THE OCEAN IS IN HER EYES, A Short Story, 1st Draft, The Title Selection From My Upcoming Book THE OCEAN IS IN HER EYES And Other Short Stories

     Changi Airport in Singapore is a good sized airport, not as big as O’Hare in Chicago, but it is much larger than the airport in Jakarta.  I don’t remember what terminal I was in, but I had just flown in from Surakarta, Indonesia.  I was sitting in one of the smoking rooms looking out at the hot, humid sky and the green trees beyond all of the planes that were being loaded with luggage; planes that had arrived from all over the world and now the luggage was being unloaded from them, through the large windows, it was the first cigarette I had had since before I boarded my flight for Singapore.  Singapore is more hospitable to smokers than many airports, for the most part it’s impossible to find a place to smoke once you go through the metal detectors and then you have to go to your designated gate to await your flight; but in Singapore there are smoking rooms located throughout the terminals and in them there are faces from all over the world.  Most of the faces I was looking at were Asian but there were European faces too.  When I see an Asian face I can’t tell what country they’re from, sometimes I can because their clothes give them away such as when I see a woman wearing a hijab I know that she is either most likely from Malaysia or Indonesia.  The ones that look more western and affluent are most likely from Japan; it is a much wealthier country than most Asian countries.  It could be a rich man or woman from Thailand or Vietnam or any Asian country; it’s impossible to say; what I do know though is that it is not an average person from a country that is for the most part Muslim.  You don’t see many average or poor people at airports anyways; they don’t have the money to fly somewhere and even if they did they probably have no reason to go and most likely they don’t know anyone in another country; their lives are rooted in the village or town they live in and perhaps they have relatives in other villages and towns but most of them will live their entire lives without ever leaving their country; some will live their entire lives without ever leaving their village or town. 

     I can’t say for sure, I have no idea what the statistics are, but it seems to me that many more Asians smoke than Americans.  Smoking is really frowned on in America, though no one is complaining about all of the money they make from it.  You can buy a pack of cigarettes for $1 American dollar in Indonesia.  Lucky Strike is one of the best brands they carry; they don’t taste or smoke any different than American cigarettes.  Why they cost so much less is beyond me.  It depends on what the exchange rate is at any given time, so if you look at it like that, they aren’t inexpensive; one American dollar is equal to about twelve Indonesia Rupiah.  Exchange rate aside, if they can sell them for one American dollar in Indonesia why can’t they sell them for two or three American dollars in America?  It seems to me someone is making a whole lot of money and as their making all of that hand over fist all the while their customers are looked down on…..it’s true that smoking isn’t good for you, then again neither is shoveling more food than you can possibly eat into your fat face and despite the number of alcoholics no one is trying to put the breweries out of business.  They tried that one back during the prohibition era but it didn’t work out very well.  You can’t stop people from doing what they want to do.  All it did was create a giant amount of cash flow for gangsters and rum runners. 

     There’s never just a person or two in the smoking room.  It’s a good sized room and there are always at least twelve people or more puffing away.  Some of them are by themselves others are in a group of people that work together or whatever.  Now and then one of the Airport security women stops in and has herself a cigarette.  She stands with her back against the window and lifts one of her long legs up and rests the heel of her shoe against the window as she rests her nonsmoking palm on the handle of her pistol.  For an Asian woman, one that is most likely from Singapore, she is uncommonly tall; most are on the shorter side, but she’s close to six feet tall.  She is young, most likely in her twenties, and she has a very pretty face and her skin is a dark brown.  Whenever she stops in and lights one up I find myself looking at her.  It’s not just her beauty that captivates me though; there is an interesting quality to her; she doesn’t look like she would be working as security at an airport, she comes across rather causally as though she doesn’t have a care in the world, unlike the three men you see walking around together in military uniforms, each one of them holding a machine gun in their arms.  Their faces are without expression; the message they are sending couldn’t be more clear; if anyone gets out of line or even thinks of getting out of line you can count on three guys clad in military uniforms and combat boots showing up with their machine guns.  She doesn’t look anything like them; she doesn’t have a military uniform on or combat boots; she looks more like a police officer, she looks more like a woman that you see handing out meals and beverages on a plane; they tend to be on the beautiful side.  Now and then you might come across a stewardess that isn’t a beauty but it doesn’t happen to often unless they are older and past their prime, even then there are traces of lingering beauty of what they were when they were younger.

