Success at the casino table tends to elongate time. That might seem like an obvious statement but at 2 a.m., it comes as more of a realisation. It was early Saturday morning and I was sitting at the blackjack table with a lovely couple from Heidelberg, discussing the pretty towns of Germany over a good few hands. I find that a native German can tend to speak English with a certain staccato, but with my new friends having spent some time living in Montreal the flow of discussion was fluid and enjoyable. I commented on the park lands of Stuttgart and how I had enjoyed ferry trips along the Rhine during my time in the Westphalia Rhineland. From their descriptions, Heidelberg was now firmly on my “must get there” list.

Unexpectedly my phone started ringing at 2:41 a.m. with a familiar name displayed as the caller I.D. For this purposes of this exercise let’s just call him Don.

“G’Day mate, what’s going on?”

“It’s the police” was the reply in a Chinese Singaporean accent.

“OK”.

“Do you know Donald” adding surname for completeness.

“Yes”.

“He is too drunk for us to allow him to continue on his own recourse. We need you to come and get him and take him home.”

Alternatives start running through my head. How bad can a night in the cells in Singapore be? It’s not as if we’re in Bangkok. You’d probably get a mattress and breakfast in the morning. Furthermore, my new friends and I are stacking up chips on the table here, like we’re manufacturing them underneath. Only problem will be his pending deportation. Bloody hell, Donnie.

“OK, I’m at the casino and it will probably take me 20 minutes.”

“We’ll wait for you” was the somewhat surprising reply, underlining my realisation that Don wasn’t going anywhere in the immediate term.

 

The couple from Heidelberg were upset at the news of my hasty departure, with no time or materials to exchange contact details further distressing the better half of the pair. Sometimes that’s the way it rolls; see you in Heidelberg. Even the pit boss who had attempted to stop me from taking a call mid-hand, to be informed that it was “the police”, was now also more sheepish in his good wishes for my task at hand. I cashed out and headed for the taxi stand.

Whilst it was not overly crowded I was going to have difficulty in short cutting the line and instead headed to for a taxi, back in the queue and still out on the main road that I could more easily redirect away from congestion. My knock on the window at least resulted in its lowering. I was immediately met by a stream of Singhalese vitriol and violent gestures towards the taxi queue. As luck would have it my phone rang again.

“How are you progressing?” was the simple request from Singapore’s finest.

“I’m getting into a taxi. Just one moment” as I handed the phone to the taxi driver. A flurry of mandarin proceeded from the handset as the face of the taxi driver visibly changed to ashen. A single grunt was all he was good for now. He gave me back my phone and pointed to the back seat.

“Yeah that’s what I thought you might say!”

 

Singapore’s most vigilant taxi driver was now speeding me towards my destination in Chinatown and the silence gave me a moment to reflect. I stared compiling a list of names of people I know who would get me into this predicament and was a little worried by how lengthy it was becoming. Is this a reflection on my judgement? “Why me?” was a bit easier. I’m often one of the first names in peoples’ contact listings and have had a number of “conversations” with someone’s pocket as they have rung me, strolling along inadvertently. I’m yet to receive such a call in a position where I can holler down the handset at them “Lock ya handset ya Muppet” and giggle to myself, here in the taxi, at the prospect of startling them from within their pocket. Selecting your child’s name is complicated in this day and age. It’s not just schoolyard bullying you have to worry about. Robert would have worked, or something similar, but then there’s the whole Rob / Bob conundrum. Maybe I just have to start introducing Aaron’s to everyone I know. I do have a good mate Aaron, but they are just going to list him in their contacts as Chief and that strategy comes unstuck. Suddenly, we’ve arrived at OG in Chinatown. The extent of my discussion with taxi driver is “receipt please”. There is no way Donnie is getting away without paying for this one.

 

I must admit that I had had visions of Donnie in the recovery position surrounded by a pool of bodily fluid and was pleasantly surprised to see him upright, leaning against a railing, corralled by three coppers. I was approached by the senior officer and engaged in conversation as much as anything to gauge my own status in the wee hours. Not surprising, given my declaration of having come from Marina Bay Sands. It’s just banal stuff before he asked me for some ID which was passed to the 2IC who proceeded to call me in on the radio. Great, thanks Donnie. It transpires that old Donnie had been out in the middle of the intersection, playing in the traffic, and it was his antics on CCTV which had brought him to the attention of the police, causing their need for attendance. I was having entertaining visions of Donnie attempting to flag down cabs and convince honest civilians to take him home when I was advised that Donald, here, was being released into my custody and that I was to take him directly home. Fine with me.

“Come on mate, let’s get you home” as I realised that he wasn’t so much corralled up against the railing as holding it up. A front rower’s bind would be required here.

Donnie was just prattling nonsense. Come to think of it he hadn’t shut up since I got there. Policemen possess a sixth sense in immunity, whilst I had been otherwise occupied. He wasn’t somewhere between a happy to angry drunk, more of a confused drunk. Granted, my unannounced arrival at the scene of Donnie’s near crime could have effected progress to delirium. But this was just sheer rubbish.

“So where do you live?”

“Gaylang”

“Yeah, right. Where do you really live?”

“No I really live in Gaylang”.

“What do I care”, I’m thinking. If he wants to be dropped off in Gaylang, then so be it. It’s on my way home. “Gaylang it is then”.

 

We get around the corner off the main intersection and I get him to hug a pole in the shadows. Taxi drivers, particularly in the small hours, are quite astute when it comes to unwanted passengers and I was intent on keeping him out of view. And further traffic, come to mention it. Having flagged down a cab, I jump in the front passenger seat before gesturing into the shadows. Thankfully the cabbie took it pretty well and Donnie’s in the back seat chuntering away to himself.

 

“Gaylang, please” before I commence relaying to the taxi driver the circumstance that has brought such an odd couple to be in his cab at this moment. At first he thinks that I’m making it up. Then he starts to realise that you couldn’t possibly make this up. All the while, Donnie’s still going on. He taps me on the shoulder from the back seat.

“Yeah, yeah. Sure mate”

The cabbie is shaking his head. “I’ve never heard anything like this”.

“Me neither, and I’m living it.”

I relay the story of the other taxi driver at Marina Bay Sands and our colleague here is now openly laughing.

“Easy son, we want to get Donnie here to Gaylang – in one piece”, prompting some retort about “yeah, one piece!” to emanate from the back seat.

A few minutes later we are in Gaylang and a “drop me off at this corner” comes forward in request. Our driver obliges and we watch Donnie perform the two forward, one sideways, one backwards as he progresses up the street. Unaided constitutes progress, in my book, and my job here is done.

“Kembangan, please driver”.