Karaoke Marathon
TW: violence, sexual references, sexism, government control/dystopia, crime
The summer before the city had lost its name forever was hot, thirty-six degrees hot, the same as a human body.
O was running late. His shoes hit the ground as he squeezed between the passers-by. Knock, knock. The footprints of a cat’s paw had dried into the cement but no one had noticed. People were always rushing in this city. Knock, knock. O slung his blazer over his shoulder, pushed the sleeves up and wiped off the sweat on his forehead, but it just kept coming back.
Someone was begging for forgiveness. His scream was loud enough to pierce through the buzzing streets.
Everyone paused their hurried steps and looked left and right. The scream came from an alleyway in between the skyscrapers. As if on cue, people reached inside their pockets for their face masks. Only eyes remained.
‘Please, sir, forgive me … please, it’s my fault. Ah … Please … let me go, please–’
It was a man’s voice, young, exhausted and stubborn. His sentence was interrupted by his weak screams of pain and agony. His confidence to yell for help diminished along with his hope, now merely a stray cat’s moaning. ‘No one will save you,’ they must’ve told him.
O held his breath and treaded further along with lighter steps, listening carefully. Other pedestrians were doing the same but they all pretended to go about their own business as usual. Slow motion, synchronised, alert. Their eyes were fixed on their phones and their fingers moved across the screens, but the phones were locked and their pupils slid to the alleyway where the scream came from.
O was reaching that alleyway. Without stopping his feet, he took a subtle side glance into it. Even the street rats were scared – they were running away. Sewage splashed, and the air smelt of iron. Three men were standing, one man was lying on the floor. His wrists were crushed under one of their feet. They were in uniform and the light reflected the long pieces of metal in their hands. O couldn’t work out what the metal was. Muffled noises came from the men’s walkie-talkies, speaking in a mix of codes and swearing words.
O only had a split second to make the decision. He saw a person in a black van taking pictures with a fancy camera from afar. That could be anybody – friends or enemies. More people in uniform seemed to be coming. O tightened his clammy fists, kept his head down and picked up the pace. There was nothing he could do anyway.
So he prayed. Something he had never done before, but it seemed like the right time to start, out of helplessness. The once-slow motion of the walkers resumed its normal speed. Everyone’s eyes were still fixed to the ground, fearful, angry and perhaps, ashamed.
P was smoking on the main street and cheered when she spotted O among the sea of people.
‘Well, finally!’ She hugged her old friend. She pulled his expensive tie and messed up his perfectly permed hair. It was ‘karaoke marathon’ night. Something they did whenever P was back for holidays – a jet lag cure for her first day back, but she didn’t come to the city very often nowadays. Flights were sparse. The world was holding off, being weary, and treating the city as a war zone. P was back because her last grandparent passed away. After that, she had no ties left. Everyone was out. The family had cut it all clean.
‘You look expensive!’ shouted P, smiling with her tipsy eyes. The party had clearly started some time ago. Her cheeks were pink from drinking and the heat, and she had unbuttoned her shirt. Her boobs had gotten bigger, sweat dripping down the cleavage. Fair and bouncy like vanilla ice cream, they were what this summer needed.
O raised a finger to his lips and whispered, ‘Stop drawing attention to yourself!’ He wondered if she followed the news about her hometown now that she lived abroad.
‘But of course, I know what’s going on!’ She read O’s mind and said, ‘I saw them kicking that poor–’
‘Okayyyyy! That’s enough.’ Panicked, O grabbed her arm and dragged her inside the karaoke box. ‘I know you have a foreign passport, but stop being so cocky! It’s not safe anymore.’ He put both palms up on the side of his head, surrendering before the fight even began.
A stark contrast to the outside world, the karaoke room was freezing like an icebox. There were torn patches on the leather sofa and peeling wallpapers. The chemical air freshener blended in with the smell of cigarettes, but no one was smoking. It was just history lingering in the recycled air – the glorious history of freedom and capitalism. None of those remained, just the scent of fags. E was standing on the sofa in her Hello Kitty socks and singing John Lennon with her eyes closed, hips swaying to the beat like Yoko Ono would do.
O thought E looked different but couldn’t make out what had changed. Makeup? New hair? It couldn’t be that, she didn’t look nicer. Instead, she seemed more solemn and at least ten years older. Her face was tanned. Freckles scattered her cheeks. Bags were heavy under her eyes.
