Being the naturally friendly fellow that he is, this man chats up whoever is sitted beside or near him, me included. In about three years of sitting with him in the van, he's told me many stories about himself and his family -- like the sickness and subsequent death of a brother, his daughter's university education in Australia, her graduation, her moving back to Singapore to look for work and her plans now to go back to Australia.
He's also told me about his political views, his comments on the day's burning issues and his struggle with the new programme installed at the office that was supposed to make his work easier but which only succeeded in making his blood boil during the early weeks. (I think I can safely say that he's over the hump now where this change is concerned because he has stopped trying to think up nasty meanings of the programme's acronyms. He used to say that NICA, the new programme, stands for Now I Can't Access.)
He's apprised me about his health woes and the medical expenses that he has to contend with, as well as his unhappiness over the early morning noises in his block that rouse him from his precious sleep. And who can forget the ghosts he saw while doing his NS in what is now Sentosa, and how his dad used to bring him to the area where I now live to visit a good doctor who has since passed away.
Yes, I now know so much more about this guy than I do any of my own uncles. Funny huh?
He narrates stories the way my dad does: in a winding, nostalgic way. I guess that's how it is when one is getting on in years.
There's a thing that worries me about my transpo-mate though.
He can tell me a story today with all earnestness and re-tell it again the next night without remembering that he had already told me the exact story less than 24 hours ago. When this happened the first time, I brought it up to him and told him, 'Hmm, didn't you tell me this last night?'
He said, 'Really?' and then kept quiet the rest of the way. I must have embarrassed him, I don't know, but since then, I've never had the heart to try and stop him from re-telling his stories again and again.
An example:
Transpo-mate: Did you know that the daughter of the sherpa (Tenzing Norgay) of the first man to climb Mt Everest, Sir Edmund Hillary, married a Filipino? The daughter married Noli Galang, who used to be with this company.'
Me: Oh. (Oh no, here we go again. I've heard this 4 gazillion times! How do I stop him without embarassing him?)
TM: Yes. They met in England. Noli was one of the best guys I ever worked with, you know. He was very good at his job. It's a pity he has passed away.'
Me: Oh. (Help! How do I stop this? If I tell him the truth that this is my 4 gazillionth-and-one time to hear this, will he start to question his sanity? Help!)
TM: I kept in touch with him when he went home to the Philippines for good, you know. Those were the old days. Did you know Noli?
Me: I didn't know of him until 3 years ago, when you first told me this story. (Ooops, that just came out, honest! Shit, shit, shit! Why can't he remember?)
TM (pointing to area near my house): There used to be a doctor here who was very good. My father used to take me to see him. You won't get that kind of doctor nowadays.
Me: Oh. (Sigh.)
Repeat the dialogue exactly the next night and feel my pain.
But really, I just hope nothing's seriously the matter with him, health-wise. Altogether, he's a really nice, friendly chap.
Anyway, this past week hasn't been to bad for me. He's just come back from a vacation with the family to Switzerland, Germany and France. And boy, does he have travel stories to tell! He's been telling me about Switzerland so far, about how beautiful it is there.
I'm hopeful that with his Germany and France exploits untold to me so far, it will be a long time yet before I have to sit through another retelling of who married what where.
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