     When she was done smoking she walked over and snubbed her cigarette out in a tall silver metallic ashtray that stand about three feet high and then she glanced over at me and smiled.  I smiled back and then she opened the door with her long brown fingers and was gone.  I looked around the room again at the other faces that were standing and sitting, talking, and laughing, happy faces, excited faces, tired faces, faces that were somber and serious as they talked on their phones about something that must have been quite important or urgent.  I looked at my watch.  I still had more than five hours to go before it was time to board my next flight.  I’ve had long layovers before and this one was a long one too but I don’t mind, I love Changi Airport; it’s one of the most interesting places I’ve ever seen.  Part of its appeal is that it is very Asian since it is located in Singapore and yet is very westernized, much more so than Kuala Lumpur or Jakarta.  I had been living on rice and spicy chicken grilled over an open flame, served with cucumbers and chili sauce that’s so hot it makes my throat burn and my eyes water.  Thoughts of biting into some more familiar tasting food began to fill my mind.  After I put my cigarette out I stood up and took hold of my luggage which was nothing more than a backpack and opened the door and began walking through the terminal again.  There were interesting, beautiful women everywhere, women from all over the world, there were too many faces and bodies to look at but I did my best to take in what beauty I could as walked past them and the glossy shops selling everything from expensive perfume and liquor to duty free cigarettes.  Before I had something to eat I needed to exchange some money.  It’s better to exchange some money and pay for things in Singapore dollars, if you pay in another currency that they accept when they give you change the exchange rate probably won’t be as good as it would have been had you stopped and exchanged some money first so that’s what I did.  I walked into a place where a beautiful woman in nice clothes was standing behind a counter.  There was no one in front of me so I just walked right up to the counter.

     “Hi.  I’d like to exchange some money, please.”

     “Good afternoon.  How are you?  What currency would you like?”

     “I would like some Singapore dollars.”

     “Very well, and what currency will you be buying it with?”

     “United States dollars.”

     She pointed to a large board in back of her that listed all of the different currencies and exchange rates.

     “Is that an agreeable amount?”  She asked.

     “Yes, that’s fine.  I’m only exchanging Twenty dollars anyways, just enough to get something to eat.”

     I handed her the twenty dollars.  She counted out the money and then she handed me twenty some Singapore dollars and some change.

     “Thank you very much,” I said, as I put the money in my pocket.

     “You are very welcome, sir.  If you decide to exchange some more money we’ll be here.”

     She smiled at me and then as I walked away she tended to the man behind me.    

     There are many different options at Changi when it comes to something to eat.  Most of the options are oriental cuisine, Chinese, Japanese and there is also a place or two where you can sit down and have yourself some Indian food if that’s your thing.  Personally, I like Indian food, and I like the bread that Indian places bake too.  It’s probably the most exotic food I’ve ever had, they use so many different spices and sauces I can’t really think of anything else that compares.  I wasn’t in the mood for Indian food or music, there happened to be some playing, I was after some American food.  Some of the fast food places have American names and food but they have a Singaporean influence.  You can get a burger and fries but they’re not going to taste the same as they do in America, most likely they’re going to be spicier and there may some different ingredients too.  As I was walking along I saw what I was looking for, an American looking place that served chicken and mashed potatoes.  I haven’t had mashed potatoes for longer than I could remember do I got myself a double order along with a sandwich with a breaded chicken breast on it and I got myself a large coke to go with it.  The girl that had prepared it for me had set it all on a tray; after I paid her I walked with my tray over to the dining area and sat down.  It was delicious.  It was the best food I had had for a long time.  The mashed potatoes were fantastic, the gravy they put on them couldn’t have been better.  They were so good that I went back and got another order of mashed potatoes and gravy; I got myself another coke too.  When there was nothing left but the tray and plastic fork and the wrapper that it came in I stood up and emptied my tray and then I was once again walking through the terminal past a sea of brown faces.  It was time to play some chess but first I went back to the smoking room and had a quick cigarette; I didn’t even bother sitting down.  I just stood there and smoked, looking out the large windows once again at all of the planes that were arriving and then when there was nothing left I snubbed it out in an ashtray and made my way to the public use computers.  Several of the computers were taken but there was one that was open so I set my backpack down on the carpeted floor and then I put my hands on the keyboard and followed the instructions to log on and then I went to the site where people play chess online from all over the world. 