Food and drinks piled up on the table, towering under a disco ball as it spun and glistened in the dimly lit room. Time was irrelevant here. This had always been their hiding place from the outside world.
Heat-proof, sound-proof, and most importantly, reality-proof.
‘O is such a coward.’ P was still annoyed with the dragging and the shushing. E shrugged like she already knew what had happened.
‘You’re only back for a holiday, but we have to survive here. Please, for God’s sake P, stop getting attached. You’ve left.’ O passed her their ‘K-room Punch’: a mix of cheap whiskey and bottled green tea. Plenty of ice. It was disgusting but cooling, and it wouldn’t be a karaoke marathon without it. ‘Cheers!’ O raised his glass. ‘Let’s forget what was happening out there, sing it all behind us. I beg you.’
‘Yay. Like old times,’ said P coldly with a sigh, but she took the glass anyway.
‘Nothing good has happened after the student days. Nothing at all. Cheers!’ said E, downing the shot.
‘Why are you acting funny tonight?’ asked P.
E was singing emo songs and drinking shot after shot, completely out of character. They all had the same guess, though. It must be about men. It was always about men for E, the destiny of all women in this city.
Except it wasn’t about men.
She put on a fake smile and tried to wave their attention away, but they just stared at her in silence and waited for gossip. She always had gossip.
Except it wasn’t gossip.
‘Fine,’ she groaned and said, ‘I’m just a bit worried about this law the government’s pushing.’
Her friends froze in surprise. That was not expected. O finally saw what was different with E. Her hands were bare. Her regular army of jewellery had disappeared. Her manicure, Chanel bag and high heels were gone, replaced by an old rucksack and running shoes.
‘Are you–’ O shook his head. Please, please say no.
‘Yes, I’m going to the protest tomorrow,’ E said in the tone that soldiers use before going off to a war. The air became dense and words had to be chosen carefully. ‘It’s the least I can do.’ She took off her jacket and showed them a white t-shirt with a protest slogan hand-painted in red, dripping spray-paint. ‘Democracy Now!’ screamed the t-shirt, like a Halloween costume.
The air-conditioning was fanning noise around them. A new song began. Condensation from the glass created a ring on the table. They stared at her in awe. Speechless. How did this start? It was hard to imagine their pampered friend marching on the street and chanting, covered in sweat. The only times E ever walked were in shopping malls; the only times she sweated were from having sex with the wrong men. Sex and shopping. That was her deal. Not anymore. From a girl to a woman; from a woman to a comrade, a soldier, a warrior. The real deal.
‘I’ve been reading a lot. If we don’t do anything now, future generations will suffer. How can we accept a law that takes away our human rights, discriminates and fuels hate?’ said E as if she was reciting an answer, a statement – her manifesto.
‘Good work!’ said P and tapped her shoulder. ‘Just be careful–’
‘This isn’t a time to be politically correct!’ O shook his head and couldn’t take it anymore. ‘Why are you doing this? Huh? It’s the height of summer, you can get a heat stroke, or there might be fights. Leave it to the men!’ He poured more alcohol down to cool his throat and banged the glass on the table, but he wasn’t done. ‘You aren’t even five feet tall. You can’t run far even if you try. Do you know what you are? An easy target, a scapegoat! They’ll rape you!’
That wasn’t good to hear. O knew that, but it was true. He read it on the dark web. Who knew what the truth was? The person in the alleyway could be a woman. It could be anyone. O just didn’t want it to be E, or anyone, but especially E.
E placed her hands on her heart as if she was shot, but she didn’t walk away and cry. She fought. ‘Shut up, O! What do you have to say for yourself? A man? You only care about money, the stock market, the property market. Have you ever thought about doing the right thing? Things aren’t the same anymore. Our lives are not secure! Wake up, coward!’ E slammed her hands on the table. Her voice was getting loud and firm. Angry tears exploded. They were heavy. Being robbed of freedom and safety was heavy.
‘You guys, stop!’ P screamed into the microphone. ‘Why are we arguing? We never argue!’ The ear-splitting feedback silenced the room. Only the background music lingered and the changing colours on the television lit up their faces.
