The Sham Diaries

Tuesday, April 9^th

The damn whore is trying to kill me.

Its been a mere 3 years, 6 months and 27 days since the courts declared our divorce final, despite my most valiant efforts. Diana’s invitation to her wedding this coming June arrived in the mail, accompanied with no official apology, just the tawdry gold-papered invite with a second piece attached requesting an RSVP within the fortnight.

Fuming with rage and with nowhere to go, I picked up the phone and hit one of the speed-dial buttons at random-prepared even for a stranger, to vent all this internal chaos from Diana’s betrayal-now made formal, her complete disregard from my emotional wellbeing perfectly captured by her wish to leave all our good times behind, however sporadic they were. In favor of a future with some dude she probably met at a Recent Singles or Desperate Divorcees party, no doubt encouraged by her two partners in evil: Aisha and Vina, two of my life’s most passionate disbelievers and most definitely Satan’s true daughters.

All these angry thoughts began to rise, as I reached for something to smash-when Mom answered the phone, “Sham, that must be you”-her voice torn and raspy from years of nagging and smoking (often simultaneously), for a while she allowed room for my outrage, which lasted a good 12 minutes, after which she asked “Are you done now? Mr. Ringa, that handsome Swedish expat next door, is coming for a visit and I’ve got to get myself clean and ready soon.”

Mom has never been a fan of self-pity, rarely indulging in needy behavior-although this time she did spare a couple minutes to wallow with me, agreeing that it was a bit crass of Diana to not at least call and ask if I was OK with her remarrying. We then set a date for lunch next week, after which I was to bring her to shop for some “tasteful but alluring lingerie”, as according to her sexual depravation in the post-menopause period could well drive one to old-age hysteria, and she wasn’t prepared to “let her only son spend his final active years caring for his cuckoo mother”.

I’m a few months away before turning 40, and yet I feel so old. Even finishing a single candy bar seems tiresome, although I make a mental note to try one next week and see if my teeth rot.

As I was about to retire for the night, my buddy Kira came barging in with an obnoxious bouquet of flowers and a couple Bruce Willis DVDs. We spend two hours waxing grief, our ambitions far from realized-until I had to shoo her out because the sofabed could only accommodate one full-grown adult.

Thursday 11^th April

Today at work I wrote a couple obituaries, my boss Mr. Tim Lim came by saying not to be too verbose with them-as although grief was a complex thing, our readers were looking for a simple write-up and anything “superfluous and corny” should be reserved for page our Humour & Entertainment section, a subtle invite to extend my thoroughly abused, working hand there.

I used to be an aspiring novelist in the crime fiction genre, until countless rejections rendered that ambition pointless-and since then I’ve juggled a couple odd jobs, before settling into the role as sub-editor of the nationally-distributed paper “Voice”, a task which includes writing daily horoscope, obituaries, TV commentary and a few other menial things that makes my job sound more reductive than it already is.

I’ve considered a radical job change, dreamt of slamming the door on Mr. Tim Lim’s hedious, square-jawed face and yelling “Adios, motherfuckers!” as I leave the office stocked with pride, colleagues applauding loudly for my everyman heroism. Alas, my current state forbids this-I am in the midst of a towering financial crisis, with debts in excess of RM 20,000 at last count. Investments turned sour, mortgage and contractual commitments,paying off college scholarship: my first step was to fire my banker, Firdaus, who I heard was later diagnosed bipolar and eloped to Europe where he became a famous theatre performer.

I emailed Affendy, who owns a wildly successful online auction house-to ask if anything I currently own was worth selling, if even maybe those nude photos I have of Diane or the pile of unpublished manuscripts I currently use as a makeshift desk would be worth anything.

I finish the day’s work, all due for publication in the early AM tomorrow-and rush home to find an oddly-dressed couple at my door. They introduce themselves as the Jasons, overtly cheerful newlyweds who have just moved into the floor-before departing they offer me a basket wrapped with thick red ribbons, “Dog food, as judging from that immaculate smell from your apartment-we figured you own possibly a half dozen of them cute canines”.

I scramble into the house to find a letter from my teen daughter Kamilia, “I heard, I’m sorry-I’ll be your date for the wedding if you want to Pa”, in the envelope was a pamphlet for the local gym, who were having a mid-year promotion. I didn’t even consider attending the wedding-the details I’d have to account for-with this bulging gut, no money for a suit or a date to bring-the long-term future seems bleak at best, Diana’s wedding an unavoidable light at the end of a long, winding tunnel.

Friday 12^th April

Affendy says the sofabed and TV might sell for a few, but the books I have-collectible hardcovers, precious first editions, issues no longer in distribution-may earn me a few hundred. I spent years scavenging the lost and found, second-hand markets and seedy auctions to finally build this small compilation, I’d rather go broke and homeless than live without them. To this Affendy replied, “Then I can’t help you, but call me once you’re desperate”.

He knows I am not too resilient, the hard and springy sofabed’s been giving me serious pain in the lower-back area. At times, its so bad that I walk around the apartment with the umbrella as a walking stick, breathing heavily like a horse in heat. And once I fell and only came to consciousness two days later. A doctor’s fee would be strenuous,the over-the-counter painkillers I have would suffice for now.

Saturday 13^th April

I drop by the local gym, about to enquire on their mid-year promotion when a helper informs me of the special deal for “Golden Citizens”, which limits payment to an easy RM 18 per month, although I am prohibited from using certain heavy equipment, attending any of the more laborious group classes, and a special three-page contract bans me from going fully nude in the locker room.

I almost kill myself at the treadmill, confused by all the beeping buttons on it, before one of the gym helpers come to rescue me. When I got home, I took out a few bin bags and took to throwing out all the junk food, cigarettes and clear my fridge of fizzy drinks and microwave dinners. I promise abstinence from this unhealthy lifestyle, as the mission for a brilliant makeover begins.

Sometime in the afternoon I take a leisurely walk to the nearby post office, to deposit my RSVP to Diana’s treacherous wedding.

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