White Poster Pt. 1: White Poster

White Poster

Boys dashed across the streets. Their toes screeched across the newly tarred roads, as the boys head to Pak Tan's salon. The sun screamed that morning ,grasping their black hair. Grandparents looked from their gates, windows, and roofs to observe the regular commotion. The local girls shook their heads, as the boys whipped past them. Pak Tan's salon was five kilometers down the road, but that never stopped the boys from visiting him--and her.

Pak Tan never listened to their advice when cutting their hair. What you get is what I give you: no questions, no refunds, no nothing. Nevertheless, the elders loved him and his beautiful voice. Apparently, he sounded like David Bowie. Who the hell is David Bowie? Nobody actually knew, but the name just sounded cool.

The sea of traffic drowned the town while the boys carelessly choked the roads. It wasn't a commotion anymore; it was a procession--a procession of Malay boys. The cars honked at them, the policeman scolded them, and the vendors spat in their direction, but they playfully signaled the cars, the policeman, and the vendors to follow them to Pak Tan's salon. Nobody followed the boys. These people, these villagers, they knew what lied in Pak Tan's salon, but they never stopped to warn the boys. It’s an escape, but they will learn someday. In a few hundred meters, she would be there waiting for us. The surrounding air became thinner, and the boys struggled to breathe.

The road took a sudden end, and everybody stopped, gasping for whatever was left in the world. Pak Tan's salon laid just in front of their burnt feet. To their surprise, Pak Tan was nowhere to be seen. He usually sat in front of his salon, smoking a cohiba cigar. The smell of its smoke paralyzed everybody, and its gripping taste… but the cigar was nowhere to be found. The boys looked around for him until they reached the backdoor of the salon--their favorite part of the salon. It was covered with posters of beautiful white actresses.

The boys loved to fantasize and created stories where they had relationships with each girl; it was becoming a tradition to see who had the best time with each. Hazli pictured him and Scarlett Johansson riding in one of those old mustang convertibles across the Great Plains or on Route 66 with Led Zeppelin echoing throughout the desert. They made sure to recite their stories in English--their broken English. It brought them closer to the photos then they could ever hope for.

The stories agitated the local girls and ticked off most of their parents. They were annoyingly repetitive, but they got better every time they mentioned the name Jennifer Lawrence, or Jennifer Anniston, or Emma Watson.

Halim’s stories, however, were never repetitive; they were original and credible to the point that you can almost feel like you’re living the dream. Over the bright white sand of Miami beach, Halim and Jessica Alba would be sipping an expensive cocktail watching the tides roll back and forth endlessly.

I personally loved the poster of Emma Watson. There was just something about her that always left me speechless. The other boys loved her too, but none of them as much as me. I had the best stories about Emma Watson, I watched her movies, and I saw her on a newspaper. She was mine and nobody else’s. Until today, her beauty is a mystery and my curse.

But today was a new day for a different story--a different girl. Covering the center of the salon's back wall was the angel herself--Margot Robbie. The name rung a bell, and I glanced over it while talking with a vendor. The other boys didn’t care about her name but were only mesmerized by her beauty. Yet, something about her picture made me feel uneasy.

Her eyes carried a green void while her hair… so thin and sharp, it could just cut our skin with a slight whiff. She was special, but she was not mine. She answered to no one that day, not even Halim.