     I was in the middle of a very intense game with a guy from France, I was playing white and if he were to make a mistake I would have him trapped, but he didn’t make a mistake yet; he countered me move for move as I sought to break through his defense.  When I concluded that he favored his knights I put him in a position where he had to trade them but I soon found out that he was equally good with his bishops.  It was his pawn movement though, that’s what he was truly gifted at, that’s what stood in my way more so than the position of any of his major pieces.  Any avid chess player knows that pawns are the secret to chess.  Individually they don’t have much power and they can only move one space at a time but together they determine the outcome of the game unless someone makes a careless mistake with a bishop or a knight.  Every now and then that happens but for the most part the game is decided by the movement of a pawn or two.  They only give you so much time to use the computer; my time ran out so I had to log out and then log back on.  It was a real dogfight.  We traded piece for piece, neither of us was able to gain an advantage.  There would be no quick checkmate.  It was one of those games that was going to go down to the last several pieces and it would be decided by whoever was one move ahead or by whoever had one more pawn than the other guy.  I had to log out and log back on several times.  All of our major pieces were off the board other than our kings; neither of us had been able to establish any advantage; however, I was able to keep him playing defense the entire time.  I was still in control of the flow of the game; not once had he been able to make any kind of offensive move, he had been countering me the entire game and now I still had that one slight advantage; I was white; he had to counter me.  It was going to be a stalemate unless I could beat him by one move; whoever got their queen back first was going to win the game.  I knew it and so did he but he wasn’t able to stop me from getting my queen back first and when I got it back he was in check; that’s the opening that I needed.  I had to keep him in check and not let him get his queen back and that’s exactly what I did.  I kept putting him in check until I had positioned my queen to take his pawn.  It was only a few moves after that when he was no longer able to mount any resistance.  The game was over, the only pieces that I had left on the board were my king and queen and a pawn but that’s all that was needed. 

     When our game was at last over I took a step back and looked around.  Several of the computers were available, no one was on them, no one was waiting to use it so I kept playing chess.  I stood there for more than two hours playing game after game.  I played against opponents from Russia, India, Spain, Germany, Greece, Turkey and China.  I won five of the games; I lost the other three.  I probably would have lost anyways but it’s difficult to log out and then log back on and not lose your concentration.

     I looked at my watch.  I still had more than seven hours to go before my flight was scheduled to take off.  I was tired of playing chess, there was nowhere to sit down, I had been standing the entire time, so I walked over to the place with the delicious mashed potatoes and ordered myself another coke and then with drink in hand I headed back to the smoking room.  As I sat there drinking my coke and smoking a cigarette I found myself thinking about the chess game I had blown when I was playing against the guy from Germany.  I was black; he was white.  It was one of those games I should have won; I was two pawns up but I made a stupid mistake and then his killer instinct kicked in; before long I was no longer two pawns up; I was only one pawn up and I had lost one of my knights too.  I tried to get back into the game but I wasn’t able to; he was too careful and methodical, he was too good to blow the advantage which was his.  I don’t mind losing when someone outplays me but when I make a bad move and practically give them the game it’s sometimes hard to stop thinking about it.