Yes, ten years of friendship and they never argued. For the sake of friendship, they always took a step back from heated arguments. They never intervened too much in each other’s lives. They didn’t say a word when P suddenly moved abroad or when O stopped turning up to gatherings on time. Money, safety, escapism. It was always about their lives, their jobs. Excuses. This was how they sustained their friendships for all these years, but what was the point of harmony when everything was burning in flames, crumbling into pieces?
Toss them in the alleyway and pretend you didn’t see them. Look down at your locked phones and hide in a karaoke box.
This was the whole point: swallow in silence or speak up. This was the whole point. Hundreds of thousands of people marched on the street every day until the city had lost its name, status and integrity. They chose to speak up until they were silenced. There was an order to defeat. Sacrifice first. Try harder.
O murmured something about cigarettes and stormed out. He was scared, for himself, for his best friend, for his home. He ran away because that was the only way he knew.
E pointed at the door and looked at P. ‘Go help him.’ She picked up the microphone again. She had already accepted the reality and the risk; he hadn’t.
O felt that E was a million miles away from him suddenly. A huge gulf, separated by morality and courage.
There was no wind in the air. The city was shrouded by a blackened, toxic layer of grime, visible even at night. Awful and suffocating. No words could penetrate the tension, so they started running along the riverbank, trying to stir up the static air, but it only got stickier and stickier. Their tops were soaked through, clinging to their skin.
P and E kept running. It was not nice, but their only option was to go forward. They stopped to catch a warm breath by the harbour. The sweat caught up, even beneath their underwear. Still not a single hint of wind. The sky was pitch black. They couldn’t see any stars and the moon was hiding behind grey clouds. Even the range of skyscrapers had no lights on. This city was dead.
Just dead.
‘I am transferring to Beer-ming-ham,’ said O suddenly. He couldn’t say the name right. It might be a city in England, or it might not be, but he didn’t care. ‘Big corporations are leaving this town and bringing their people along. I’m going with them.’
‘Congratulations. That makes two of us. We are traitors.’ P’s mocking laugh turned into hysteria, then to a cry of shame. The guilt built up like acid in her stomach – all these years reached her throat, burning and choking her to delirium.
‘Traitors? Whatever this shit is, it’s out of our hands. They are the traitors. Our lives started here and will end elsewhere because of them. Get over it. We migrate, like birds. The birds don’t feel guilty, so neither am I.’
Two men in uniform walked past them and looked them up and down with suspicion. Their eyes lingered on P’s milky-wet boobs. They smiled like greedy hyenas and drooled from their vile mouths. Their batons were out, ready for action. O immediately held P’s hand and started walking back to the karaoke box with their heads down. P fastened her shirt button, fighting against the fear as tears rolled off her cheeks. This was really what the city had become. The lawlessness, power in the wrong hands. She couldn’t blame him for escaping anymore. She couldn’t blame herself, either.
O remembered how the rest of the night went. The disco ball spun them back to their childhood. The air-conditioner cooled their hot bodies. Linking arms and shoulders, they went for a medley of all their favourite tunes for five hours straight, singing until the shopkeeper turned off the machine and switched on all the lights in the room.
It was a good night.
The sun was already shining when they stepped out of the karaoke box. It was blinding, setting their bodies on fire. Most people were still sleeping, but the vendors started working, sweat drenching their yellowed vests. Fleets of officers were yawning and hugging the rifles close to their chests. Tanks were waiting, and they were filled with tear gas.
And it was time.
E took off her jacket and put on a bandana, a black gas mask and sunglasses. In her bag was also an umbrella. A yellow umbrella. They didn’t expect it to become her only protection for the following fights.
‘The letter missing in our group is H.’ Those were her final words to her best friends.
H.O.P.E. Please have some hope. It was a prayer, but the outcome was decided from the start.
Priscilla Yeung writes both fiction and creative non-fiction. Her first collection of creative non-fiction essays, The London/Hong Kong Girl, was published by Ming Pao in 2019. It explores the concept of diaspora as an immigrant living in London. She studied social anthropology at LSE and is currently reading MA in Creative Writing at the City, University of London. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Literally Stories, University of Oxford’s Torch Magazine, and elsewhere. She was longlisted for the Book Edit Writer's Prize in 2022. Find her on Instagram as @pyeungwriter