hygiene man speaks. Mark mocks a disgusted for his friend's extra-consciousness. Aaron handled over the magazine to Mark, pointing to the advertisement. As Mark read, his thin lips curved to form a broad grin.
“Cool!” Mark exclaimed, “Five months of hard work may pay off right now!”
“Yeah, some talent scout from some record company may be there, in search for new talents,” Aaron helpfully suggested.
“Just shut up now, get me a pen to fill this form,”
Mark lugged his electronic guitar up to the small center stage, settling down on the wooden chair. He turned to his audience - people of his age, some whom he recognized seeing hanging out in his school compounds. When it comes to being known, Mark certainly earned that title - for he was once a notorious school rebel, an Ah Beng who rebel without a cause, the one with the whole mop of golden-tinted hair.
His friend, Aaron, was on the other end of the stage, holding on to a microphone. He felt high, imagining himself as the lead singer of a rock band performing for the great crowds in the National Stadium. Yet in reality, his audience is of less than fifty, unaware of whom he was too. He winked at one of the Chinese girls dressed in a halted top.
The master-of-ceremony announced, “And next we have the duo band, the Juveniles, consisting of Aaron as vocals and Mark, the guitarist.” Mark waved politely, with Aaron being overwhelmed with enthusiasm, blowing kisses at the applauding crowd.
The clapping stopped. Taking in a deep breath, Mark started strumming his composition - “Sorry”, written for his ex-girlfriend. With Aaron's melancholy vocals singing - “If only I treasured those times rather than regretting right now for nothing,” the Juveniles felt the dozens of pairs of eyes were paying full attention. Mark could just sense something good was going to happen. He looked up from his guitar, looking at his friend, who was really enjoying the presence of the crowd.
The next Saturday, Aaron was surfing the Internet on Mark's computer. Mark was flipping through The Straits Times' Life! column.
“Aye, idiot! Stop chatting with those school girls, can or not?” Mark retorted, looking up from the papers.
“Cannot,” the other typed on the keyboard continuously, the eyes glued to the screen.
Mark stood up and pushed his friend away playfully as the other rolled to the other corner of the room in the wheeled cushioned armchair. He went to check on his e-mail account, finding a new message for him.
“Joyce Chan,” Mark read the sender's name with much curiosity.
“Who's that?” Aaron questioned Aaron, who had picked Mark's pillow from his bed, practicing kissing skills on the unfortunate living thing.
Mark read the mail. He was shocked; it showed upon his face. The man left the computer screen and literally drop onto his bed, head first. Aaron was curious on whatever that gave such a reaction on his friends. Perhaps someone had found the Juveniles a future talent, but yet, why the shocking expression?
Mr. Mark Chan,
Your band, the Juveniles, was great! This is Joyce, from Black Star modeling agency. We are currently recruiting fresh-faced models and we see you and your partner, Aaron Lee, as potential cover boys. Do contact me, Joyce, at my Handphone: 97325103 as soon as possible, thank you.
Yours sincerely,
Joyce Chan
Black Box