     I then found myself looking out the large windows at the greenness of the trees and thinking about a chess game that I watched one night when I was out walking through the crowded streets in Surakarta.  It was incredibly hot and humid; it always is, I was sweating profusely when I saw two men sitting on the sidewalk playing a game of chess.  They were just sitting there in front of a doorway smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, one man had sandals on his feet, the other was barefoot, as I stopped and stood over them as they looked up at me and smiled.  The man that was playing white……….physical description of the man……….he had a somewhat better position than the man that was playing black but the game was still very much undecided.  I only know a few words in Indonesian and I didn’t want to disrupt their concentration so I just stood there silently as they moved piece after piece.  Neither of them tried to speak to me either; they were entirely focused on the game.  I was going to wait until their game was over and then see if I could play the winner but they were taking a long, long time between moves.  It wasn’t a game that was gong to be over anytime soon; it would probably last for hours, so after I stood there for a good half hour or so and then I found myself wandering once more through Surakarta. 

     There were men standing on crowded street corners selling fireworks.  They had green wooden carts just like the street vendors that sell food and there were firecrackers and bright colored packages of all kinds with Chinese symbols on them.  There were places to eat everywhere, one street vendor after the next selling chicken on wooden skewers that had been cooked over and open flame and there were restaurants where you could go in and sit down and order something off of a menu and there were places that were packed with people sitting at tables, men and women and children, the women were mostly Muslim and they had hijabs covering their hair and there was nothing more than a tin roof or a tent tarp overhead, there were no walls, it was all out in the open air, mosquitoes and flies buzzing around in the thick night air, and there was a place with people sitting on woven mats of bamboo as they ate chicken and cucumbers and hot red chili sauce, chicken that had been grilled over an open flame by a woman standing in front of the fire, fanning herself with a bamboo fan with one hand as the other tended to the chicken and the fire.  And there was another woman that made the rice and there was another one that walked around and collected the empty dishes and brought them back to where she had a bucket of water and washed them right there on the street as people sat there and ate, as other people walked by.  It cost very little money, only twelve rupiah, about a dollar American, so I decided to try some of the grilled chicken for myself.  I placed my order with the woman that took the money and then I walked over and sat down on one of the woven mats and lit a cigarette as I watched the cars and taxis and mopeds speed by.  There were plenty of rickshaws too but they weren’t the kind where a man holds the rickshaw with his hands as he hurries down the street; the rickshaws all had a bicycle in front of them.  Men with cone shaped hats and bare feet sat on the seats of those bicycles and peddled their customers wherever they wanted to go.  The rickshaws all had canopies too so that if it rained their customers would be sheltered from it unless it was one of those rains that has a fury to it as it falls from the lightning streaked sky; the kind that would best be described as a torrential downpour.  When it rains like that nothing will keep you dry other than a roof over your head, no cone shaped hat made of bamboo will keep you dry, no flimsy canopy over a rickshaw will keep you dry either.  I like it when it rains like that.  I find it to be rather beautiful; the streets are all but empty, everyone is trying to stay dry.  I just sit by the window, there’s no glass or screen on it, and I look out at the dark rainy night as I listen to the voice of the rain, rain that makes everything green and hot and wet.  When it’s over the people come out again and the cats do too, you can see them walking across the roofs, and before long the streets are crowded again unless, it’s late at night…         

     A woman brought my food over and set it down in front of me.  She smiled and then she turned and walked away.  The chicken was good, but I didn’t eat it with the chili sauce, I tried a little bit but it was way too hot for me, I have no idea how people can eat something that hot.  The cucumbers and rice were good too.  Now and then some girls would walk by and smile at me, there were men that smiled at me too, but other than that no one paid me any attention other than the rickshaw drivers; every single one of the that peddled past me asked me if I wanted a ride somewhere.  They always look so disappointed when I tell them no.  I feel bad for them.  Rich men don’t peddle rickshaws around; it’s the poor men with bare feet that peddle the rich ones around.  I have no idea how much money they make in a day but it can’t be much unless they get a lot of customers or a long ride or two.

     When I finished my food and set my plate down in front of me a middle aged woman with large dark eyes soon appeared and collected my plate and fork.  Moments later another woman was washing them in a bucket of water and next to the bucket plates from other customers were being stacked up by the woman that walked around and collected the plates.  I took my pack of cigarettes out of my shirt and lit one.  I bought them yesterday for less than one dollar American at a little neighborhood store that sells everything from cigarettes and coffee and ice cream bars to laundry detergent, bags of rice, bottles of coke, cheap jewelry, bags of chips, candy, and fruits and vegetables.  They keep the cigarettes on a shelf directly in back of where the cashier sits so no one can rip them off.  Some things are the same no matter where you go.  Surakarta has its thieves too. 

