A short memoir of former slaves

FEB 20 ― Once in a while, I’ll catch up with a few friends who, like me at one time, worked for VVVVVVVVVIPs.

When we worked for these people in power, we survived on little sleep and whatever that was left of our sanity. We barely lasted a year; it was never the work, it was dealing with the personalities. But I suppose that’s how powerful people become who they are. You’d have to have a streak of madness in you to get to that position.

I still remember the day, after months of late nights and worrying over everything, a friend offered me Xanax to calm me down. I took it, and spent the whole weekend dazed. Boy, did I fly! I don’t think I ate, showered, prayed, anything! I remember sleeping a lot!

What was a blissful weekend came to end when my father came to visit me, and saw me half stoned from the anti-depressant. I think he whupped me with his bread (my father loves bread... everywhere he goes, he has bread with him) and told me to quit my job. I developed an ovarian cyst soon after that, and resigned.

But my experience is very mild compared to my other friends’. Oh, I am nothing but a speck in the universe.

You must have heard of the Chinese man who goes on all the official visits abroad and pays for everything, right? He does exist. He pays for everything, including all those handbags.

This time around, he didn’t come.

I have this friend who is now a corporate man. Once upon a time, he worked for a minister. He travelled the world with this man. He’s seen it and been there and done that, lost his hair, and a few more things along the way.

He’s dealt with the bodyguards charged with detouring Puan Sri so she would not catch the husband in the act with hookers and mistresses. He’s had to deal with his boss’s constant change of ideas, et al.

The boss travelled a lot overseas as part of trade missions. There’s a lot of shopping involved for everyone in the mission: There were bags to buy for the wives, girlfriends, mothers, brothers. And for the VVVVVVVVVIP’s wife, all shopping would be settled by the famed Chinese man.

As you know, in Europe and the US, there are many designer outlet stores, and that was what my friend was looking for. He wanted to buy a Coach handbag for her at a Coach outlet, and maybe drop by the Nike outlet.

One day, Puan Sri wanted to go shopping, and shopped she did. Chanel? Done. Prada? Done. She shopped and shopped and shopped. And guess what? The Chinese man was not around to pay for her handbags.

Now you don’t go and tell the cashier, I can’t pay for these handbags. And most women ― especially big-haired Puan Sris ― will kill if their handbags have to be returned.

Someone’s got to pay. For all the handbags.

The staff whipped out their credit cards and wallets. The bodyguards. The PA. And my friend, too.

“Babi betul, Dina. I came home and got into trouble with my wife because I didn’t get her a Coach bag. All I wanted was to buy her that from an outlet store and see la what happened!”

Shortly after that, my friend resigned. Now he is at peace. He still has less hair, though.

Another friend of mine, after working so hard and seeing so little in his savings, decided he wanted to become a mistress. You read that right: HE wanted to be a mistress.

“Screw morals. I have to think of my pension plan.”

A very married VVVVVVVVVIP who was a proxy of a VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVIPPPPPP took a liking to him (they had met at a few... serious events), and they made plans for a tryst in one of the many penthouses in the city.

Our friend was all fluffed up and ready. He sat in the plush sofa, waiting for his man to come out from the room.

The door opened.

“Is that you, my dear?” His man quavered.

My friend smiled, looked up to flutter his lashes and gaped.

Tan Sri pakai sari.

He quit the scene, and left his saree’d and bejewelled would-be lover. As he told us (who were trying very hard not to squeal with laughter), “In this relationship, there is only room for one woman. And that is ME!”

“Ooo,” we squeaked.

Needless to say, his days as a would-be mistress are over. He’ll just have to slog like everyone and die penniless, and he’d be in good company because many Malaysians are struggling too.

Many people think working for big names is glamorous. If only they knew!

* This is the personal opinion of the columnist