In Continuum.

Lonely Mr. Thodey



Eddie Scrap-Iron Dupris," Frankie likes to say that boxing is an unnatural act, that everything in boxing is backwards: sometimes the best way to deliver a punch is to step back... But step back too far and you ain't fighting at all."

--- Million Dollar Baby (2004)

I contemplated if I should visit the town park first, or do it after I meet up with Ahmad later in the afternoon. But because it started to rain the moment I stepped into the park, I turned back towards the train station and decided to take the trip down earlier, despite knowing that Ahmad would be late for half an hour or so.

Biting on my lips I waited for the train to come, with the yellow walls of the underground station it almost made me feel too exposed somehow. But none of the passengers waiting for the train noticed me, or perhaps even themselves as the man next to me pondered over the sports section of the newspaper while another picked his nose in the corner of the platform. All those activities, including my lip-biting, was seized when the train pulled into the station and we moved gradually towards the sliding doors to get in. And seconds before they opened, I saw a familiar Caucasian face inside the train, leaning against the metal pole with his eyes closed. And then inside my head, a bell rang with no name at all. I recognized the face, I recognized the face. But his name wasn't coming. Shit.

I rushed down the platform to the doors on the other end of the carriage, just so that he wouldn't notice me. Not because I didn't want to talk to him, it's just that it'd be rather weird to approach a person you know without knowing his name at all. So there I was on the other end of the carriage, watching him standing there with his eyes still closed and looking older than I remembered. He was still in one of those checkered button down shirts, and his curly blond hair twisted into one another into a sort of human bird nest on top of his head. Even at that point, his name was a mystery to me, a lost memory of some kind. I remember writing his name on a piece of note I passed to Krishna halfway through a class a couple of years ago. I remember drawing a toad, because that was his nickname back then as much as I hate to admit it. His name sounds like 'Toad', was it 'Toady'? 'Tody'? Or 'Therdy'? Mister Christopher Thody, got it.

The moment he sat down in an empty sat, I joined him at his side. He stared at me with his giant nostrils expanded for a few seconds, and recognized me straight away despite not knowing my name at all. I was the president of his club for two full years, and yet he got my name. I guess there is a certain difficulty for Caucasians to remember Chinese names, and I told him that it was OK. He still smelled of the same old cologne he used, and perhaps somewhere in there was the smell of the old drama room too. He aged just a little bit, with the scars of time carved deep into the ends of his eyes and the area around his lips. His skin sagged a little bit, making him even sadder than he already is. To tell you the truth, Mr. Thody my drama teacher is probably the saddest Caucasian that I know of in Singapore.

The smell of the drama room I can still remember. With the dust covered props in the shelves and the dirty old wardrobes hanging from hangers, this is his refuge and office. I'm not sure if he has a proper table in the staff room, but he is here in the corner of the school most of the time, marking papers in the dark and editing scripts, all the while listening to oldies on the radio and playing operas. The room was never bright enough even with the blinds drawn up and the lights turned on. And because the room is in the corner of the school, not a lot of people visited that part very often. And thus, this is where Mr. Thodey finds his serenity everyday from the kids of the secondary school whom he referred to as the "Anti-Christs".

We were kids back then, too stupid to take up any responsibilities, or have the brains to grow a guilty conscience. The truth is, that it is a great feat to be a teacher indeed. And to be a teacher in a high school is probably the greatest feat of all. I am probably my own reason why I never wanted to be a teacher, because of the kind of kids I would be teaching in the future, if I ever conjure up a thought to be one that is. Which is why - in a way - I admired Mr. Thodey's dedication to the job despite constantly whining and complaining about it in the past. I remember it was a weekend, a couple of weeks before a performance. And there he was alone in the drama room, painting a Greek pillar yellow all by himself while dressed in a loose white top, stained all over. I helped him after that of course, but he was the kind of worker who complained but never gave up, whined but never gave in - kinda like me.

Sitting next to him was rather strange, because I remember not liking him too much in the high school days. He was strict in a way, and stubborn. And as boys, we never really liked that part of him, but what choice did we have? He asked me how I have been, and I told him I am doing fine with life. He is still there in the same school, and 'stuck' was the word I chose to describe his situation which he agreed. It's been almost ten years, in fact even a little more than that he said, and the funny thing is he never saw the boys he taught, grow up. We talked about our lives and our future. I told him about my passion for writing, and he encouraged me on it and told me that he never saw me with that interest at all. "Well, like you, I changed."

As the president, I spent a lot of time with him in the room, sometimes willingly while others not really. But I do remember the way books were piled up so high on his desk that he'd be hidden from the view of anybody at the front door. There is a picture of a woman and two children in the photograph on his table, and judging from the ring on his finger, that must have been his wife and his children. But coming to Singapore all the way from New Zealand, I wonder why he did that for. He never talked about his family or life, always about the next play and the next rehearsal. He avoided the topic about his own personal life, and was also hesitant to talk about it on the train yesterday. I was afraid to ask him about it, afraid that perhaps the truth behind his story might be too difficult to handle for me, or too sad. Or, maybe he got into a rage and divorced his wife, who knows? He kept his thin lips shut throughout the years, and it is certainly not up to a couple of kids to dig his past out of him.

Speaking of retirement, we talked about if there is any chance that he would return to New Zealand. "Maybe, we'll see" he said, and I asked no more. The irony is that as much as he was encouraging me to take chances, to grasp opportunities, he himself was stuck to his day to day job in that dreadful school. He told me that it comes with old age, this contention of life. On one hand you tell yourself that you want to do something before it is too late, while on the other you tell yourself that yes, it is ALREADY too late. So you are left in the same job and the same life, breathing the same air and eating the same food. To tell you the truth, I never want to grow old to be somebody like him, always being alone even amongst his colleagues and students. Perhaps it is just the sagging of the skin above his eyes that is making me feel sad for the old man, but deep inside I think he is in fact, a very depressed person too.

I asked him to take care as we fared each other well at Orchard. And at the mentioning of the words 'Take care', I almost saw him rolling his eyes at me. Perhaps these words have become too generic for him, and he has grown too numb. I should have asked for his phone number, or left mine with him or something. I thought about it before I went to sleep last night, and thought better of it. He has his issues, and probably kept to himself for a reason. Singapore has been a prison for him, and I wonder why he can't just buy a ticket and leave this accursed place. Perhaps someday Mr. Thodey, and I wish you well.