     Some young street musicians were playing guitar and singing and there were several of them that had percussion instruments too.  They were steadily making their way towards where I was sitting.  Whenever they stopped in front of people and played their music, they only stayed long enough to get some money.  The moment someone reached out and gave them some coins they moved on.  They never finished a song.  Before long they were standing in front of me.  I listened to their music for a moment and then I reached out and gave them some coins.  They thanked me and then they moved on.  Less than ten minutes later I could no longer hear them singing or strumming their guitars; I could no longer hear the beat of the tambourine; they had disappeared into the darkness of the night.  The Muslim girls in their white hijabs and linen were still walking by though, they were on their way to kneel on their hands and knees in prayer, their foreheads resting on top of their hands, at the mosque.  I’ve walked by the mosque before when it’s prayer time; there are hundreds of people kneeling outside of it, their sandals removed and piled high in stacks as a man’s voice fills the darkness as he sings praises to Allah.  For some reason whenever I find myself thinking about Surakarta, it’s that night that I remember most. 

     “I’m sorry to bother you, but could I trouble you for a cigarette.”

     There was a guy standing in front of me, he was about the same height as me, 5’ 10” or so.  He had very fair skin and he had curly brown hair that was on the longer side and he wore a beard.  He was wearing a white tee-shirt and a pair of kaki shorts and hanging from his shoulder there was a black leather bag.  He had blue eyes and there were freckles on his face, he could very easily have been American or European, I couldn’t tell where he was from; the only thing I knew was that he spoke English but it was with an accent.

     “Sure.”

     I took my cigarettes out of my pocket and handed one to him. 

     “Thanks, I sure do appreciate it.”

     “I know what it’s like to be out of cigarettes.  I’ve bummed a few myself.”

     “My name’s Joe Smith,” he said, as he extended his hand.  I reached out and shook his hand.  “My name’s Joe too,” I said.  “It’s nice to meet you.”

     He sat down next to me and lit it up and then after he exhaled as said, “Let me guess, you’re American.”

     I smiled at him.

     “How’d you know?”

     “Just a lucky guess.  I almost said Canadian; it’s hard for me to tell Americans and Canadians apart.”

     “How about you?  Where are you from?”

     “South Africa.”

     “Really?  I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from South Africa before.”

     “There’s not that many of us.  Now you have.”

     He looked out the window as he took a long drag and then he looked at me again and asked, “So what brings you to Singapore?”

     “Fate mostly, I guess.”

     He laughed.

     “Sounds like a woman.”

     “Isn’t it always?”

     “Sooner or later I suppose it is.”

     “So what part of South Africa are you from?”

     “Cape Town.”

     I don’t know why I asked him that.  I know absolutely nothing about South Africa.  I’ve heard of Cape Town before and Pretoria and Johannesburg; I remember seeing something on the news years ago about Nelson Mandela and Apartheid and I think they have some surfing contests there too and they are known for Great White sharks in the water.  I don’t know what European power colonized it, was it the British or the Dutch or someone else, what tribes did they take the land and resources from and call it their own?  Was it the Masai or Zulu or some other tribes?  Are there lions prowling grassy savannahs as hyenas laugh at them, are there rhinos trying their best to elude poachers that are after their horns and the magical powers they believe they contain?  are there giraffes, are there gorillas, I don’t know.  I know all of those animals are native to the African continent but what part of Africa they call home I have absolutely no idea.  Are there women with dark skin and bright colored dresses walking around with baskets on their heads?  What kind of food do they eat?  Does diamond mining take place in his country?  Is it a war torn country ravaged by poverty and disease?  Are there untold numbers of displaced refugees or are those things taking place in other African countries?  What country or countries do they border, Rwanda, Congo, Kenya, I have no idea.  I was too embarrassed to ask.  Foreigners always know so much more about America than what we do about them.

     When he was finished with is cigarette he reached out and tossed it into an ashtray and then he stood up and said, “Thanks again, mate.”  He looked at his watch.  “I best be going.  I’ve got a flight to catch.”           

     “Where are you off to,” I asked.

     “Shanghai.”

     “That sounds interesting.”

     “I hope it will be.  I took a job there.”

     “Enjoy your flight, and good luck.  I hope things work out for you.”

     We shook hands again and then he turned and opened the door and was gone.  It was only moments after he left when the door opened and the tall, sensuous woman with a pistol on her belt walked in.  As she had done before she walked over and stood in front of the windows, she leaned her back against the glass and lifted her leg and put the sole of her shoe against the glass too and then she reached into her shirt pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes.  There was nothing for me to do other than to light another cigarette and look at her and wonder what she would look like without her uniform.  It was hard to tell how large her breasts were due to the type of shirt she had on but I liked to think of them as shapely and soft with large, dark nipples.  The longer I looked at her the more my imagination took over.  I saw her walking through the…..

     When she finished her cigarette she reached into her shirt pocket and took out another one and lit it.  She stood there with it between her fingers, smoke drifting up towards her face from the hot red end of it, as she examined her hands.  She was still leaning against the large picture window and the bottom of her foot was still up against the window too.  There was a look in her eyes that I wasn’t able to discern.  What was she thinking about?  Was she thinking about what she had to when her shift was over?  Was she thinking about her husband or children?  Does she have a husband or children?  Was she thinking about what she was going to on her day off, or was she lost in some long ago memory, one that she was never able to let go of despite the years that had passed?  It made me sad to think that I would never see her again after today.  Any minute now she’s going to take her last drag and then she’s going to snuff out what’s left of it and toss it in an ashtray and then she’s going to open the door and walk through it and I’ll never see her again.  I’ve never seen her before today; I don’t know the first thing about her and yet I already missed her.           

     The door kept opening and closing.  People continued to come and go; one of those people was her.  There were some other girls to look at, some of them were quite pretty, but it was time for me to go to.  I stood up and slung my backpack over my shoulder and then I opened the door and as I walked through the terminal I looked for a bathroom.  It was time to let the coke out the other end.  It wasn’t long before I arrived at a bathroom.  One of the great things about Changi is that the bathrooms are the same as they are in the states.  They aren’t holes in the ground with a bucket of water beside them and there is more than enough soap to wash your hands and there are sinks to wash them in.  I felt like a new man again, one that had just been reborn, but it was still hours before my flight was scheduled to take off.  I had been awake for a long time, twenty hours or so; it was time to get some sleep.

     I walked through the terminal looking for a lounge; eventually I came to one.  The big, comfortable reclining chairs were all taken so there was only one thing to do.  I lowered myself to the floor and placed my backpack under my head and then I pulled my baseball hat down over my eyes.  I have no idea how long I was asleep for but it wasn’t long enough.  Someone was touching my shoulder and then I heard a voice say, “I need to see your passport and ticket please.”

     I reached up and removed my hat and then as I was sitting up I put it back on my head.  Three guys in uniforms were standing there looking at me as I reached into my pocket and took my passport and ticket out and handed them to the guy that was standing closest to me.  I was on my feet now, rubbing my hands over my eyes as he looked things over and then he handed my passport and ticket back to me. 

     “Everything is in order.  Thank you.”

     “You’re welcome.”

     They walked over and woke up a guy that was sleeping on one of the chairs, as he was handing them his passport and ticket I lowered myself to the carpeted floor once more and once my backpack was place I laid my head on it again and pulled my baseball hat down over my eyes.  I wasn’t able to fall asleep at first, I had been up for so long.

     It took me a moment to remember where I was when I woke up.  I pushed my hat back up until it was on top of my head again and then I sat up and looked around me as I yawned.  I sat there for a long moment and yawned again and stretched my arms and then I picked my backup up and when I was on my feet again I began walking back towards the smoking room.  That’s when I saw her walking towards me, the woman with the ocean in her eyes.  It was in her hips too, and as I watched her walk past me I knew that I would never see her again.  I also knew that I would never be able to forget her eyes.           

    

1st Draft

  

    

12-7-17, 12-12-17, and 12-13-17